The weight of judgment

“I hereby appoint you as Minos’ successor, the new supreme judge of the Underworld.”

I can still hear the words of my great-uncle of the third degree echoing through the endless expanses of his realm, even though they were spoken an entire human year ago—which feels like an eternity to me.

Now I sit on my throne in the magnificent courtroom of the Underworld, tossing grapes into the air out of sheer boredom and catching them in my mouth.

My great-uncle is Hades, and his realm—also called Hades—is the Underworld, where the souls of the deceased find their final destination. I used to think that you must have truly made it if an entire, gigantic realm bears your name. If that ever happened to me, the place named after me would be called Yanni—which, admittedly, sounds far less awe-inspiring than Hades.

Oh, how I had longed for the day I would finally receive my long-awaited promotion to supreme judge. For years, I had worked toward this success, which promised glory, honor, and responsibility. During my time at the divine university, I had practically fawned over the faculty so they would put in a good word for me. And I had proven to everyone how exceptionally capable I was of suppressing my emotions and delivering judgments based solely on justice.

Only to discover, after my promotion, that something like justice doesn’t actually exist in reality. It’s an academic construct, created to produce idealists like me—only to crush their hopes and dreams in a single stroke.

So they appointed me supreme judge and entrusted me with deciding the fate of the souls of the deceased.

In principle, there are three options.

The Asphodel Meadows are, ultimately, everyone’s destination. An endless field of flowers—beautiful, yes, but so bland that your soul eventually dissipates from sheer boredom. It may sound frightening, but by the time it happens, most don’t really care anymore—or even welcome it as a relief.

In the middle of that field lies the island of Elysium, a paradise of sensual pleasures where the dead are compensated for suffering they endured on Earth through no fault of their own—or rewarded for the selflessness they showed in life. For a long time, people believed Elysium was reserved for war heroes and celebrities, but that’s complete nonsense.

Far below the Asphodel Meadows, in the deepest depths, lies Tartarus—a chasm where corrupted souls are purified through extreme torment until they are finally allowed to evaporate like morning dew in the Asphodel Meadows.

I’ve eaten so many grapes that I feel sick, and yet I can’t stop. What else am I supposed to do?

I pause, however, when I spot my former best friend Katina approaching across the Styx in her boat, an old woman seated on the wooden bench. In the past, only men were allowed to ferry souls from the realm of the living. But even the world of the gods has become more modern these days.

A nostalgic sigh escapes me as the ferrywoman safely guides the old lady ashore and then turns back with a curt nod in my direction.

Katina and I had been friends since our university days. Almost inseparable. We spent countless nights together, building castles in the air about our future. I owe my current position in no small part to her support.

Katina never had a chance of becoming a judge—not because of a lack of academic performance, but because of her background. She had entered the Underworld as an ordinary soul of the deceased—run over by an ice cream truck, of all things. But at the time, there was an urgent need for a new ferryperson, as two of her predecessors had drowned themselves in the Styx.

So instead of being sent to the Asphodel Meadows, she found employment here in Hades—and I found in her the best friend I had ever had.

But since my promotion, she has hardly spoken a word to me. And I have a faint idea why.

While it had always been my great dream to become a judge of the Underworld, hers was to return to the world of the living. We had countless conversations about it, and I promised her I would use every bit of power I’m ever going to gain to make that dream come true.

But she must have known those were just fantasies—and, I admit, perhaps the boastful attempt of a lovestruck fool trying to impress her.

You cannot return from the Underworld to the world of the living. It is the supreme rule of Hades—one that even Hades himself cannot break.

The woman approaches me, unsteady on her feet. She looks ancient and trembles with every step. I’m not the first judge she has stood before—she must have already been with Nikolas and Daphne, my two colleagues. That’s one of the advantages of being the supreme judge: you only deal with precedent cases—the rare instances where Daphne and Nikolas disagree.

“So, how does this work now?” the old woman asks, not the least bit worried. In my divine wisdom, I know her name is Henrietta without her having to tell me.

“As you can see, I’m not getting any younger, and I’d like my verdict before I lose the rest of my hair,” she jokes, and I actually manage a faint smile at the lame remark.

Then I close my eyes to replay the scenes of her life—those that determine the moral quality of her soul.

I see a hot-tempered man lunging at a small boy with a broken beer bottle—cut—and then a younger version of the woman before me pressing a pillow over that same man’s face until he stops moving.

I see her tenderly caring for terminally ill children in a hospice. But I also see a cowardly hit-and-run—and a sign held high: Stop the climate lie!

In the past, this would have been simple. The guy she killed was clearly an asshole and deserved it. The hit-and-run would have earned her a few days in Tartarus. And nobody really knew about climate change back then anyway.

But today? Nothing is black and white anymore. Everyone deserves a second chance. And a third. And a fourth. The man with the bottle probably had a difficult childhood, generational trauma, blah blah blah.

So, since the textbook method fails miserably yet again, I pull out my poker deck—as I often do these days.

At least it manages to elicit a surprised expression from my candidate.

“We’re playing for the fate of my immortal soul?”

“Yep, that’s correct,” I confirm casually.

“Hmm… but isn’t that… unfair?” she asks.

I shrug. I don’t have the energy to philosophize about the daily struggle of making fair decisions.

“You know the rules?” I ask instead, gesturing for her to sit down on the chair I’ve just conjured—along with a table.

“Well,” she says hesitantly, “I know how poker works. But what exactly is the stake?”

I conjure twenty golden chips in my palm and let them clink onto the table, pushing half of them toward her.

“Each chip represents a year. Every chip I end up with means a year in Tartarus for you. Every chip on your side means a year in Elysium. No mandatory bet—you can fold immediately and go straight to the delightful Asphodel Meadows, where your soul will dissipate in no time.”

She nods slowly, as if considering the terms. I let her believe she has a choice.

“All right. I understand my stake. But what’s yours?”

I frown. The question seems obvious now that it’s been asked—but somehow, neither I nor any previous candidate had ever raised it.

I was about to make something up when she speaks again:

“If I win, you’ll help the nice young woman from the ferry return to the world of the living.”

I flinch. “Katina?” I ask, stunned.

“Yes, I believe that was her name. You know, the ride was long—we had a lovely conversation. About you, too.”

Her gaze is so piercing that I suddenly feel uncomfortable—which is absurd, given my position.

“About me?” My voice comes out higher than intended.

“Oh yes. About the injustice you’ve done to her.”

“Injustice?” I protest. “Me? That’s not—she can’t—it’s impossible—”

I stammer, unable to finish a single sentence. I don’t even know why the accusation unsettles me so much. Then I remind myself it doesn’t matter—I will win anyway.

“Fine,” I say, flashing my most self-satisfied smile as I shuffle the cards at a dizzying speed.

I deal us each two cards. I have two aces. Pure coincidence, of course.

The old woman studies her cards with the most expressionless face I have ever seen on a human being. Then she pushes two chips into the middle of the table.

I call, because it would be no fun to end the game prematurely by going all-in.

The flop reveals two red queens and a ten of diamonds.

I place another chip in the center, and the old woman raises by one, so that seven golden tokens now lie in the pot.

A strange thought crosses my mind as I automatically reveal the next card—the thought of what would happen if I actually lost.

I quickly brush it aside. Not since Aeneas has a mortal returned from the realm of the dead, and all the loopholes that made that blunder—and every previous escape—possible have long since been closed.

I look at the turn: the fourth card is a three of diamonds. Judging by the fact that my opponent raises again, I suspect she holds more diamonds and is possibly aiming for a flush. I call without raising.

I mean, as supreme judge, I would probably find a way to get Katina out of here—back into the world of mortals. But at what cost?

It would plunge all the principles this realm is built upon into chaos—and turn every god and dignitary within several light-years against us. No, no—I certainly won’t be the one to open that Pandora’s box.

And that strange surge of exhilaration I felt at the thought of embarking on such an adventure with Katina? Surely just a momentary lapse of reason.

For a brief moment, I consider manipulating the outcome of the game in her favor. With two aces and two queens, I have two strong pairs—but a flush would easily beat that. Yet at the last second, I decide against it and reveal the ace of diamonds.

On the final betting round I check, suddenly feeling an urgent need to spare the old woman further years in Tartarus. I have no idea where this inappropriate empathy comes from.

Like me, she doesn’t raise the bet, and when she sees the full house in front of me, she doesn’t look particularly surprised. As expected, she has a flush in diamonds.

“Well,” she sighs, leaning back as though this were about the last biscuit at a coffee gathering rather than the fate of her soul in the ghastly abyss of torment, “I suppose I could have seen that coming.”

“I’m sorry,” I say before I can stop myself. “I suppose there’s nothing more I can do for you.”

I suppose? I could bite my own tongue. The supreme judge of the Underworld does not suppose. He judges. And his judgment is always infallible—or at least, it must appear so to the condemned.

“Manoles will take you to Tartarus now.” The sturdy servant, who has approached unnoticed, offers her his arm.

“Wait!” I call out as they have only gone a few steps. They both turn back to me.

I rub the back of my neck. “Well… I’ve changed my mind,” I say, addressing Manoles. “Take her straight to the Asphodel Meadows. I… made a mistake in my judgment.”

Manoles raises an eyebrow in surprise but does not question my words. Of course he doesn’t. That would not be his place.

If I’m not mistaken, the corners of the old woman’s mouth curl into a faint smile. But she says nothing. She doesn’t need to—I know exactly what she’s thinking. She thinks I’m bored with my job. Which is true. But worse—she thinks I’m lonely. I grit my teeth as I admit that she’s right about that as well.

When I used to imagine reaching the position of supreme judge of the Underworld, I thought about how everyone would admire me—how much power and influence I would have, how I would bask in glory.

But in truth, all that power only ensures that no one wants to spend a moment longer in my presence than absolutely necessary. There’s no one around who would willingly talk to me—and if I force someone to, they only tell me what I want to hear and laugh at even the worst jokes I make.

Who would dare contradict the man who has the power to condemn your soul—human or divine—to Tartarus for all eternity?

“Go!” I command more harshly than necessary, and Manoles and Henrietta continue on their way, now on a different course.

I press a hand to my chest, where my heart is beating unusually fast. For some reason, my encounter with the old woman has unsettled me.

But I barely have time to collect myself before Katina approaches with the next soul whose fate I am to judge.

I allow myself to look at her for a moment—her shoulder-length brown hair, her round face, her full lips. Oh, how I miss her. How I miss our old life.

It had been exciting, working toward one of the most coveted positions in the entire Underworld with her by my side. I had felt goosebumps when my great-uncle Hades finally granted it to me. But after that, everything went downhill—my life as dull as if I myself were condemned to wander the Asphodel Meadows forever.

One thing is clear: if I truly opened the gates to madness—defied my great-uncle and all the gods of the Underworld, and plunged into the world of the living with Katina—it would be anything but boring.

Almost automatically, I rise from my throne and walk toward the boat. Toward Katina.

And there is one more thing that sends a pleasant shiver down my spine when I think about it:

Here in Hades, I am nothing—a minor god among others, many of them stronger and more powerful than I.

But beyond the river?

There, I am everything.

A god among humans.