Fear electrified every nerve as I lunged forward, gripping my obsidian spear with desperation and defiance. The scent of sweat was sharp in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of dust kicked up from the ground. Sweat burned my eyes and streaked my chest, but the spear felt alive in my hands, sharp and responsive. It was a natural extension of my will. I aimed for the center of Iapetus' chest, my heart hammering in rhythm with the weapon's movement, my body coiling with the promise of sudden death.
A blur of bronze and white flashed between us, knocking my spear off course before my strike could land.
Steel clashed with a thunderous ring as Iapetus spun The Piercer in his hands. With precision, he tapped the back of my spear, redirecting its path without harming me. I halted, momentarily stunned by the swift, graceful way he moved.
"Again," Iapetus said, his voice calm, almost amused, though there was an edge of authority beneath it. He stepped back, spinning The Piercer behind him with effortless poise. "Strength alone will not carry you. A spear is not meant to be forced. It flows. Understand that, or you will only hurt yourself." He paused for a moment, his eyes distant as if recalling something profound. "Flow is not just a technique; it is a lifeline. In my past, when chaos threatened to consume me, it was my ability to flow with situations that saved me. It molded me into who I am today."
I adjusted my stance, trying to find that elusive rhythm. "I am flowing!" I shouted, though the words sounded hollow even to me.
"No," he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You thrash like a child trying to wrestle the wind."
My face burned. "Maybe I want to wrestle the wind!" I snapped, lunging again, spear slicing through the air.
Iapetus shifted effortlessly, sidestepping away from each of my thrusts. When my spear glanced off The Piercer, he countered, his movements smooth and controlled. In that instant, before his counter landed, a fleeting doubt crossed my mind—was my effort ever going to reach him? This hesitation mirrored the physical reality as each strike he made sent me stumbling back or diving aside to avoid being hit. My back struck the ground several times; my ribs ached, and sweat and dust blurred my sight. Every time I tried to rise, The Piercer's tip hovered inches from my chest, a constant, silent reminder of how far I had to go.
"Dead again," he said after the fourth tumble. "Hades: zero. Iapetus: ninety-one."
I groaned, brushing dirt and sweat from my chiton, teeth gritted. "You keep count?"
"Of course. It motivates you," he said lightly, as if he were telling me to enjoy the weather.
It annoys me.
I paused, exhaling deeply. My fingers relaxed their grip slightly on the spear. I could feel the rhythm of my breath slowing, matching the gentle sway of the weapon in my hand. Iapetus watched this micro-action unfold, acknowledging it without words.
"That too," he replied with a shrug, tapping his spear on the ground. "Balance is everything."
He had this way of being kind without ever softening the lesson. He could tease you, prod you, make you feel foolish—and still demand your best. Between the humor and the discipline, he expected you to rise to it.
I steadied myself, gripping my spear. The obsidian felt balanced and precise. I could feel the nuances in its weight and how it flexed with my intent. For a brief moment, as a ray of sunlight glanced off the spear's polished surface, I thought I saw the faintest hint of approval in his eyes. It was as if the weapon itself was whispering that I stood on the threshold of transformation, an echo of the hero's journey.
I lunged again. This time, I moved more slowly, controlled—watching his stance, predicting his next step. Spear blurred forward, but just as it grazed his side, he deflected it with the ease of flicking away a leaf. I stumbled, landing hard on one knee.
"Closer," he said with a faint grin. "You felt it, didn't you? The flow? Not enough. Not yet."
I gritted my teeth, heart hammering, lungs screaming. Every bruise, every cut on my hands, every failure pushed me harder. Yet beneath the physical pain lay a deeper longing—a need for acceptance and to prove my worth not just in skill, but in spirit. Each wound was a reminder of my struggle for autonomy, to shape my own destiny despite the shadows of doubt. Each time I rose from the dirt, it was with greater focus and intent, my resolve sharpening into the core of who I wanted to become. The training was relentless. I burned through exhaustion, through pain, through frustration—and Iapetus never let me forget it.
"Again," he said, pointing The Piercer at me with a flick of his wrist. "Flow first. Power second. If you do the opposite, you will break yourself before you touch me." As he spoke, an image flashed in my mind—a spear shattered like glass, bone snapped under its weight. The warning seemed to echo physically within me, a visceral reminder of the thin line between mastery and self-destruction.
I swallowed, nodded, and lunged. I felt a spark of understanding in my muscles, in my mind, in the way the spear connected with air. A movement I thought was mine—but really, it was his teaching taking hold—guided the weapon through its arcs. I nearly touched him, nearly landed a hit.
Iapetus laughed softly, a low, warm sound that carried a history of both victories and failures. "Ah, you're learning. Slowly, stubbornly… but learning." He twirled The Piercer, light as air. "I admit, I enjoy this dance. Don't take that the wrong way, little shadow. You will hurt yourself before you ever touch me, but I will be entertained watching you try."
Days passed in this routine. Each morning, I returned to the terrace. My muscles were burning, my hands bleeding, and my body ached from training. Sometimes I would stumble mid-lunge, collapsing in frustration. Whenever I fell, I would hear his voice ring out from above:
"Careful! You're strong, yes—but even the strongest Titan can be undone by a moment's carelessness!"
Mother's voice sometimes followed me in my dreams, scolding me for my bruises and scrapes. She would glare at me, frustration melting to fear, warning me that one day I would be worse for ignoring caution. Yet I never stopped. The desire to match Iapetus—to wield The Piercer as an extension of myself—drove me past pain, fear, and logic.
Finally, after weeks of relentless training, with sweat and blood soaking my tunic and my hands cracked and raw, Iapetus stepped back. "Enough for today," he said. His voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable weight in it now—approval, not mockery.
He handed me a new spear, not the obsidian one I had used, but one that was sleeker and black, polished like the night sky. It felt smooth, humming with latent power. As I grasped it, a whispered legend of the ancients flickered in my mind—how this very weapon was once said to be forged in the heart of a dying star, its essence imbued with the eternal dance of light and shadow. I recognized it immediately: this was the obsidian from the test slab, reforged into a weapon that now fit perfectly in my grip.
"It is a gift," Iapetus said simply. "Now, all that remains is training. Not with force… but with thought. With flow. This weapon is yours. Learn to move with it as an extension of yourself."
I held it, feeling its weight settle naturally in my hands. It was more than a spear. It was… alive. And it would respond only to my intent.
I looked up at Iapetus. There was a smile on his face—half amusement, half approval. He shook his head. "You'll stumble, you'll fall. You'll grow frustrated. I will insult your ego and push you beyond every limit you believe you have. And yet…" His gaze softened for a heartbeat. For a fleeting moment, his hand brushed against an old scar on his forearm, a glimpse of his own battles and failures.
"…you will endure. That is why I train you. That, and because sometimes the little shadow surprises me. Now, go. Move. Flow. Make it your own."
I took a breath, feeling the spear settle in my hands like a part of me. It felt lighter, as if its weight had adjusted to match my newfound sense of purpose. The gentle hum in the courtyard seemed sharper, clearer, echoing the shift inside me. For the first time in a while, I felt capable, not invincible or perfect, just capable.
And then a shout broke the silence:
"Hades! Hades!"
I froze. My heart dropped. The spear slipped slightly in my hands.
The courtyard seemed to shiver as a tremor ran through the ground, sending a thin veil of dust cascading from the nearby pillars. A falcon screeched overhead, its cry slicing through the air like a dire warning. In the following moment, Hera came barreling across the courtyard, dark curls bouncing wildly, violet eyes wide with urgency. Bare feet kicked up dust. She nearly tripped on the uneven stones, but pushed herself forward.
She reached me, clutching my forearm, panting.
"Brother—Mother—she's—she's giving birth!"
Iapetus straightened, expression sharpening. He lowered The Piercer and stepped back.
"Go," he said simply. "Your training can wait. Your mother would want you there."
For once, I didn't argue. I ran.
The halls of Mount Othrys were rarely frantic. Titans were composed, disciplined, or proud enough to pretend. But today, corridors to the birthing chambers bustled. Amidst this commotion, one Titaness, Theia, commanded the space with an authority that was uncharacteristic in these halls, a presence that did not go unnoticed. Even senior male Titans paused, heeding her directions without question. Her voice, calm yet firm, cut through the noise, and it was clear that the old hierarchies were shifting as a simmering prophecy loomed over them all. Titaness's rushed in and out—bowls of warm ambrosia, steaming cloths, silken wraps. Voices overlapped. Prayers to the Creator whispered under hurried breaths.
I recognized many faces—Theia, Mnemosyne, Phoebe—attendees of past births. Now older and poised, their urgency sharpened every movement.
Hera ran to join Demeter and Hestia, who sat together on a cushioned bench outside the chamber doors. They looked anxious—Demeter bit her lip, Hestia's hands were clasped so tightly her knuckles were white.
I stepped in beside them.
"How is she?" I asked quietly.
Hestia exhaled tremulously. "We heard crying and some yelling, but… no one has come out yet."
I nodded, though worry twisted inside, muddying hope with unease.
A tension. A wrongness. The air seemed to carry a metallic tang, a fleeting taste of iron on my tongue that sent a shiver down my spine. It was a visceral cue, anchoring the dread within me as if warning of a coming storm.
We waited outside, a tense energy in the air, magnified by an oppressive weight that seemed to pulse through Othrys itself. Shadows loomed like storm clouds, darkening every corner of the mind and hinting at a coming tempest.
Hestia sat with her hands clasped, lips moving in a silent prayer to the hearth. Demeter kicked her feet gently against the marble floor, humming to herself and twisting a strand of her new golden hair. Hera leaned against me, strangely quiet, eyes drifting toward the doorway as if expecting it to open at any second.
I told myself I should have felt only excitement: another sibling, a new life, a pillar for our family. Yet the thrill of anticipation unspooled into an unexpected anxiety.
But inside me, excitement gave way to anxious dread, coiling tight as my hope faded, replaced by something colder.
A heavy, steady rhythm approached. Not rushed—measured, deliberate. And with each step, the marble beneath us almost hummed.
We all went still.
Father.
Cronus turned the corner, and the air shifted around him like a storm entering a room.
Cronus wore no regalia—no crown, no armor, no cosmic mantle. Just a dark chiton with a simple gold belt. Ebony braids fell loose, strands stuck to his temples with sweat. Shadows ringed his eyes, tension lining his face.
He looked… tired. Confusion pricked, giving way to worry—seeing a Titan weary was deeply unsettling.
Atlas walked behind him. Months ago, he'd been thin, awkward, limbs undecided. Now his frame was changing—his shoulders broadening, muscles corded beneath his skin. He wasn't towering yet, but he was growing into the weight he would hold.
Hardness had entered his eyes—shaped by relentless training. Sweat glistened along his skin. Celestial iron bands circled his fists—training weights etched with runes of endurance.
Atlas offered us a small nod—sympathy, reassurance?—before stepping back with practiced discipline as Cronus approached.
When Father passed us, realization struck, cold and immediate, driving out the last of my childish pride with dread. As his presence enveloped us, a shivering understanding settled in my bones—a call to purpose waiting to be answered. I felt a silent vow shaping within me, a private commitment to watch and understand the fracturing within our family. A determination awoke, urging me to prepare for the trials ahead, even if I did not yet comprehend their full danger. A cold crackle burst behind my skull—fear surged with the shadows growing longer as his presence swept over us.
A whisper slithered through the air, brushing my ear like poisoned breath—these were not my thoughts, but an ancient murmur: Kill them before they kill you. I inhaled sharply, stomach lurching. The voice was ancient—feral—gnawing at reality's foundation. Not his voice. Not one I knew.
My gaze snapped to Cronus.
His back stayed turned, posture rigid. He entered the birthing chamber without a look. When he crossed the threshold, the whisper fell silent, leaving an aftertaste of iron and ash.
Shadows at the threshold flickered—curling like smoke—then vanished.
No one else reacted. No shiver. No unease. Nothing.
Just me.
Demeter tugged on my tunic. "What's wrong?"
My jaw was clenched so tightly it ached. I forced my hands to loosen. "Nothing," I said. "Just… nervous."
Dread curdled inside. Something was wrong. Rotten. Spreading. In the dim lighting of the corridor, the marble floor beneath my feet seemed to quiver as if responding to an unseen tremor. I paused, noticing a hairline crack fissuring across the tiles, its path dark and jagged like a bolt of black lightning. Torches along the walls flickered uncertainly, their flames dimming, casting shadows that danced and grew in the sudden chill. A heavy, oppressive energy seemed to pulse ominously through the air, as if the very foundations of Mount Othrys were groaning under an invisible weight.
And Father—Father was changing.
Time crawled after that. Minutes stretched into eternities. We listened to murmured voices beyond the door, to the muffled cries—first Rhea's, then the newborn's. The air grew warmer, then colder, then still.
At last, the doors opened.
Cronus stepped out, shoulders drawn tight but head held high. His arms cradled a swaddled infant against his chest.
Last time he held a child—when I was born—his smile radiated warmth and triumph.
Now his smile faltered. Uncertainty flickered at the edges and shook my sense of safety.
"We have been blessed once more," he said. His voice was steady, but something brittle laced through it. "Come. Meet your brother."
We followed him in.
Rhea reclined on silken cushions, attendants nearby—Clymene brushing her hair, Themis cooling her brow with a breeze of divine balance. Even exhausted, Rhea looked radiant: brown skin gleaming, curls haloed. Her eyes found mine first, soft with love, though tension lingered beneath her smile.
Cronus lifted the infant so we could see.
"Your brother," he said, "Poseidon."
Warm bronze skin. Dark, wavy hair. The scent of brine and storms clung to him, hinting at the fierce power of the seas.
Demeter gasped and cooed, reaching for his tiny hand. Hera giggled, the sound bright and pure. Hestia smiled too, but her brow creased, eyes flicking to Cronus the same way mine did.
My fingers tightened involuntarily at my sides. Cronus said something—words of pride or unity, I think—but my heart pounded, drowning out all sound as dread swept away any sense of comfort. "Do you think he'll be more like father or mother?" Hera asked, her voice cutting through the haze of my thoughts. Her curiosity seemed almost mundane in comparison to the string of ethereal threats.
Because the whispers returned.
Kill them!
These cursed brats that will one day kill you just as you killed your father! Eat their flesh, consume them, and save yourself from that prophecy.
What if my brother grows stronger, enough to challenge Father's rule? Why should you let them live?
My breath caught as I stared at Cronus.
A terrible certainty settled in my bones, prophecy forming.
I didn't know how long we had, but soon Father would snap—and we would be eaten.
🙛🙚🙛🙚🙛🙚🙘🙙🙘🙙🙘🙙
I walked the halls of Mount Othrys, my thoughts unfocused as I headed to where my wife, Rhea, was giving birth to my fifth child. Before long, I found myself clutching my new son Poseidon lightly in my arms, feeling his small heartbeat thrumming against mine, and yet, I cannot shake the shadows that cling to the edges of my mind.
It begins again—the whispers. Soft at first, teasing. Then, sharp, cruel, and jagged like splintered steel against bone. They crawl into my ears. Into my thoughts.
"You cannot protect them all."
"They are weak. They will betray you."
"Devour them now. Eat them. Save yourself."
I grit my teeth. The voices of fate, or perhaps the remnants of my own fear, claw at me. Father's curse. That fool of a man's spite, as if it were a living thing, planted in my soul the moment I dared touch his throne. The memory of Uranus—his disdain, his cold body, vanishing as I cast him down—has never left me. And now, centuries later, the memory has grown into a shadow that drags at the edges of my mind.
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes. I focus on Poseidon's innocent form, his tiny hands curled against my chest. His eyes, wide and unknowing, are like oceans before the storm. That is what I must hold to. That is what I must protect. No matter the whispers or the curse, I must withstand the chaos clawing at my sanity.
I remember.
The world began with Chaos, a dark infinite void birthing everything yet nothing. From this abyss came Gaea and Uranus, my mother and father, their love flawed by eternal hands. Under their dominion, as primordial forces gave way to new existence, Uranus, arrogant and merciless, claimed the universe's kingship, deeming my early siblings unworthy, casting them into Tartarus as one would bury seeds under earth. In this cruel shadow, we Titans emerged, entrusted by Gaea with the task to reshape the world. She revealed the truth of our bound siblings and the cruelty of Uranus. With a blade forged from metals unclaimed by the cosmos, kissed with lightning and blood, she commanded me to reclaim our birthright.
I remember staring at the blade, the weight of destiny heavy on my shoulders. None of my siblings stepped forward. They feared the act. They feared Uranus' wrath. They feared what might come of them. I—youngest, smallest, underestimated—stepped forward. I would do it. I would end him, not just to free my siblings, but to prove that even the smallest hand could wield fate itself.
When Uranus came to us, as radiant and cruel as the sun, we held him down. The blade in my hands was a promise, a curse, and a hammer of justice. I severed him. I spoke the words as I drove the steel through his essence: never again shall you set foot on this earth. His voice was thunder, but it vanished. The body followed, fading, scattered, leaving nothing but the echo of eternity behind. Yet, as the echoes faded, one question lingered—had Uranus truly vanished, or did some part of him remain, waiting in the shadows to reclaim what was lost? The curse? I forgot it in the rush of triumph, but the unease of unfinished business clung to my steps.
I married Rhea. I bore children. The first… Hestia, radiant, fiery, full of life. Then me, Hades—dark, sharp, clever, even as a child. The Creator's plans had always been… inscrutable, and I felt Ananke's gaze upon him, heavy with purpose I could not name. My second-born carried a shadow even at birth, a mind that questioned, calculated, and observed.
And then the next daughters—Demeter, Hera—perfect, beautiful, safe in the warmth of Rhea's arms. I should have felt relief. I should have rested. But the whispers began.
"Kill them before they kill you."
"They will betray your bloodline. Feed on them. End them."
"You are weak. You are doomed."
I clenched my jaw, gritting my teeth until my gums ached. The voices were everywhere, now. They slithered under my skin, lodged in the marrow of my bones, coiling into the spaces where my mind met my will. They whispered secrets of the cosmos and lies indistinguishable from truth. They told me my children were already lost, and that to save myself, I would have to consume them. They spoke of betrayal, of annihilation, of the prophecy that I would fall by my own son's hand. And with every breath, the sound of it grew louder.
I threw myself against the wall.
"You cannot endure. You will fail."
No. I would not fail.
I looked at the children. Hestia sat at her Mother's side, clasping Demeter's hand. My eyes fell to Hades. And I noticed that look —the one he got when he noticed something his sisters didn't. But the way he looked at me, as if he knew exactly what was wrong with me, made me fear that he could hear the voices.... No, there was no way that he could. I must be out of my mind.
"Feed on them, Cronus."
I shook my head, blood rushing in my ears. I spat. "I… will not," I growled. My voice sounded like the breaking of stone. "I… will not."
"The prophecy comes for you. You are already cursed. Your blood is death."
I could feel it—the pull of inevitability, the shadow pressing at my mind. I had built my life on strength, on defiance, on willpower. Could I resist the abyss itself?
I gripped Poseidon tighter. His small body quivered in my arms, and for a heartbeat, I let myself imagine what if I did not resist? The salty tang of the sea drifted from him, mingling with the warmth that radiated like youth's promise. The idea of succumbing teased my senses, offering a taste of forbidden power like the heady rush before a storm. What if I succumbed?
The horror, the terror, the voices—they were intoxicating. They promised release, power, safety. And yet, I would not.
I am Cronus. King of Titans. Father of the gods.
I would endure.
I turned to Rhea. She looked at me, eyes wide, fear and love colliding in a storm of emotion. "Do you… Do you hear it?" she asked softly.
I nodded. "Every word. Every lie. Every promise of ruin. But I… will not listen. Not to them. Not to anything that tells me to betray you. Or the children."
She reached for my hand. The touch grounded me, the warmth of her flesh and the life she bore bringing clarity. "Then hold fast, my lord. For their sake. And for yours."
I glanced at Hades. That boy, my second-born, would not be content to simply observe. His mind, already sharp and dark as obsidian, would pierce deeper than even the most patient of Titans. A thought crept in, one that Hades might soon act on, crafting a plan, unseen and unfurling like the tendrils of darkness he often pondered on. Perhaps it would be his insight and stealth, those hidden strengths, that could shift the balance of future conflicts.
Rhea's voice broke through my thoughts. "Cronus," she said, her tone gentle but edged with worry, "are you alright?"
I turned to her, my expression softening. She had noticed the tension in my posture, the momentary lapse of focus. "I am fine," I replied, forcing a small smile. "Sometimes the shadows linger longer than I'd like."
Her brow furrowed slightly, and she gave my hand a reassuring squeeze.
And yet, even as I thought it, the shadows stirred again. Whispers returned, clawing with promises of chaos.
"Soon… very soon… You will fail, Cronus. You cannot protect them all. You are already broken."
I tightened my grip on Poseidon. And I swore, beneath the watchful eyes of the mother who had borne us, beneath the newborn's innocent gaze, beneath the universe itself—
I would not fail.
But how long can resolve outpace fate?