A bustling marketplace thrives in a human kingdom, filled with lively traders and townsfolk under a bright, cloud-dotted sky. The air is rich with the scent of bread and the sounds of commerce.
From the clouds above, Iapetus looks down upon the peaceful, prosperous scene. His jaw tightens, his hands clenching into fists. "We are your creators!" his voice booms, reverberating across the entire world, shaking the very timbers of the houses. "We gifted you immortality, strength, and freedom from hunger, age, and disease! And now, you lower beings dare to raise your hands against us? Pathetic!"
Below, the vibrant marketplace freezes. Every human, from playing children to haggling merchants, drops to their knees as if their strings have been cut. A wave of primal terror silences the crowd, leaving only the sound of whimpering and shaking hands pressed against the cobblestones.
An old sage, his face streaked with tears, begins to rhythmically thump his forehead against the hard ground. "We have committed a great sin!" he croaks, a dark smear of blood already forming on the stone. "Please! Forgive our arrogance!"
"Forgiveness?" Iapetus's voice scoffs, laced with divine contempt. "A fantasy for the weak. Today, I take back our gifts. From this moment, your race is vulnerable to everything—sickness, time, and your own fleeting strength. This curse is eternal!"
As his words fade, an invisible wave of energy sweeps the kingdom. A vibrant young man stares at his hands in horror as wrinkles begin to spread across his skin. A child's joyful laugh turns into a racking cough. The very air, once thick with the promise of eternity, now carries the chilling, metallic scent of mortality. Iapetus turns, his mission of vengeance complete, and flies back to Mount Othrys.
---
In the hall on Othrys, a map is spread across a massive stone table. Iapetus takes his seat among the other Cardinals and Pallas.
Pallas places small white pillars on the map. "These represent you, the Cardinals." He then places a single black pillar on a small island to the west. "And this is the enemy's position." He settles into his chair. "My informants confirm Zeus and Poseidon have ascended to the low level of God King."
The word "God King" hangs in the air, sucking the warmth from the room. The Cardinals exchange grim looks, their previous confidence visibly shaken.
Atlas is the first to break the silence. "What of Hades?"
Pallas lets out a tired sigh. "No data. He has not appeared on the island. Only a small legion of three thousand soldiers from his realm is present."
He tosses parchments to each Cardinal. "This is their full order of battle. The rest of their army is weak, comprised of high gods and mortals. The true threats are Zeus, Poseidon, Hades, and the Leviathan."
As they read, Krios exclaims, pointing at his scroll, "Why is the column for the Underworld General labelled 'Unknown'?"
"Because she is," Pallas replies, taking a sip of nectar. "She had a... disagreement with Zeus. And to the surprise of all, she matched his divine pressure without flinching."
He stands, commanding their attention. "To be truthful, their overall base strength is superior. Lord Oceanus's involvement is also unclear; he claims neutrality, but we must be cautious. Other than Lord Cronus, none can stand against that ancient king." He pauses, letting the gravity of their situation sink in before offering a lifeline. "Therefore, I have requested the aid of the Solar King, Lord Hyperion. He has agreed and also promised to enhance our weapons and relics in the Star Forge, worked by the starsmith Voriathorn himself."
At the mention of Hyperion, the grim silence breaks. Shoulders straighten. Krios allows himself a sharp, predatory grin. The hope is a tangible thing, a spark igniting in their eyes.
"Our new armaments will arrive within a week or two," Pallas continues. "Until then, we prolong this war. Are there any questions?"
Koios stands. "None. We know your capabilities, Pallas. More importantly, we trust you."
As the Titans depart, Pallas remains, his hands flat on the table. He stares at the black pillar representing his enemies, a devious smile twisting his lips. "I will teach you all how a real war is waged."
---
In the allies' command tent, a long table holds a large map and cups of wine. The generals are seated around it, with Zeus at the head. Julie's seat is conspicuously empty, a silent testament to the ongoing friction.
Metis addresses the assembly. "Tomorrow, we begin. Our vanguard will be Nike and Bia."
Nike, mid-sip, chokes on her wine. She and Bia quickly stand, the eyes of the entire council upon them. A smattering of polite, uncertain applause rings out.
Prometheus watches from his corner, sipping his wine. 'Are we truly at war?' he thinks, his gaze fixed on the two young goddesses. Nike's lower lip is caught firmly between her teeth. Beside her, Bia's hands are clasped so tightly in her lap her knuckles are bone-white. They were so young, handed the reins of a war they could scarcely comprehend.
Nike notices his gaze. Prometheus moves his lips without a sound: 'Both of you... meet me after.' She gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
The tent flap opens, and a messenger enters, bringing a sudden silence. "My lords," the messenger announces. "The Underworld is sealed. Completely. No one is allowed to enter or exit, not even souls. Lord Hades refuses all messengers."
The crystal goblet in Zeus's hand explodes into dust. "How shameful! What cowardice!" he roars, and his fist comes down on the heavy oak table. It doesn't just break; it splinters with a sound like a lightning strike, sending maps, wine, and parchment flying. "Does he have no backbone? No pride? We are here, staking our lives with no comfort, and he hides in his palace!"
The initial shock gives way to a low, venomous hum. A bearded general leans toward his companion, his voice a malicious whisper. "I heard he keeps a harem of monsters..." Another voice adds, "He abducts children for his pleasure and dark rituals." The seed is planted, and as the leaders file out, the whispers multiply, twisting and growing in the dark.
Soon, only Metis, Prometheus, Nike, and Bia remain. Prometheus stands, murmuring, "Pigs. They condemn a man they've never seen." He rights a chair and waves his hand, a new stone table forming from the earth. Metis lays a fresh, more detailed map upon it.
"Your formation must have a strong flanks but a weak center," Metis explains, tracing the lines. "They will take the bait and charge. When they do, your flanks will envelop them."
Nike and Bia listen with unwavering focus.
Prometheus interjects, his voice low and serious. "They will try to humiliate you, to provoke you with taunts and dirty tricks. You must let your pride be your armor, not your weakness. Use your rage as fuel for precision, not recklessness."
With the new strategy imprinted on their minds, Nike and Bia depart. Unseen by them, a figure melts from the shadows near the tent entrance, a masked and hooded form that darts silently into the jungle, heading toward the Underworld legion's camp.
---
By a campfire, Mia sits on a log. She hears a rustle. "Julie, is that you?"
Julie pulls back her hood and removes her mask, her face illuminated by the firelight. She sits beside Mia, accepting a cup of water.
"Tomorrow, Nike and Bia open the war," Julie reports. She drinks deeply, then delivers the heavier news. "And the Underworld is sealed. Completely. Even the flow of souls has been halted."
Mia's eyes widen. "What? Then shouldn't we return?"
Julie's hand, resting on her knee, clenches into a fist for a fraction of a second before she relaxes it. Her voice, however, remains steel. "No. Our primary objective stands: protect the children of the Styx by any means necessary. Until we receive new orders directly from Lord Hades, we hold our position."
---
Back in the now-empty command tent, only Metis and Prometheus remain.
Prometheus drains his cup. "Was that your doing?" he asks, his gaze sharp. "The rumors?"
"No," Metis replies without hesitation. "I don't use such cheap tricks." She studies his face. "If it wasn't you or me, then who? Poseidon?"
"I think not. He is a silent one, and rarely speaks. Unless..." Prometheus's voice trails off, the implication clear. "Unless someone who backs him and pulling the strings. Just as we do for Zeus."
A cold realization dawns on Metis's face. The image of her father, the inscrutable Oceanus, flashes in her mind. 'Is it you, Father?' she wonders, a new layer of dread settling in her heart. The war for the throne had just become a great deal more complicated.