A new kingdom rises from the ashes of a single village. Its banners, defying the very sky, fly over lands where gods' temples now stand as rubble. Its king is Sam, the God-Slayer. His queen is Lily.
Today, Sam leads a small unit to a ruin. No grass grows. No bird cries. The very air feels necrotic and still. They stop before a yawning opening in the earth—the entrance to a dungeon that smells of old blood and older stone.
Sam dismounts. His men light torches, the flames guttering in the dead air. Every one of them, Sam included, wears a crimson pendant of twisted iron over their hearts.
They descend. The dark swallows them whole. From the impenetrable blackness around their precarious circle of light come sounds: wet, slithering drags; deep, resonant thumps that vibrate through the soles of their boots; and whispers that might be the wind in deep cracks, or might be words. The soldiers' grip tightens on their weapons, their breaths coming in shallow clouds. Sam's face is a mask of grim determination. He does not flinch, leading them ever downward.
They reach the final depth—a vast, silent cavern. Its only feature is a giant door of tarnished gold, covered in pulsing, sickly-green runes that cast a pallid light.
Sam kneels. His unit follows suit, their armor clanking against the stone.
"Your faithful servant greets the Deity of True Faith," Sam intones, his voice echoing in the hollow space.
Silence. It stretches, thick and suffocating.
"Hmm… Sam." The voice that finally answers does not come from behind the door. It is in the cavern, in the stone, in their bones. A pressure descends, making the torches dip and the men's shoulders hunch. "Do you bring the sacrifice?"
Sam presses his forehead to the cold floor. "Yes, My Lord." He gestures without looking.
The soldiers drag the bound prisoners forward—five men and women, blindfolded and gagged, their clothes stained with fear. They are thrown before the door like sacks of grain, their muffled whimpers the only human sound.
Creeeeeak…
The golden door slides open a finger's width. Not light, but a profound, sucking darkness pours out. It wraps around the prisoners and yanks them inward with a sickening, rubbery sound.
It does not stop.
The dark tendrils lash out again, snatching the soldiers who bring the prisoners. One man is quick. He throws himself flat, fingers scrabbling, nails breaking as they claw grooves into the stone floor. The darkness has his legs, hauling him backward.
"SIR! PLEASE! SAVE ME!" he screams, his eyes wild, finding Sam's.
Sam stands up. He looks down at the pleading soldier, his own face devoid of warmth, a statue of cold devotion. He raises his boot and brings it down on the man's straining fingers.
A sickening crunch.
Aaaaahhhh!!!
The soldier's scream is cut short as the darkness swallows him whole. The door slams shut, silencing the final, fading echoes of terror.
Sam kneels again. "My Lord. This servant dares ask a favor."
"Hmm…"
A deep, wet hum vibrates the air. Permission.
"We have slain the river gods and burned the groves as you commanded. But the wrath of Olympus gathers. I fear the thunderer himself will soon look down upon us."
"Do not fear the distant storm," the voice gargles, the sounds of awful consumption still faintly audible behind the words. "I will walk the surface soon. But the path must be paved. Not with tens… but with thousands."
Sam's breath hitches. "Thousands? But… how?"
"Wage war. Now. Olympus will stir. You have little time." A small, crystalline vial materializes in the air before Sam and clatters to the stone. "Drink. It will… fortify you."
Sam's hands tremble as he picks it up. Not with fear, but with a zealous, avaricious excitement that twists his features into a wide, unnatural grin. He bows repeatedly, his head thumping the ground. "Thank you, My Lord! Thank you!"
He uncorks the vial. A smell like copper and burnt sugar fills his nostrils. He drinks.
The effect is instantaneous. His back arches. A strangled gasp escapes him as his muscles swell, tearing the seams of his tunic. His fingernails darken and elongate into sharp, black talons. The whites of his eyes flood with red, and a hellish, glowing ring ignites around each iris. He looks at his new claws, flexing them, and a low, guttural laugh of power rumbles in his chest. He bows again, scraping his new nails against the stone in obeisance, before backing away into the tunnel's dark.
---
Behind the golden door, in a chamber of weeping stone, two figures observe.
Zaegarus, his face hidden in the shadow of his black robe, sits perched on a rock. "The stage is set, my ancient friend."
"Grrr… More. Need more." The reply is a mind-voice, thick with hunger and madness.
Before him, bound by chains of smoking Stygian iron and etched with glowing runes of containment, is Morvud. Not just a beast, but a concept of hunger given monstrous form—scaled, armored, and eternally ravenous. Its long, black tongue licks traces of blood from its jagged maw.
Zaegarus chuckles, a dry, rustling sound. "Gods are such amusing creatures. They weave tales of virtue and justice, blind to the rot in their own hearts." A sinister smile is audible in his voice. He reaches out a slender hand and, with a touch, shatters one of the smaller runes on the central chain. The iron glows red-hot for a moment before cooling. Morvud strains, and the chain groans in protest, but holds. For now.
"They ignore their sins," Zaegarus whispers, his voice dripping with malignant glee. "So I will be their judge. I will be their chaos."
He leans back, savoring the burgeoning doom.
"I love chaos. And chaos loves me."
---
On Olympus, all work ceases. The halls are silent, the throne empty. The dictator himself is absent from his court.
Zeus walks slowly toward Metis's chambers. His face is drawn, a portrait of tragic concern. Behind him trails a line of silent servants carrying an object draped in cloth of shimmering white silk.
He enters without knocking. Metis is seated by her window, but stands quickly at his entrance, her eyes widening. "…Zeus?"
"My lovely wife," he says, his voice a soft, warm blanket. He opens his arms and embraces her gently, patting her back. "I come bearing a gift, to brighten your spirit."
He guides her to where the servants place the shrouded object. With a tender flourish, he pulls the silk away.
It is a peplos of breathtaking beauty. Snow-white fabric, bordered with intricate gold thread, embroidered with emeralds and sapphires that form patterns of waves and wise owls—her sacred symbols.
Metis's hand rises to her mouth. "Oh," she breathes, a faint, appreciative smile touching her lips. "It's stunning."
She approaches, her fingers gently tracing the exquisite embroidery. In the reflection of a polished bronze pillar, she watches Zeus. Her heart begins a frantic drum against her ribs. A cold bead of sweat traces a path from her temple to her jaw.
Zeus makes a subtle gesture. The servants bow and flee, sealing the door behind them.
The tender concern evaporates from his face like morning mist under a harsh sun. His eyes turn flat and calculating. As Metis feigns admiration for the gown, Zeus begins to change. His form subtly expands, his shadow growing vast and predatory on the wall behind him.
'The time has come,' Metis thinks, her mind racing while her hands remain steady on the fabric. 'All my study, all my forbidden research… it led to this single, terrible moment. I learned one truth above all others.'
She watches in the reflection as his massive hand, now grown large enough to envelop her entirely, reaches for her. Time seems to slow, granting her a final cascade of memories: the endless blue of Oceanus's realm, her father's patient teachings, the dizzying, passionate first days with Zeus, the weight of the celestial crown. One lesson shines clearest: 'Fate is inevitable. But its path can be… redirected.'
Zeus's hand closes around her. There is no gentleness, no ceremony. In one swift, brutal motion, he lifts her and thrusts her into his gaping maw. He swallows before a scream can form.
Metis tumbles down the slick, dark canal. Acting on a plan rehearsed a thousand times in her mind, she tears a small satchel from her chiton and spills a glittering, phosphorescent powder over herself. Her fall slows, then stops. As she hovers in the grotesque space, she begins to shrink, dwindling to the size of a sparrow, then a bee.
From her tiny robes, she produces several vials—decoy vessels containing concentrated portions of her divine essence mixed with potent reagents. She hurls them into the churning gastric void below.
Sizzle-BOOM!
The vials erupt. A massive, familiar surge of Metis-ness floods Zeus's system, a convincing simulation of total digestion.
Above, Zeus feels the surge of power. He places a hand on his stomach as a deep, resonating BLURP escapes his lips. Triumph, bright and vicious, floods him. The paranoid tension of weeks snaps.
"HAHAHAHA!" His laughter shakes the room, booming off the marble walls. "I, Zeus, King of Olympus, have defied the Fates themselves! The prophecy is ash!"
Inside, safely nestled in the folds of his hippocampus, the true Metis lets out a shuddering breath of pure relief. Her minute hand rests on her barely-swollen abdomen. "Forgive me, little one," she whispers, a tear of stress and sorrow glistening in the dim biological light. "It was the only path." A tiny, fierce kick answers her from within. Despite everything, a soft, resilient smile touches her lips.
---
Zeus stumbles out from the chamber. His face is now a masterpiece of devastation. Tears stream through his beard. His shoulders hunch, the very image of a broken man. He collapses to his knees in the corridor, pounding the marble with a fist.
"METIS! WHY?!" he wails, his voice cracking with artful perfection. "Why would you leave me?!"
Servants rush to him. Those nearest have heard the cruel victory in his laughter moments before. They see the stark contrast in his performance now. A cold terror, deeper than any grief, settles in their guts. They support him mechanically, their faces carefully blank. To speak of the lie is a death sentence.
Gods and lesser deities gather. Zeus weeps openly. "She… she took her own life," he sobs into Hecate's shoulder. "She could not bear the prophecy… that her own child would harm her beloved husband… so she ended it… oh, the horror!"
Some mourn genuinely. Hera's eyes, however, hold a carefully masked blaze of triumph. 'The way is clear.'
Hestia, standing apart, feels no grief, only a chilling suspicion. Her gentle eyes narrow. 'I sat with her only this morning. She spoke of the child's future with hope, not despair. She asked about the stability of the royal hearths… Why this? Why now, when only Zeus was with her?' She says nothing, storing the cold doubt in her heart.
Zeus wipes his eyes, the picture of weary, grieving majesty. "Let a day of mourning be declared. For our queen."
---
The next day, Olympus is shrouded in artificial gloom. Grey clouds are summoned. A slow, mournful drizzle falls.
Deities from across the realms (the Underworld, notably, sends no envoy) stand in the forum. True tears mix with performative ones.
Zeus sits apart, slumped against a pillar, a half-empty chalice of nectar dangling from his fingers. He looks the part of a man hollowed out by loss.
Iris, her rainbow gown dimmed, approaches and kneels. "My Lord, the lower world… it burns in chaos. Kingdoms wage war not on each other, but on divinity itself. Temples are ashes. River gods and nymphs are slain, their flesh… consumed. The disorder spreads. If unchecked, it will become a revolt that reaches our very gates."
Zeus doesn't look up. He swirls the nectar, his voice a low, disinterested rumble. "Hmm. Let Kratos deal with it."
Iris bows deeply, hiding her dismay at his indifference. "As you command, My Lord." She departs, the order given.