The night after the battle hung heavy and breathless.
Ash drifted across the silent field where Theron's monstrous body had fallen, its embers dimming into the soil.
The others slept close to the dying campfire, but Dion sat apart, his gaze lost in the flame. The heat kissed his face, yet his hands felt cold.
Why did it feel so familiar?
Every strike, every roar … like I'd lived that pain before.
I could feel the hatred in Theron's eyes — and the loneliness beneath it.
He rubbed his palm against his knee, trying to shake the tremor.
"I tried to save him," he whispered, "but maybe he was never meant to be saved."
Across the fire, Lykos pretended to be tightening his sword strap, though his eyes never left Dion.
There was something in his friend now — a depth, a sorrow that didn't belong to any ordinary man.
He fights like he remembers battles the rest of us never lived, Lykos thought. Who are you, really?
Selina murmured in her sleep, rolling closer to the warmth. The crackling fire answered her with soft pops.
⸻
The Weight of Gods
Morning came pale and quiet.
They reached a nearby settlement still trembling from the echoes of divine chaos. Roofs had collapsed; villagers whispered prayers to empty skies.
When they saw Dion, their faces lit with reverence and fear.
He smiled, helped rebuild a wall, lifted broken beams as if they were twigs.
Children giggled as he hoisted them to safety, their laughter briefly drowning the dread.
But behind that gentle smile, his thoughts swirled dark.
If Zeus has fallen … if the king of gods himself is possessed … what happens to them?
Do I tell them? Do I crush what little hope they have left?
Damn it, no. Maybe silence is mercy.
Later, when the crowd had gone, he stood with Lykos near a crumbled shrine.
"Lykos," Dion said quietly, "what would you do if the god you prayed to turned into a monster?"
Lykos looked at the cracked statue of Zeus, its face eroded. "I'd keep believing in the good he once stood for. Even if he fell, the idea of him might still save people."
Dion exhaled. "Maybe. But if they find out the truth … they'll lose faith in everything."
Even in me.
"Maybe faith's not meant to be safe," Lykos replied. "Maybe it's supposed to break, so we can build something better."
For a long time, neither spoke. The wind carried the faint chime of bells — the sound of villagers praying to a god who no longer listened.
⸻
Lykos's Resolve
That night, while the others slept, Lykos slipped away.
The questions that haunted him were louder than his heartbeat.
He knew about Zeus before I told him anything.
He fights like someone who's done it a thousand times.
And when he talks about pain … it's like he's lived centuries of it.
He carried a torch into the ruins at the village's edge — a half-buried temple whispered to have once stored divine records.
Dust clung to every step he took down the spiral path. Water dripped somewhere in the dark, steady as a heartbeat.
The chamber opened into an ancient library, its walls cracked and lined with decaying scrolls. Statues of forgotten heroes leaned broken against the pillars.
He trailed his fingers along faded engravings — stories of mortals rising, punished by jealous gods, reborn through divine fire.
Then something caught his eye: a mural, almost whole.
It depicted a lone man standing before Olympus itself, his sword raised against thunder.
The name carved beneath it glowed faintly in the torchlight:
HERAKLEION.
Lykos's breath caught.
The likeness was undeniable — those eyes, the set of the jaw — it was Dion.
"No …" he whispered. He stepped closer, brushing off centuries of dust.
Beneath the name was another inscription, smaller, almost hidden:
When wrath is reborn in mortal flesh, the heavens shall tremble anew.
"Reborn …?" Lykos muttered. His pulse hammered in his ears.
The air shifted.
A low whisper crawled along the stones.
He has returned.
The chained soul walks again.
The torch flickered violently, casting the shadow of the mural across the floor — and in that moment, it looked alive. The carved eyes glowed faintly, golden for an instant, as if the stone itself breathed.
Lykos stumbled backward. "Who's there?"
The whisper faded, leaving only the echo of his own breath.
He stared at the mural again — and though the light dimmed, he could still feel the gaze of the stone warrior upon him.
⸻
The Memory of Pain
As he left the ruins, flashes of his own childhood returned unbidden.
The nights he spent studying old myths under candlelight. The day his village was burned by men who claimed divine command.
His father had knelt before the flames, whispering that the gods would protect them — but no lightning came, no miracle.
That was the day Lykos vowed to learn everything about them — to find truth, not faith.
Maybe that's why I see something in Dion … the same silence I saw in myself when the world stopped believing.
He clenched his fist. I need to know who he really is.
He returned just before dawn. The river shimmered beneath the first light, and there, by the bank, stood Dion and Selina.
They laughed softly as they washed the soot from their hands, their faces illuminated by the sunrise.
For a moment, Lykos hesitated.
It was an ordinary scene — friends surviving another day — yet his chest tightened.
Could a god laugh like that?
Could a mortal carry such weight and still smile?
He stepped closer, his voice almost a whisper. "Dion …"
The name trembled from his lips, half-plea, half-fear.
He wanted to ask — to demand the truth — but the words froze.
Then thunder cracked across a cloudless sky.
The earth shuddered underfoot, and for an instant the sunlight bent strangely around Dion. A faint golden shimmer flared behind his eyes — there, then gone.
Lykos froze.
The mural's prophecy echoed in his head.
When wrath is reborn in mortal flesh …
His heart raced.
He looked at Dion, who was still smiling faintly, unaware.
You're not just some wanderer the gods forgot.
You're the echo of something divine — something broken and reborn.
He took a slow step backward, his breath trembling.
"Who are you, really?" he whispered.
No answer came — only the distant rumble of thunder rolling through a clear morning sky.
The wind tore through the trees, blowing out the campfire. Darkness swept the edges of dawn, and for a heartbeat, Lykos swore he saw the outline of Heracles himself standing in Dion's place.
He blinked — and it was gone.
But the truth was already burning in his chest.
He's back.
The world just doesn't know it yet.
The thunder echoed one last time — loud, divine, final.