"Hermes is the traitor."
The silence that followed Zeus's accusation was a shroud over Olympus. All eyes turned to the messenger god. Apollo stared at him, mouth slightly open in horror.
"You!" Zeus strode toward him, each step a muffled thunderclap. "You dare to smile in the face of your betrayal?"
"Father—Please, be reasonable, Hermes would nev—" Apollo moved toward his father, gesturing with a worried expression.
No clouds, no storm, no rain. A thunderclap burst from the heavens, its roar making Apollo flinch. Zeus shot him a furious side glance, and the young god fell silent, averting his eyes in fear.
"Betrayal?" Hermes's voice was calm, almost conversational. "You drown in broken prophecies and fear the shadow of the Titans, and it is me you call traitor? Your paranoia has blinded you, Father."
The insolence was the spark. But it was Ares's intervention that lit the pyre.
"You've had your fun long enough, brother," the god of war growled in a warning tone, stepping forward. "Perhaps you need some time to reflect on your actions… in Tartarus."
Ares acted as if he were Zeus's right hand. Though he came nowhere close to being it.
Tsiip. Pump.
Hermes vanished. Before Ares could even raise his sword, the messenger god reappeared mid-air, delivering a devastating kick to his nose. The god of war was hurled backward, crashing through a marble pillar. He tried to rise, bracing himself against the rubble—then collapsed, unconscious.
The other gods in the coliseum widened their eyes at the small-framed god, now on high alert. Shock—both at the suddenness of the attack and at his sheer strength.
Few in that place could have sent Ares flying so easily.
Hera was livid. "How dare a filthy bastard lay a finger on my son?"
Poseidon rose from his throne, seizing his trident with a grim look.
"You are doomed, boy."
"Everyone, please—" Apollo pleaded, exasperated and worried.
"NO ONE. MOVES. A. FINGER." Zeus's order was a roar of wounded authority and royal pride. He didn't spare a glance for his fallen son. His white, electric eyes were locked on Hermes.
Zeus's body blazed in a yellowish-white light, the atmosphere collapsing into a low hum. He vanished in a beam of light, darting toward Hermes at incredible speed.
The young god raised his arms defensively. The beam reformed into Zeus right before him, the king's fists transformed into white electric blades, striking with unbelievable speed.
His arms, wreathed in sparks, blurred into streaks of light, each punch breaking the sound barrier. But Hermes danced. Speed was his essence, and it was greater still. He weaved away, a golden blur mocking his father's fury, his counterattacks like needle pricks—fast, precise blows to the king's knees, elbows, and joints.
Zeus's strikes suddenly grew faster, his face twisting in greater rage. The electric aura on his fists swelled, engulfing his entire arms.
The blows were no longer merely fast—they were a storm of light and fury. The sparks from his fists became blades of pure energy, slicing the air and Hermes's skin with every narrow dodge. Thin cuts opened on his arms and face, not from the punches themselves but from the crackling aura surrounding them.
Hermes was forced to retreat, his evasive dance turning into a desperate withdrawal. The arrogance on his face faded into deadly focus. He was being cornered. Zeus, sensing the shift, pressed harder, a cruel, triumphant smile curling his lips. He raised his fist for a final strike—a hammer of lightning meant to smash the lesser god against the coliseum walls.
Apollo, frozen in terror, saw the blow forming. He saw the exhaustion in Hermes's eyes. The fear for his brother's life overcame his dread of his father.
"FATHER, STOP!" he cried—a desperate plea lost in the roar of the storm.
He leapt forward, not to fight, but to intervene, to pull Hermes out of the path of annihilation.
In that split second, time seemed to distort. Hermes, seeing Zeus's blow descending, made his most desperate move. Instead of retreating, he channeled his fury and power into his symbol. The Caduceus in his hand flared with golden light. The two serpents around it hissed, their golden bodies writhing, twisting, and merging into the central staff—forming in an instant an elegant, sharp, deadly blade.
With the divine weapon in hand, he surged beneath Zeus's strike, aiming for his father's exposed flank. It was an attack meant to incapacitate, to end the fight.
It was at that exact instant that Apollo reached him.
Apollo's body moved into the space where Zeus had been a moment before, his hands reaching for Hermes's shoulder. The Caduceus blade, charged with the strength of a god and the speed of a comet, did not meet the resistance of the King of the Gods.
It met his brother's chest.
The sound was not thunder, but a sick, dull, terribly organic thud. Apollo froze, the air escaping his lungs in a shocked gasp. His golden eyes, full of panic and brotherly love, widened in pure disbelief as he stared at Hermes.
Hermes, in turn, felt the wrongness of the impact. The resistance was far too soft. The Caduceus, as if sensing the terrible mistake, unraveled in his hand, the serpents slipping apart and returning to their staff form—a staff now stained with Apollo's golden blood.
The lyre fell from the god of music's hands, striking the marble with a discordant, mournful note, one string snapping with the impact. He stumbled back, his gaze still locked on Hermes's, before collapsing to the ground, lifeless.
The silence that followed was absolute. Zeus's storm ceased. The fury drained from his face, replaced by hollow horror. Hera's hands flew to her mouth, a silent scream trapped in her throat.
Hermes stood frozen, staring at his trembling hand as the Caduceus slipped from his grasp. His gaze shifted from Apollo's body to the blood on his fingers. The messenger god, the trickster, the traveler… had become a fratricide.
Zeus's voice, when it came, was no longer a roar. It was a broken whisper—colder and deadlier than any lightning bolt.
"My… son..."
The king's grief lasted but a moment before it was swallowed by a fury of cosmic proportions.
"KILL HIM!"
The order was not for a fight—it was for an execution. And this time, all of Olympus obeyed.
Dionysus's stupefying mist rose from the floor. Hera's vines burst from the cracks, hungry. Poseidon's trident shook the ground. The wrath of one god became the wrath of a pantheon.
Hermes, dazed after killing his brother, felt a strange haze clouding his senses. A thin purple mist spread through the coliseum.
He felt dizzy. He turned, searching for the source. Before the fog overtook him completely, he caught sight of a massive, bloated figure with a barrel in hand, vanishing into the violet haze.
"Stop, brother," Dionysus said, his tone slurred with drunken rage, the mist emanating from his skin.
Hermes clutched at his throat, a burning sensation spreading from his mouth down through his body. His vision blurred.
His thoughts no longer aligned with their former clarity. Pain, regret, fear—they all mixed together. And then came rage.
"It was you," he thought.
"YOU MADE ME KILL HIM!"
Hermes's scream was not that of a god, but of a soul breaking. The pain in his voice echoed through the coliseum, silencing whispers of shock. Through the purple mist and the tears he refused to shed, he fixed his gaze on the figures of his kin. They were no longer his family. They were his executioners.
Rage, pure and primal, erupted, burning away the haze and confusion. He charged blindly into the purple fog, no longer to flee—but to destroy.
A shadow loomed over him, trident in hand. Hermes barely dodged, the strike slower than it should have been. A rain of water missiles fell upon him. With blurred vision, he couldn't evade them all. He gritted his teeth.
He leapt back, then lunged at Poseidon, striking his abdomen with colossal speed.
The giant was hurled away, vanishing into the fog.
Another silhouette appeared. Hermes darted toward it at high speed—only to punch empty air.
It happened again and again, until Hermes's patience snapped.
"APHRODITE! SHOW YOURSELF, YOU WHORE!" he roared, his voice warped with hatred.
Dionysus's gas thickened around him, and shapes began to dance at the edges of his vision. They were illusions of Aphrodite—but cruel, tailored to him. He saw Apollo, smiling at him, lyre in hand. Then the smile vanished, replaced by shock and pain, his chest pierced by the Caduceus.
"No…" Hermes groaned, swinging at the image in a desperate punch that met only air.
The vision dissolved and reformed—this time, Apollo lying dead on the floor, golden blood staining the marble.
"Stop!" Hermes bellowed, his sanity unraveling.
While he was distracted by the psychological torture, a sharp screech cut through the haze. A white owl flew directly at him. Blinded by rage, he saw not Athena's symbol but another mockery. He lunged, punching with all his might.
At the instant of impact, the illusion shattered. The owl was the tip of a spear.
"GAH!"
The celestial bronze blade pierced his forearm, slicing through muscle and bone. The sharp pain yanked him back to reality. He stared, shocked, at the spear lodged in his arm. Pulling it free with a grunt, he saw his divine blood spill—but it was not its usual golden hue. It was tinged with a sickly purple.
"Poisoned," the realization came cold and late. Athena, the strategist, had exploited his fury.
Fwishh.
A black arrow sliced through the air, its passage cutting a path in the mist. Hermes, his body already succumbing to the venom, dodged purely on instinct. The arrow grazed his thigh, sending an electric paralysis creeping up his leg. "Even Artemis…" he thought, surprised—but noticed that for the universe's greatest huntress, the shot had been strangely imprecise.
The arrow, however, gave him an idea. Seeing the path it had carved in the mist, he acted. Ignoring pain, venom, and creeping paralysis, Hermes began to run. He ran in circles, faster and faster, becoming a golden blur screaming in agony and rage. A whirlwind formed, pulling Dionysus's mist into its center and dispersing it with devastating centrifugal force.
The air in the coliseum cleared. But the effort cost Hermes the last of his strength. He stumbled, his body finally giving way, collapsing to his knees on the cracked floor. Athena's poison and Artemis's paralysis now flowed freely through his system. His pierced arm began to heal slowly, but his divine energy was being spent fighting the toxins.
He was vulnerable.
"Still resisting?" Athena's voice was cold curiosity.
Hermes tried to rise, but his feet felt anchored. Looking down, he saw thorned vines, glowing with a purple aura, sprouting from the marble and coiling around his ankles, climbing up his legs.
"YOU!" Hera approached, her eyes blazing with hatred. "A bastard dares to raise his hand against my son… and kill one of his brothers!"
The vines tightened, snapping the bones in his legs with dry cracks. A scream tore from Hermes's lips.
He gritted his teeth, raising one arm for a desperate strike. But Poseidon's trident sliced through the air, impaling his arm and pinning it to the ground.
He turned to see the sea king approaching from the ruins of the shattered coliseum where he had been thrown. His garments were filthy, and a fist-shaped mark was imprinted on his abdomen. His face was a mixture of both rage and exhaustion.
Hera extended her arm toward Hermes, unleashing a violent surge of power. Hermes groaned as the pain of a thousand needles pierced his body.
Zeus descended slowly, floating above his immobilized son. The look on his face was not victory, but dark, resolute pain.
"You will not be the herald of the end," Zeus said, the grief on his face forged into a mask of relentless justice. He raised his hand, and a spear-shaped bolt of lightning, crackling with the power of the sky, materialized. "I strip you of your domain. Of your speed. Of your divinity. You will be chained to mortal flesh, to rot as they do, forgotten and powerless. YOUR TIME AS A GOD… IS OVER!"
The lightning spear descended from the heavens, striking Hermes square in the chest.
The god of speed's scream was the sound of his soul breaking. He felt his divine essence shatter, fragment. His golden hair dulled, turning bone white. Hera's magic, ignited by the lightning's energy, burned into his chest, branding him physically and spiritually.
The lightning's force burned away the vines, and the marble floor beneath him gave way, hurling the god's body across the skies of Greece like a massive serpent of lightning—leaving behind a broken pantheon and the lifeless body of his brother.
...
"Who the hell allowed the stop?" came the shrill, irritated voice of a noble from inside his carriage.
A strong man in black armor, the captain of the escort, Ixion, approached, pointing ahead at the destruction.
"Something strange, my Lord. A crater. I recommend you remain in the safety of your vehicle."
The noble, a middle-aged man in a yellow chiton, his flabby face marked by cowardice, hurried out. "What if it's thieves? They'll steal my slaves! Not a chance! I'm coming with you!"
Ixion rolled his eyes, motioning for his men to stay back, and led the noble to the crater's edge. In the center, amid churned earth, lay the body of a young man.
"Looks like a body," the captain said, his voice devoid of emotion.
"No kidding, imbecile!" the noble sneered, covering his nose with a cloth. "Get down there and bring him up."
With a restrained sigh, Ixion obeyed. He returned carrying the body, dropping it at the noble's feet. It was a young man with white hair, filthy with blood and dirt, dressed in the tattered remains of a white chiton barely covering his chest. He spat a little blood—a faint sign he was still alive.
"It's alive?" the noble asked, prodding the body with the tip of his sandal as if it were an animal.
"Shall I kill him, my Lord?" Ixion asked, hand already on his sword hilt.
The noble crouched, his greedy eyes scanning the broken body. Then he saw it. Branded into the young man's chest, as if by a burning iron, was a mark—a perfect, strange design: a caduceus. His eyes widened, not in reverence, but with the avarice of a collector who's found a rare piece.
"No," he replied with a smile. "I wouldn't dare insult the heavens by refusing such a gift. Do me the favor of tossing this… wretch… into one of the wagons. He is now my property."
Ixion raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. He slung Hermes's unconscious body over his shoulder and began walking back to the caravan.
The driver of the first wagon saw him approaching. "Who's that?"
"Some little thief, looks like a follower of Hermes. The Lord liked the mark on him," Ixion replied carelessly, tossing Hermes into the back of a wooden cage with other slaves.
"Thief? But isn't Hermes the god of merchants or something?" the driver asked.
Ixion paused for a moment and let out a dry, scornful laugh.
"And what's the difference between them?"
He turned and walked away, leaving the driver to his thoughts. The caravan began moving again, the creak of wheels resuming its monotonous song.