I never realized how quiet Mount Othrys could be until my sisters were born. The mountain would echo with the low rumble of distant thunder, a sound that seemed to breathe through the stone walls and linger like a whisper of an approaching storm.
Before they arrived, the mountain moved to its own rhythm. There was a steady hum of power and motion. Molten rivers flowed beneath the marble floors, pulsing like the heartbeat of a sleeping god. Titans trained in the courtyards, their roars echoing off the peaks. Wind gods raced along the terraces, tossing silver dust into the air. It was a place full of strength, noise, and certainty.
And then came Demeter.
That day, the mountain changed.
First, the halls fell silent. An eerie hush spread slowly, like a tide. Even the wind stopped and everything paused in stillness. Then, the crying began.
Not the kind that simply filled the air—a sound that pierced the mountain's heart. The wail of new life, raw and wild, reverberated through every corridor, through stone and fire and sky. It felt as if the mountain itself had been holding its breath for her arrival.
Hestia and I stood outside the birthing chamber, peeking past the carved archway. Gold light poured from the cracks in the stone doors, spilling across the floor in molten ribbons. The air felt different now: soft, warm, and scented with grain and sunlight. I blinked and saw green shoots pushing up through the marble floor. Grass. On Mount Othrys.
"Is she making that?" I whispered.
Hestia nodded, eyes wide. "I think so."
When they finally let us in, Rhea looked exhausted but radiant. Her curls stuck to her neck, her skin shimmered faintly, and her eyes, those kind and deep brown eyes, were softer than I'd ever seen them.
In her arms was a tiny girl with chubby hands and curls of gold-bronze. Her skin gleamed faintly, like wheat in the sunlight. Her eyes were the green of spring meadows after rain.
"Your sister," Mother said, her voice tired but proud. "Her name is Demeter."
Hestia gasped and leaned closer. "She smells like wheat!"
Rhea smiled, brushing a curl from Demeter's forehead. "She does, doesn't she?"
I squinted at her. "She's… loud."
That earned a soft, musical laugh from Rhea. "She'll grow into her voice, my little one."
Demeter grew quickly, not just in size but in presence. It seemed as though within mere weeks, the icy breath of winter softened to a gentle breeze, heralding an early spring. With each day, she was always moving, laughing, and talking to things that weren't supposed to listen: birds, bees, even the vines creeping up the palace walls. She wandered barefoot through the courtyards, and wherever she stepped, the marble cracked just enough for flowers to bloom through. Her laughter was like the ringing of bells, full of life and impossible to ignore.
Once, I watched her kneel by a patch of barren soil, press her hands into it, and whisper something. The dirt shimmered. A sprout unfurled. Within seconds, a stalk of barley swayed in the breeze that hadn't existed a moment before.
I remember standing there, stunned. That was when I realized something about my sister. Her laughter could make the world itself breathe again.
And, strangely, I felt proud.
Then, not long after, the world shifted again. I felt a growing sense of something changing, an unease that lingered in my chest, whispering fears I couldn't quite name or shake.
At first, I didn't understand. "Mother," I asked, "how can you have another child already?"
Rhea only smiled, her expression serene. "It is simply the way of Titans, my son. Life flows through us differently. There is no waiting when creation calls."
I wasn't sure I liked that answer. It stirred up a restless unease inside me, like something precious slipping away.
But when Hera was born, even I—who had seen stars torn open in Father's battles—was awed.
She didn't blaze with gold like Demeter. Her birth was quiet. The air didn't shimmer; it thickened, heavy and still. When I entered the chamber, it felt as if the very mountain bowed its head.
Rhea held a child wrapped in white silk. Her tiny face was calm and unreadable. Her curls were dark and soft, like our mother's. Her eyes—deep navy, clear and piercing—studied everything. Even as a newborn, she didn't cry. She simply looked.
"She's beautiful," Hestia breathed, touching Hera's hand. "She feels… older."
Rhea smiled faintly. "She will be wise. Perhaps too wise."
I frowned. "She doesn't glow."
"She doesn't need to," Rhea said gently. "Some lights burn inside."
Hera blinked up at me then, silent, still, and unblinking. Even as a newborn, her gaze seemed to carry an authority that didn't belong to someone so new to the world. It felt sharp, assessing, almost judging, at least to me. My hand involuntarily clenched at my side, a fleeting gesture that foreshadowed the tension I would come to feel whenever her eyes were upon me. I didn't know it yet, but that was the first time I saw the look she would wear forever—the look that always made me feel as if I was one mistake away from disappointing her.
Hestia adored her instantly. She adored both of them, really. If Mother was busy, Hestia was there as the ever-patient eldest daughter, humming soft songs. Even the forges beneath the mountain quieted. Her warmth seemed infinite. Her voice was always calm, her hands always steady.
She'd braid Demeter's golden curls, hum lullabies to soothe Hera's restless mind, and still find time to stoke the hearth fires that warmed the halls. Sometimes she'd glance at me over her shoulder and smile.
"You could help, you know," she'd tease, her voice full of light.
"I don't sing," I muttered once, crossing my arms.
"Then stand guard," she said, a playful glint in her eyes. "You're good at looking serious."
So I stood there, in doorways and shadows, pretending I was protecting them. Really, I just didn't want to leave. Their laughter softened the mountain's edges. For a little while, when they smiled, I almost believed I belonged there too.
Sometimes, I caught Mother watching us from across the chamber. Her face would soften, her eyes full of quiet pride, of hope. Yet there was always something else in her gaze when it drifted toward me. Something uncertain. As if she loved me deeply but did not quite understand me.
I tried to ignore it.
I tried to join in their brightness.
There was one afternoon I remember vividly when I carved a toy from driftwood I'd found near the molten springs. I shaped it into a tiny chariot drawn by lions. It was rough and uneven, but I took pride in it. I wanted to give it to my sisters, hoping to see them smile at something I'd made.
I found them playing in the gardens, sunlight rippling through the glassy leaves that Demeter had coaxed into existence. Hera watched, her tiny hands folded behind her back like a queen in training. Demeter laughed and chased the bees she'd just conjured. Their joy filled the air—bright, easy, untouched.
I stood there in the shade, toy clutched tight, waiting for the right moment.
Then Mother's voice called them inside. They ran, their laughter the only reminder of the warmth they'd left behind, never noticing me. The toy felt heavier in my hand, its wooden contours losing their warmth, turning cold and distant like the shadow stretching over me. The sunlight that had bathed the garden in brilliance faded, the vibrant hues dulled to gray. I turned away with that familiar cold settling in my chest, an ache as palpable as if the warmth itself had vanished, leaving only the chill of being near to something vibrant but not truly a part of it.
That night, I sat by the hearth. The glow of the flames painted gold across my sisters' faces. They looked like they belonged to the world—radiant, gentle, alive. And I… I didn't.
Because when I reached for the fire, it dimmed. Hestia, who was tending to the flames with her usual gentle composure, suddenly paused, her head tilting slightly as if she'd sensed the change. Her brows furrowed ever so slightly, and for a brief moment, her eyes flicked to mine with a mix of curiosity and concern. It was as if the sudden darkness in the hearth echoed the shadows that danced within me, validating the fear that had settled in my chest.
The gold light faltered, retreating into a shade that shimmered between red and black. Shadows pooled around my fingers, curling like smoke around my wrist. I pulled away, startled.
Hestia blinked, curious. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," I lied, curling my hand into a fist.
The shadows pulsed faintly, as if breathing with me.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I lay staring at the ceiling, the realization coiling tighter with every heartbeat. My sisters were born of light—Hestia's warmth, Demeter's life, Hera's command. And I… I was something else entirely.
When the light touched me, it didn't just pass by—it shrank away. It drew back as if wounded, and in its retreat I felt a sting I could not name.
Maybe it was the hair—crimson instead of their brown. Perhaps it was the way my presence made the hearth flicker, causing the air to grow colder. Whatever it was, the mountain seemed to sense it. I noticed how the marble floors whispered under my feet, how the fires dimmed as I passed, how the other Titans' eyes lingered just a heartbeat too long.
Rhea tried; I know she did. She'd reach for me, her expression tender but uncertain—as if trying to bridge a chasm neither of us could name. Once, I nearly reached back. But Demeter's cry cut through the moment. She turned away, leaving my hand suspended in cooling air.
So I drifted.
Each step I took away from their laughter made the silence heavier, but also clearer. The world beyond my family's chambers was vast: marble terraces, molten rivers, and Titan forges ringing through the clouds. When I wasn't studying with Coeus, I walked among them, unseen and unnoticed. My thoughts felt as heavy as the sky itself.
From the higher terraces, I watched the Titans train. They were giants of raw creation, beings of starlight, chaos, and storm. They wrestled until the mountains cracked beneath their feet and lifted boulders large enough to eclipse the sun. Their roars echoed for miles. The very air trembled around them.
I envied them. They belonged. Every movement they made was confident, every word carried weight. I was the eldest son of Cronus, heir to the throne of the cosmos, and yet I felt like the jealous silhouette of a magnificent statue, forever chasing their brilliance.
The more I watched, the more a single thought began to burn inside me: I wanted strength. Not the kind born of lineage or destiny, but the kind earned by will. I realized then that I needed a plan, a path that would lead me to grasp such strength. The thought of seeking training from someone skilled like Iapetus became more than an idle wish; it began to crystallize into a resolve that I couldn't ignore. I was ready to take that first step, to learn and prove myself beyond just my heritage. I wanted to become something undeniable.
It was on one of those quiet mornings, the air still and silver with mist, that I found him.
Iapetus.
He stood on a lower terrace, alone, a figure carved from sunlight and ice. The morning haze wrapped around him, drifting like ghostly veils. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his bronze skin gleaming faintly in the half-light. His long hair was tied back in a warrior's knot, streaked with silver, and in his hands was a weapon unlike any I'd ever seen.
A spear, sleek and long, forged from a metal that seemed otherworldly. Its surface glimmered blue, like frozen lightning. It pulsed with light, shifting from translucent to solid. As he moved, a haunting sound emanated from the weapon, stirring the air.
He moved like the wind made flesh: fluid, unbroken, and precise. Every step was poetry, every thrust of the spear a verse. He didn't fight; he danced. The weapon wasn't just a tool, it was his partner, responding to his rhythm and his will.
I crouched behind a column, unable to look away.
The air rippled with his movements. The sound of the spear cleaving through the mist echoed like thunder wrapped in silk. My heart pounded. Breathless.
That was strength, not brute force or divine power, but mastery. Control. He stopped suddenly, planting the spear into the marble floor. Mist curled around him, and in the quiet that followed, I realized how small I felt and how far I was from that kind of certainty.
Then his voice broke the silence. Deep, clear, unyielding.
"You can come out now, little shadow."
The voice cut through the mist like steel through silk.I froze mid-step.
Iapetus turned, his gaze as sharp as the edge of his weapon. Those eyes—icy blue, ancient and assessing—met mine without effort, finding me hidden behind a pillar as though I'd been standing in plain sight.
For a moment, I thought he might strike me down. Instead, the Titan tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering faintly across his chiseled features. His expression reminded me of a wolf that had cornered a curious cub.
"I wasn't—" I began.
"You were watching," he said flatly. "Badly."
I sighed, stepping into view. "Fine. I was watching."
His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Rhea's son. The quiet one."
"Hades," I replied quickly, squaring my shoulders. "My name is Hades."
He gave a single approving nod. "Iapetus. Titan of Mortality, Lord of the West—and this—" he gestured to the long pale blue spear in his hand, "—is The Piercer."
He said it like both an introduction and a warning.And before I could stop myself, the words spilled out: "Can you teach me?"
He blinked, momentarily surprised. "Teach you?"
"I want to fight like that," I said, the words trembling but honest. "Move like that."
Iapetus studied me for a long time. His bronze skin gleamed with scars that spoke of ages of war, his dark hair streaked with silver and tied back lazily. He looked every inch a weapon forged by time itself. Then, he exhaled through his nose. "You're barely taller than the spear haft."
"I'll grow."
"Not fast enough."
"Please," I said, voice low but determined. "I need to get stronger."
"Why?"He asked it so simply that I froze. I didn't have an answer that made sense—not one I could put into words.
"…Because I want to," I managed.
He turned away. "No."
"What?"
"No," he repeated. "Go back to your lessons, little shadow."
And with that, he vanished into the mist, his spear humming faintly like laughter.
But I didn't stop asking.
Every morning, I found him training on that same terrace shrouded in fog. And every morning, I asked the same question.
"Will you train me today?""No.""Why not?""You're not ready.""When will I be?""When you stop asking."
So, of course, I kept asking.
Weeks passed before anything changed.
One morning, he sighed and turned to me with the look of a man resigned to fate. "Fine," he said. "You want to learn? Then prove you deserve it."
He led me down a narrow path carved into the base of Othrys. The air smelled of ash and ozone. When we reached the clearing, he raised his hand and the ground trembled violently. A massive slab of obsidian erupted from the earth—smooth, black, unyielding, and tall as a temple gate.
"The day you shatter this," Iapetus said, "I'll train you."
I blinked. "With what?"
He pointed to a pile of wooden spears stacked nearby.
"You've got to be kidding."
His grin flashed like lightning. "A weapon is nothing without will. Show me yours, little shadow."
Then he left.
Days turned to weeks.Each morning, I returned to that clearing.And each day, I thrust my spear until my arms screamed and my palms bled.
Wood cracked against stone. Splinters dug into my skin. Sweat burned my eyes. Every impact was met with silence—the obsidian didn't even scratch. Titans would pass and laugh at the sight of me, a child striking the unbreakable. But I stayed. I had to stay.
For the first time, pain felt like purpose.
When my mother found me, she was furious. Her divine aura shook the air, her eyes bright with equal parts anger and worry.
"Look at your hands, Aidoneus!" she scolded, kneeling and cupping my face with trembling fingers. "You're tearing yourself apart!"
"I'm fine," I lied.
"You are not!" Her voice cracked. "You're my son, not a soldier. Why are you doing this to yourself?"
I didn't answer. How could I explain that every bruise was proof that I wasn't nothing—that I could be more than the quiet one in the shadows? That every drop of blood spilled on that black stone meant I existed?
Her anger faded to sorrow. She pressed her forehead to mine, whispering, "You burn yourself to be seen, but you already are."
Yet when she left, I returned to the obsidian.Because I didn't believe her.
Finally, one night, it happened.
The moon hung high, pale light spilling through the clouds. My muscles trembled, vision blurred. I gritted my teeth and thrust again, a roar tearing from my throat.The spear cracked—then the obsidian did too.
A thin, perfect fracture.
I dropped to my knees, chest heaving.When I looked up, Iapetus stood on the terrace above, silent as a statue. For the first time, he smiled.
The next morning, a weapon awaited me on the training grounds.
It wasn't the bronze spear I'd broken a dozen times. This one was darker than night itself—polished black metal, faintly translucent when it caught the light, veins of smoky silver threading through it. The haft was smooth and warm, alive in my hands.
"This is yours," Iapetus said simply. "Forged where the obsidian stood. A gift."
I turned the spear slowly. "It's beautiful."
"It's alive," he corrected. "Obsidian remembers fire. This one remembers you. A weapon should be an extension of its wielder, not a tool to hide behind. Now," his eyes glinted, "we teach you how to use it."
From that day forward, my world changed. The air hung heavier, scented with the metallic tang of destiny. It was as if the universe itself had leaned in to whisper of trials to come, drawing a line between the life I had known and the quest that lay ahead.
I trained until dawn bled into dusk. The black spear, my spear, became more than a weapon; it felt like the rhythm of my own heartbeat, always with me. Each lesson left me bruised and breathless. I learned to move like Iapetus, relying on instinct before my mind could catch up. My body grew tougher; my reflexes grew faster. Even when Rhea scolded me for my split lip or torn shoulder, I smiled quietly. Beneath the physical training lay a driving force—a concrete vision to become not just a warrior but a leader worthy of standing at Cronus's side. This aspiration fueled my every move, pushed me when exhaustion tempted surrender. Coeus was brilliant, eccentric, and always ink-stained. He called himself 'scribe of the cosmos,' claiming ideas surpassed weapons. He invented books, thin, treated parchment bound in wood and leather, and crafted styluses of engraved metal, tipped with nibs that wrote or erased when infused with divinity.
"Hades," he would say, tapping his temple with the stylus, "swords win wars, but words keep empires standing." One evening, as we sketched the star maps over parchment, Coeus posed an intriguing question. "What if a single word had the power to transform an enemy into an ally?" He paused, letting the weight of it sink in. Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he recounted how, during a heated council debate, he had calmed a furious Titan with just a whispered reminder of shared dreams. Further proof, he claimed, of the force words held over the sharpest blades.
Together, we catalogued everything—the histories of Titans, their laws, their sciences, their prayers to the Creator. I learned to shape divine energy through ink, to store knowledge like magic in bound pages. Coeus treated me not as a child but as an equal, and for that, I respected him deeply.
Cronus summoned me. I approached the throne, my obsidian spear strapped to my back, anticipation tightening my steps. His golden eyes met mine, holding a silent approval that felt like a challenge.
"You're growing," he said, a rare smile touching his lips. "I hear that you have become quite skilled with that spear, Coeus says you are also a scholar."
"Thank you, I have good teachers," I replied softly.
"How would you like to join me? Learn what I do as the King of the Titans."
"I would be honored, thank you, father."
Starting that day, he began taking me to council gatherings, to judgment halls, to the terraces where Titans debated, bargained, or fought. I learned to stand quietly behind him, to listen when he spoke, to study how the others bent, not out of fear, but because resistance felt pointless—like stone yielding under years of pressure. Their exchanges reminded me of fault lines hidden beneath polished marble floors: nearly invisible but with the power to shatter everything above. In those moments of listening, I noticed how power shifted in small ways, and how silence could demand attention more than any shout. By keeping in the background, unnoticed like a shadow at dusk, I caught hints of the secrets weaving through their politics.
"Leadership," he told me once as we watched two Titans duel, "is not the roar of command. It is the silence that follows it."
"I don't understand," I said.
He smiled faintly, his gaze fixed on the victor. "You will."
And perhaps he was right.
The others started calling me the King's Shadow. Some mocked, others didn't. I didn't care either way. Every moment at his side taught me something new: how to possess power without boasting, how to be patient, and how to observe keenly without drawing attention—living up to the nickname, always present but rarely noticed, like a shadow that moves when the light changes.
Iapetus had taught me how to fight, how to wield my spear. Cronus was teaching me about everything that I would ever need to know.
On quiet days, when the world itself seemed to rest, Father would take me away from the noise of Othrys. We'd climb the winding paths that led to an overlook above the canopy, where clouds drifted beneath us and the air tasted like dawn.
The world below was vast and alive, with forests whispering in green tides, rivers curling like molten silver, and mountains sleeping beneath the haze on the horizon.
Cronus knelt beside me, his golden eyes sweeping over it all. Then, with the ease of a god who had earned the right to be silent, he raised a hand and gestured to the expanse.
"This," he said softly, "is my realm. The skies, the mountains, the rivers—everything that breathes, I watch over it all. It's a burden, yes, but it is what my mother passed on to me."
I said nothing. My fingers curled into the folds of his robe.
"One day," he continued, placing his hand on my shoulder, heavy and warm, "my time as ruler of the cosmos will end. And all of this will pass to you, my firstborn son." A whisper of wind, sharp and cold, brushed against us, carrying with it a sudden, uneasy chill. The metallic tang of the air hinted at the storm brewing in the distance, as an electric charge seemed to crackle around us, foreshadowing the cosmic upheaval to come.
"Should it not go to Hestia? I couldn't help asking. She is the Eldest."
"Your sister has no interest in the throne, nor do Demeter and Hera. You have a strong soul, Aidoneus, much like your mother's. I believe Lady Ananke has great plans for you, if it means becoming the next King or something far greater." A sharp breeze brushed against us, uneasy in its sudden chill, hinting at a discord in the harmony of his words.
In that moment, an inner voice sparked within me, questioning: Is this the path I truly desire, or merely the one laid out for me? The unfamiliarity of such a choice weighed heavily, signaling the first flicker of a journey that demanded more than I knew I possessed.
It should have filled me with pride. But instead, an unease settled deep inside me. The stories of the past echoed in my mind, warnings of an endless cycle. One day, Zeus will be born, and he will shift the balance of power, and everything Father had promised would be taken from me. Just as the Titans were overthrown by the very offspring they nurtured, I feared the same fate awaited me. The threat of another cosmic rebellion loomed, whispering that history always finds a way to repeat itself.
Actually no, just because Zeus was able to become the king before does not mean that I was going to let it happen again. This was my story not his and if I was going to accomplish what I needed to do Zeus must never claim the throne that rightfully belongs to me.