Chapter 7: The Last Battle
Percy PoV: The Blood of the Sea
It all started with a nosebleed.
Of course, I had to be the one to kick off the apocalypse. One drop of blood. Just one. It hit the ground, and the world shook like I'd punched the universe in the face. My rotten luck at its finest.
I could feel the pulse of energy beneath my feet, the ground rumbling as something ancient—something terrifying—stirred deep within the earth. Gaia. She was waking up. And the worst part? I didn't even feel surprised. Annoyed, yes. Panicked? Absolutely. But surprised? No. Of course it would be my blood that finally summoned the primordial of the earth, ready to tear everything apart.
I wiped at my nose, staring at the small red stain on my hand. "Seriously?" I muttered under my breath. "A nosebleed?"
But my annoyance was short-lived because even though Gaia was stirring, even though the earth itself seemed ready to split apart beneath us, my attention was focused elsewhere—on him.
Looking at Thoon, I was yanked back to my dreams. My nightmares. His aura... it was like being pulled toward the Sea of Chaos again, an unrelenting force that craved me as much as I craved it. There was something in his power that whispered to me, like it was part of my destiny. Which is ironic, considering I was pretty sure he was the anti-Fates.
I could feel it. The way he warped the very air around him, turning certainty into uncertainty. It wasn't chaos—not really. It was like a sloppy attempt at randomness, at breaking necessity. But the thing is, anyone who's ever tried to act randomly realizes it's impossible. Your brain isn't wired that way. Patterns always form.
And that's what I felt. The patterns. Twisting, shifting, almost impossible to pin down, but still there, just beneath the surface. Uncertainty, but with a structure. I blinked, my thoughts racing. Wait... what was I thinking? How did I even know—
Trumpets sounded.
The ground shook harder beneath my feet, and I felt the surge of power ripple through the air as Gaia began to rise. Olympus was coming. The gods were riding to war.
Jason PoV: Heir to the Sky
The skies darkened, thick clouds rolling in like a wave of doom. I felt it—like the world itself was holding its breath. The air crackled, sharp and electric, and my pulse quickened. My father was coming.
I glanced up just as the storm began to twist, the clouds forming a massive, spiraling vortex, a storm no mortal hand could have conjured. A chariot, gold and blinding, ripped through the heart of the tempest, glowing like a second sun. It was pulled by the Four Wind Gods, their forms now majestic horses, their manes billowing like streams of wind itself, their hooves barely touching the air as they hurtled forward, unstoppable.
A surge of awe struck me like lightning. My father had chained the Four Winds, bound them to his will like nothing more than wild beasts tamed at his command. I had fought storm spirits, struggled to control the air itself, but Zeus? He had wrapped the very forces of nature in chains, mastering them with ease. His power wasn't something you used. It was something that ruled you, a force so ancient and vast it made my skin tingle with realization—this was the true god of the skies.
At the reins, Nike had abandoned the Argo II without hesitation. Her face was fierce, her presence an embodiment of victory itself as she rode alongside my father. But she was a shadow next to him.
Lightning crackled wildly around Zeus, not like an attack but an extension of his being, flashing out in furious arcs. And in his hand, glowing with the brilliance of the storm itself, was the Master Bolt—the most powerful weapon in existence, the symbol of his supremacy. It didn't just flash with power; it roared, alive with the energy of the cosmos, each bolt like the voice of the heavens speaking through him.
His form was cast in brilliant light, and for the first time, I saw him as something more than just the king of the gods. He looked like something older. More powerful. As if the sky itself had chosen him as its rightful heir, the very essence of Ouranos reborn in flesh.
The chariot dropped from the sky with a thunderous roar that rattled the ground beneath my feet. Every gust of wind, every crack of lightning—it was Zeus, radiating power so intense it made the air hum. This wasn't just a show of force—it was a warning to the universe.
He had come, and nothing would stand in his way. Olympus was riding to war.
The Lord of the Dead Rides Forth:
The ground groaned beneath them, splitting open like a festering wound. A deep, primal growl rumbled from the abyss, and then, with a violent shudder, a chariot of bone erupted from the earth, ancient and cracked but radiating raw power. Cerberus, the massive three-headed beast, pulled it, each head snarling and snapping, their eyes glowing with an otherworldly hunger.
Hades stood at the reins, his form towering, draped in flowing black robes that moved like living shadows. In one hand, he gripped a Stygian Iron sword, the blade darker than night, its edge seeming to drink in the light around it. And atop his head, the Helm of Darkness sat like a crown of nightmares, casting a veil of shadows that twisted and writhed in the air.
With the helm, he didn't simply command fear—he became it. Shadows rippled from him like waves, and the ground beneath his chariot blackened, wilting as though death itself rode with him. That's because it was, Thanatos, unchained and wrathful rode beside Hades, upon a horse of bone and sinew. The cold wasn't just a chill in the air—it crawled into your bones, sank into your chest, a suffocating weight.
Hades didn't need to speak. The earth trembled at his presence, and the living instinctively shrank back, terror taking root. Every breath felt heavier, every heartbeat louder, as if the Underworld had risen to the surface.
He didn't wield lightning-like his brother. He wielded the abyss of darkness, an endless, devouring void that drained the courage from even the bravest souls. With each step of his chariot, the air thickened with the stench of decay, and fear rippled through the battlefield.
Hades had arrived, and with him came the inevitability of death, pressing down like a suffocating shroud. The living quivered, their knees buckling under the sheer presence of the Lord of the Dead.
And with him came the armies of the dead, in there thousands and tens of thousands.
Lord of the Seven:
Behind Zeus, the skies twisted and churned as if the very heavens recoiled from what was coming. Poseidon's chariot surged from the horizon, its silver gleam cutting through the darkening storm like a blade through a heart. Seashells, shimmering like forgotten treasures from the ocean's depths, adorned the vessel, catching flashes of lightning as they raced forward. At the helm, Lord Pegasus soared, his vast wings beating with the force of a gale, every stroke carving through the violent winds. Beside him, Arion, the swift immortal stallion, galloped through the sky as though the storm itself had been bound to his hooves, he galloped through the very air, propelling them ever forward.
A hush fell over the battlefield. The stillness was palpable, like standing on the shore as the ocean pulls back, the tides receding with a terrible promise. The air felt thick, charged with the weight of something ancient and unstoppable. It was the eye of the hurricane—the suffocating calm before the world was torn apart. Every breath caught in throats, every movement stilled, as though nature itself awaited what was coming. The seas themselves seemed to hold back, gathering their fury for what was about to be unleashed.
Then the ground quaked, trembling as though trying to flee from the power that approached. The earth groaned beneath Poseidon's wrath, and with him came the storm—winds howling like the cries of a thousand souls, the sky blackened by the swirling hurricane that followed in his wake. Saltwater crashed down from nowhere, sheets of it whipping across the battlefield, as if Poseidon had summoned the very ocean to ride beside him.
Poseidon's chariot cut through the chaos, and his presence hit like a tidal wave. His hair, black as the abyss, whipped in the storm's fury, framing his face like the shadows of a tempest. His sea-green eyes glowed with an untamed power, more furious and more ancient than any storm ever witnessed. It was as if he had risen from the very depths of the ocean, bringing with him the full force of its unstoppable might.
And in his hand, he held not just a trident—but the trident. The first ever forged, a weapon imbued with the primal power of the sea. It didn't just hum—it thrummed with the heartbeat of the oceans, vibrating with the unstoppable force of the seven seas. It was the ocean's fury, the crushing depths of the abyss, the relentlessness of the tides—everything that made the sea both a giver of life and a bringer of death was contained within those three gleaming prongs. In his grip, the trident held the power to drown empires, to raise mountains from the depths, and to crush anything foolish enough to stand in its way.
The earth buckled beneath him, the ground trembling as if the planet itself feared the touch of its master. Poseidon was not just a god of the sea—he was the heir of Pontus and Thalassa, the primordial forces of the oceans, the raw embodiment of ancient power that ruled long before Olympus. His dominion was not confined to the waters alone—it was woven into the very fabric of the earth.
As Poseidon's chariot surged closer, the tension was unbearable. It was like standing in the path of an oncoming tsunami, knowing there was no escape. The Earthshaker had arrived, and with him came the inevitable destruction that follows when the seas rise and the earth quakes. The storm was no longer a threat—it was a promise. The fury of the ocean was here, and nothing would withstand it.
Hope Given, Hope Taken:
A fireball shot down from the heavens, a blazing comet tearing through the sky, crashing into the earth with a force that cracked the ground wide open. The battlefield trembled under the impact, dust and debris scattering as a wave of heat washed over everything. The giants flinched, their towering forms visibly recoiling as the fire spread. But the worst was yet to come.
Something invisible, something much worse than the heat, rippled out from the point of impact. The giants, so sure of their victory moments ago, stumbled, their eyes flickering with confusion. Their movements slowed, like something essential had been ripped from them. Hope drained from their faces. Their eyes darted around, searching for an answer they couldn't find. A piece of their soul, something fundamental to existence as a sentient creature was just ripped violently from them.
In the hearts of the demigods, a spark ignited. Where doubt had been creeping in, there was now only the steady flame of belief. Their breaths came easier, their grips tightened on their weapons. The despair that had clawed at them seconds ago was gone, replaced with something burning inside them. They could win this. They had to.
At the heart of the crater, the flames stirred. Out of the searing inferno, a small figure stepped forward, her feet leaving scorched footprints in the earth. She was small—no more than a child. A girl of eight, with soft brown hair falling gently around her face, her expression calm, almost serene. But her eyes… her eyes were glowing, cinders smoldering in the depths, far too old, far too knowing for a face so young.
She raised her hand, and fire curled lazily around her fingers, moving with a life of its own, the flames casting long shadows across the battlefield. The air around her shimmered with heat, warping the space between her and everything else, making it hard to breathe, hard to focus. The ground beneath her glowed, the grass and dirt smoldering under her feet, as though the earth itself couldn't withstand her presence.
The giants, who had towered over the battlefield just moments ago, seemed smaller now, shrinking back. Their confidence faltered as they locked eyes with the girl—no, not a girl. Something much older, much more dangerous. They couldn't understand it, but they could feel it. They could feel her.
Her hands, still wreathed in fire, twitched, and the flames leapt higher, licking at the air with an unquenchable hunger. The demigods could feel the heat, but none of it touched them. It wasn't for them. This fire was meant for the giants.
She walked forward, slowly, the flames trailing behind her, leaving scorched earth in her wake. Her movements were soft, almost gentle, but with each step, the giants trembled. The air around her grew hotter, denser, like standing too close to a roaring bonfire. The demigods could feel it, too—the oppressive heat, the tightening in their chests—but where they felt the warmth of hope, the giants felt nothing but the searing inevitability of destruction.
Her eyes flicked up, meeting the gaze of the nearest giant. It flinched, a tremor running through its enormous frame. There was no fury in her expression, no anger. Just a quiet, terrifying certainty. She tilted her little head as if trying to understand a very interesting ant, that had just disturbed her picnic.
The flames coiled higher, dancing around her like living creatures, casting wild, flickering shadows across her face. She didn't need to raise her voice, didn't need to make a grand display. The fire was enough. It was more than enough.
The giants, who had moments ago seemed so invincible, so powerful, now quivered under the weight of her presence. Their breaths came in ragged gasps, their knees buckling as they tried, and failed, to withstand the heat radiating from her small frame.
Hestia stood in the center of it all, her face calm, her hands aglow with fire. And in that fire, there was no warmth, no comfort. Only the promise of an all-consuming flame.
The Harvest:
Demeter arrived in a storm of earth and fury, her chariot pulled by fierce Karpoi, the spirits of grain and harvest. They swirled around her like a whirlwind of green and gold, their forms fierce and terrifying, their eyes glowing with the raw, unbridled energy of nature itself. In her hand, she wielded a massive scythe, but this wasn't a farmer's tool—it was a weapon of death, of finality. Today, she wasn't here to harvest crops. She was here to reap souls.
Her eyes blazed with cold, unrelenting power. She was the earth's vengeance, the embodiment of its cycles—life and death, creation and destruction. Demeter wielded them all with terrifying ease. As her chariot tore through the battlefield, the ground itself seemed to come alive at her command. Vines lashed out, roots strangled her enemies, and the earth quaked beneath her, bowing to her will.
Gaia may have been the primordial mother, but Demeter was the true mistress of the living earth. The plants, the crops, the bounty of the soil—they belonged to her, and she would not yield a single stalk to her grandmother's grasp. She was the master of this realm, and she would not bow. The land, loyal to its queen, twisted and coiled in defiance of Gaia's call, rising up to defend her.
With every swing of her scythe, she reclaimed her dominion. The fields, the forests, the roots of life—everything bent to her will. Gaia's forces may have held ancient power, but Demeter was the goddess of the harvest, the one who nurtured and sustained life, and nothing could escape her wrath. Nothing could stand against the fury of the harvest.
War Rides Out:
Something was coming.
At first, it was faint, a low hum, barely noticeable against the wind sweeping across the battlefield. But then, it grew—a deep, throaty rumble, like the distant roar of an approaching storm.
It was the sound of power, of violence on the horizon, and it sent a ripple of tension through demigods and giants alike. The battlefield, which had been eerily quiet, seemed to hold its breath, as if the very earth knew what was about to descend.
Then, from the distance, a roar shattered the silence. Not a shout, not a war cry—but the growl of an engine, ripping through the stillness like a blade through flesh. Heads turned, eyes wide with anticipation, as the sound grew louder, closer, until the ground itself trembled beneath it.
A motorcycle burst onto the horizon, its engine howling like a beast unleashed. Flames licked at the tires, scorching the earth as it tore across the field, leaving a charred path in its wake. At the helm, riding as if he'd been born for this moment, was Ares.
The god of war was riding to battle.
He wore a black leather jacket, a skull emblazoned across the back, its empty eye sockets burning with the promise of death. A baseball bat was slung over one shoulder, wrapped in barbed wire and dented from countless fights. At his hip, a gleaming .357 Magnum, polished and deadly, rested in its holster, the handle worn from use. Ares wasn't dressed for ancient combat—he was dressed for modern destruction, for street brawls in blood-soaked alleys. He was war, no matter the era.
The motorcycle skidded to a halt, its wheels digging into the earth, sending cracks rippling across the ground. Ares dismounted in one fluid motion, his boots hitting the ground with a thud that seemed to echo through the silence. His presence alone set the world on edge, like the stillness before the first blow in a fight, the moment when everything teeters on the brink of chaos.
The demigods watched in stunned silence, awe and unease mingling in their expressions. The battle hadn't started yet, but the promise of bloodshed hung thick in the air. With Ares here, it was only a matter of time.
Wherever he stepped, the earth darkened, and the faintest wisps of shadowy figures—souls of the defeated—rose from the ground in his wake. They clung to him, drawn to the violence he embodied, like moths to a flame. The battlefield, even before the first strike, was already his.
Ares glanced around, eyes burning with a hunger for the fight to come. His hand drifted to the handle of his gun, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He didn't need to speak—the tension in the air, the suffocating weight of impending violence, said it all. He was happier than he's ever been, he was where fate had always promised him to be. He was at War, win or lose, he would fight, he would bleed, and in the end he would destroy his enemies.
For he was war incarnate, the rage of mankind given form. And where he tread, the world would soon bleed.
American Pycho:
Hermes arrived like a blur, moving so fast it was nearly impossible to track him with the eye. One moment, the sky was clear, and the next, he was streaking through the air, faster than a gale-force wind, the shimmer of his winged sandals the only real indication he was even there.
He wasted no time on ceremony like his father and uncles. There was no grand entrance, no dramatic pause. The moment his feet touched the battlefield, he was in motion, sword already in hand. It was an ordinary sword, deceptively simple in appearance. But in his hands, it moved with deadly precision, as if it had been forged specifically for him, for this very moment. He wielded it with an ease that spoke of centuries of mastery, each slash and thrust delivered with the efficiency of a seasoned tactician.
Hermes fought with the ruthlessness of a true industrialist, cutting through giants as though they were mere obstacles in a business deal. There was no hesitation, no wasted effort—every strike was deliberate, sharp, and calculated. His movements were quicksilver, ruthless, his footwork making him untouchable. He didn't give the giants a chance to regroup or even recognize that they were under attack before he was upon them again, relentless in his pursuit of victory.
And then there was the caduceus, his staff with its twin serpents. In his left hand, it wasn't just a symbol of his trade—it was an extension of his power. The snakes writhed, striking out like lightning-fast whips, coiling and snapping at the giants with venomous precision. The staff lashed out as swiftly as his sword, a seamless blend of power and control. The serpents were more than just decoration—they became weapons themselves, biting at their enemies with lethal speed, each strike adding to the chaos Hermes orchestrated with unrelenting efficiency.
He moved with the ruthlessness of a god of business, each strike a final blow to a failing opponent, cutting down giants with the same cold detachment one might use to crush competitors. There was no room for mercy, no negotiation. The battlefield was his boardroom, and this wasn't a battle—it was a hostile takeover.
Every giant that fell at his feet was just another deal closed, another enemy eliminated, and Hermes didn't even break a sweat.
Sun of the Sky:
Apollo's arrival was nothing short of spectacular. His sun chariot cut through the sky like a streak of pure light, pulled by horses made of sunlight itself. Their radiant forms gleamed, their hooves barely touching the air as they galloped across the heavens. Even before the chariot touched down, Apollo's bow was already singing—arrows loosed in rapid succession, each one striking its target with flawless precision.
The giants, towering and brutal, were cut down one by one. Arrows pierced their massive bodies, forcing them to stumble, crash, and fall. But Apollo's deadly shots weren't enough to finish them off. Even as they collapsed, the curse of their immortality kicked in, and they began to rise again, only to be shot down once more by Apollo's merciless hand.
There was something almost casual about the way he fought. He didn't stop to wait for a demigod's aid, didn't pause to consider strategy. This was Apollo at his most showy, reveling in the glory of his own perfection. Each shot was a demonstration, a display of skill so precise it was like art. Giants would stumble to their feet, only to be struck down again by his glowing arrows, their roaring frustration turning into an almost pitiful chorus of rage as they were felled again and again.
With every arrow that left his bow, Apollo's grin grew wider. He laughed, his voice carrying across the battlefield as if he were performing for an audience. To him, this wasn't war—it was a performance. And he was its star.
His chariot soared above the battlefield, golden light casting long shadows over the chaos below, and still, he continued his deadly game. Giants, unkillable by gods alone, kept rising, their immortality a mere inconvenience to the god of the sun. They couldn't touch him. They couldn't get close, as waves of plague rippled out from his chariot, weakening any who dared approach.
Apollo's arrows shone like the sun itself, each one a beam of light that could save or destroy. Life and death in his hands, both as simple as a flick of his wrist.
But despite his brilliance, the giants wouldn't stay down forever. They needed a demigod's hand to finish them, and Apollo, though dazzling in his execution, was simply waiting for the others to join the battle. This was his stage—his shining moment—but the true end would come when the demigods fought beside the gods.
Until then, he was content to shoot them down, over and over, with the same effortless grace he always did.
Love and Hate:
Aphrodite descended from the sky like a dream given form, her chariot gliding effortlessly through the air, pulled by doves whose wings seemed to whisper against the breeze. The battlefield, a storm of chaos and violence, seemed to pause for a heartbeat as she arrived. She wasn't the soft, delicate goddess of whispered love today. She was something more—a force of nature, a warrior queen draped in beauty and power.
Her armor clung to her body like a second skin, supple leather molded to every curve with a grace that bordered on the sensual. The golden trim shimmered like molten sunlight, accentuating the soft, fluid lines of her female form. It wasn't just protective—it was elegant, as though the armor itself was crafted to highlight her beauty. Beneath it, a black silk robe flowed over her skin like liquid shadow, a striking contrast to the gleaming gold. The silk caught the breeze with a teasing ripple, as if the very air couldn't resist brushing against her. Each movement was a dance, smooth and fluid, as though the battlefield bent to her will, entranced by the goddess who embodied both beauty and desire.
The combination of the rich, dark silk and the glowing gold trim created an image of otherworldly beauty, blending the sensual with the dangerous. Every step she took, every shift of her body, was a dance between elegance and power. The battlefield seemed to pause for a moment, bending to accommodate her, enchanted by the goddess of love in her striking, lethal beauty.
In her hands, she held two daggers, their slender blades gleaming with deadly precision. They were not the weapons of a brute warrior, but the tools of someone who could make a kill feel like an art form. The way her fingers curled around the hilts, delicate but sure, made it clear she knew exactly how to wield them. These blades, like her, were beautiful, elegant, and deadly.
Aphrodite's eyes, a deep and endless sea of emotion and color, flickered across the battlefield with a knowing gaze. Her lips, curved into a smile that held the promise of both pleasure and pain, were painted a rich crimson, a color that seemed to draw the eye, inviting and dangerous all at once. She didn't charge into battle with the brutality of Ares or the thunder of Zeus. No, she moved with a subtlety that demanded attention without force. There was something hypnotic about the way she carried herself—an allure that made even the most hardened soldiers falter for a breath.
Her chariot touched down lightly, the doves landing with a grace that echoed their mistress's own. The space around her seemed to shimmer, as if reality itself softened in her presence. Her beauty, her power, it wasn't something that could be ignored, nor was it something gentle. It was raw, sensual, like the quiet moments before two lovers embrace, where the air is thick with the tension of possibility and pleasure.
Aphrodite, the embodiment of desire, had arrived. Her daggers gleamed in the light as she stood tall in her chariot, a warrior queen not of brute strength but of irresistible allure, commanding the battlefield with nothing more than her presence. The giants and demigods alike could feel it—that pull, that intoxicating mix of love and hate, so inseparable clung to her. And they all knew that to stand in her way would be to lose themselves completely.
The Queen:
Hera descended upon the battlefield like a storm made flesh, her arrival an undeniable force that gripped the very air with tension. The chariot she rode gleamed with the glow of ancient power, pulled by Ladon, the many-headed dragon whose snarls sent ripples through the earth. Each head snapped viciously, a living testament to the raw, untamed force of her will. His scales shimmered, reflecting every shade of power that coursed through her veins, a reminder that Hera was no lesser god—she was one of the original six Olympians.
Beside her stood Argos, his hundred eyes flickering like fireflies, ever watchful, ever ready to strike down any threat. His presence alone was enough to unsettle even the gods, for Hera was not simply the goddess of marriage. She was the queen—the one who bound gods and mortals alike through her sheer force of will. Today, there was no veil of civility, no veneer of diplomacy. Today, she was the enforcer of the Olympian order, the unyielding pillar of their very existence.
The battlefield itself seemed to hold its breath as her chariot approached. Ladon's many heads hissed, snapping at the air, the ground trembling beneath the weight of Hera's command. Her presence was more than just power—it was the authority of a queen who had held together the fractious, warring gods for eons. She was the peacemaker, the one who kept the Olympians from tearing each other apart, and now, she stood at the edge of chaos, prepared to do what must be done to preserve Olympus.
Her eyes, fierce and calculating, scanned the battlefield with cold precision. There was no hesitation in her gaze—only judgment. Hera's was the gaze of a queen who had seen centuries of conflict, betrayal, and bloodshed, and through it all, she had held Olympus together with an iron fist. She had brought peace when needed and wrath when called upon. There was no war without her hand, no unity without her voice.
Creator and Destroyer:
The ground trembled beneath an ominous, metallic pulse—something heavy, something unstoppable approaching from the distance. It wasn't the natural, chaotic power of the gods. This was something forged, something built with purpose, with precision.
Through the haze of the battlefield, a massive chariot rolled into view, pulled by three enormous automatons shaped like bulls. Their bodies, polished bronze, shimmered as they stampeded forward, their hooves pounding the earth, leaving cracks in their wake. Steam billowed from their nostrils like they were breathing fire, their red eyes glowing with a malevolent light that promised destruction.
At the helm stood Hephaestus, the god of fire and forge. His presence was overwhelming, every inch of him radiating raw, untamed power. His face was scarred and hardened by years at the forge, but his gaze burned with relentless focus. In his hand, he wielded a hammer bigger than any mortal man, a massive weapon that still radiated heat from its last touch with molten metal. Sparks flew from its edges, crackling with energy so intense it felt like it could shatter the sky with a single swing.
But it wasn't just Hephaestus that sent chills through the battlefield. It was what followed behind him—an army of automatons. Beasts made of metal, men forged from steel, creatures so intricately designed they moved with a terrifying fluidity. Each one clanked and groaned as they marched forward, their movements mechanical, yet alive in a way that made them seem almost sentient. They were machines, but they had the weight of life behind them—each step a calculated move toward inevitable destruction.
And then, the world shuddered. The battlefield itself seemed to hold its breath as something far more colossal than anything before it emerged from the horizon. The tremors grew more violent, and the source became clear—a towering figure, its bronze body gleaming in the dim light of the battlefield.
Talos.
The bronze giant stood 150 feet tall, an ancient automaton, once thought lost to time, now resurrected for war. The sound of its footsteps was a crushing, rhythmic thud that made the ground ripple like water. It held a 30-foot sword in one hand, a weapon that could cleave through armies, while a shield the size of a bus was strapped to its other arm, glinting menacingly as it moved. Each step was calculated, the ground buckling under its sheer weight as it led the charge.
But it wasn't alone.
At its feet, the Cyclopi of Poseidon marched, fierce and unrelenting, each one wielding hammers and weapons forged from the heart of the earth itself. They moved with purpose, their eyes gleaming with the same fire that burned within Hephaestus. Leading them was Tyson, Percy's brother, his hulking form a testament to the strength of the Cyclopi race.
And alongside them, nature itself rose to fight. Grover, the new lord of the wild, led an army of nature spirits, their forms shimmering with life and energy. His horns gleamed under the dull light, his eyes locked forward with unyielding determination as he commanded the spirits of the earth to join the battle.
The entire battlefield seemed to shrink under the weight of what was coming. Talos, the vanguard of Olympus's army, was not just a weapon—it was a living embodiment of destruction, a machine born from Hephaestus's genius. Its sword glinted in the low light, ready to strike down anything in its path, while its shield moved with deadly precision, prepared to deflect any attack.
Olympus wasn't just sending its gods to war. It was unleashing its creations, its monsters, the very forces that had once guarded the world itself. And at the head of it all stood Hephaestus's greatest creation—the lord of machines, Talos, leading the charge into the heart of battle.
Goddess of War:
Athena descended like a storm, her chariot crashing through the sky, cutting through the battlefield with the same precision and fury that she had brought to every war since the dawn of time. Her fierce grey eyes gleamed with an intensity that sent a shiver through the bones of her enemies, eyes as beautiful as they were cruel. Her raven black hair whipped behind her like a banner of war, and the wind seemed to bend to her will, a force of nature that heralded the goddess of battle.
In her grip, her spear pulsed with deadly purpose, every inch of it a promise of destruction. The Aegis, her shield, was not merely a defense—it was a symbol of terror, adorned with the head of Medusa, its gaze ready to petrify even the bravest of warriors. This was Athena in her truest form, not the calm, wise goddess of counsel, but the raw, ruthless embodiment of war itself. Her presence was overwhelming, a tidal wave of power and cruelty. Every step her chariot took felt like an assault on one's sense, a reminder that she was not just a goddess of wisdom, but of blood and battle.
But she did not come alone.
Riding beside her were legends—heroes pulled from the underworld, called to fight one last time under her command. At her side were Hector and Achilles, their rivalry buried under the weight of Athena's will. Hector, the stalwart defender of Troy, stood tall and unyielding, his armor battered from countless battles, yet gleaming in defiance. Achilles, the unstoppable fury of Greece, was a living weapon, his golden hair catching the light, his spear eager for blood. The two, once enemies bound by fate and tragedy, now rode as one under Athena's banner, their presence adding to the overwhelming might that she brought to the battlefield.
The ground trembled as Athena's chariot roared forward, each turn of the wheels tearing through the earth like the stroke of a blade. The giants, who had once laughed at the Olympians' fall, now hesitated, their hulking forms faltering under the sheer weight of the goddess's arrival. This wasn't just a battle; it was a reckoning. They were not just facing a goddess—they were facing the full, brutal history of every war fought in her name.
Athena's gaze burned like fire, her focus absolute, her spear poised to strike. She embodied war's cruelty, the unyielding logic of sacrifice and bloodshed. There was no mercy in her eyes, only the cold, calculated need for victory. And with Hector and Achilles flanking her, the greatest heroes of old, it was clear that this battle would be etched into the legends of eternity.
The battlefield groaned under the weight of her presence, the earth itself seemingly cowed by her will. Athena was not here to negotiate. She was here to remind the world what it meant to face the unrelenting force of a goddess of war, to feel the sharp edge of wisdom wielded with deadly precision. The giants, towering and monstrous, were nothing before her—a mere obstacle to be crushed beneath her might.
With the heroes of old at her side and her spear raised high, Athena—the war goddess—had come to wage her final judgment.
Lord of Madness and Broken Son:
The moment I stepped onto the battlefield, a surge of raw, untamed power shot through me like an intoxicating flood of wine, setting my blood aflame. Madness. Pure, unfiltered madness. The kind I had kept locked away for centuries, bottled up so tightly even I had forgotten the depths of it. But Zeus, in his infinite wisdom, had lifted the drinking ban. Ordered me—commanded me—to indulge more than I ever had before. An order from my king. My father. And with that command, the gates had burst wide open.
Now, juiced up beyond anything I had felt in millennia, the madness roared to life. It clawed at me, twisted around my thoughts, and surged through my veins like a tempest. I let out a laugh—wild, untamed, the kind of sound that could rip apart the world. The kind of laugh that spoke of destruction.
"This is why I don't take this aspect often," I thought—or at least I thought I was thinking it. But no, the words were out of my mouth, echoing across the battlefield, my voice loud and manic. The madness had already torn through any restraints I had left, and I wasn't just talking to myself anymore. I was announcing my insanity to the world.
Gaia. The primordial goddess. She was here, and I, Dionysus, god of wine and madness, was throwing my weight into the fray. The earth beneath my feet trembled with her power, but I wasn't afraid. No, the irony hit me harder than any of this—the irony that we, she and I, weren't all that different.
I laughed again, louder this time, as if the battlefield itself was in on the joke. "We want the same thing, Gaia!" I howled, feeling the weight of my own madness sink deeper into my bones. "We are so close to each other, so aligned. Both gods of nature. Both once friends of Pan." My voice grew darker, more manic, as I spoke into the chaos. "But here we are, locked in this battle. And to the victor... goes the ashes."
Another burst of laughter ripped through me, more savage than the last, reverberating across the battlefield. The sound seemed to shatter reality itself, blending with the distant screams and battle cries, creating a symphony of destruction. I was a god unbound, an avatar of unchained chaos. The battlefield felt alive beneath my feet, writhing with madness, feeding on the frenzy I was unleashing.
I could feel it—the madness creeping into every thought, every movement. I wasn't just on the edge anymore—I was over it, deep into the abyss. And it felt good. Gods, it felt good to let go. No control. No restraint. Just the raw, unfiltered power of the madness that lurked within me, threatening to consume everything in its path.
And still, I laughed. I couldn't stop. How could I? It was all so damn funny. Here I was, at my most dangerous, my mind teetering on the brink of total insanity—and yet, for the first time in what felt like forever, Olympus needed me. Father needed me. For the first time, Gaia herself had taken the field, and only our best could do.
And wasn't that just the best part? I was the best.
Daughter of Night:
Hecate's arrival was a rupture in reality itself. A shockwave of raw, ancient power ripped through the battlefield, tearing the air apart with blue flames that seared like the breath of a dying star. The darkness that followed wasn't simply the absence of light—it was a suffocating force, thick and alive, pressing down like the weight of the universe itself. This was no mere nightfall; it was as if Nyx, the primordial embodiment of night, had taken sides in this war. The sky convulsed, swallowing the stars whole, the moon dimming as if cowering before the presence of something far older and more dangerous than any god.
The battlefield writhed under the weight of this darkness—alive, feral. It was not just shadows stretching—it was the raw, unfiltered power of night unleashed. The suffocating blackness clung to the skin, wormed its way into every breath, every thought. It wasn't just that Nyx had given her blessing—it felt as though she was here, a looming, silent force behind her daughter, bending the very laws of the cosmos in Hecate's favor.
Her chariot, a menacing contraption, was pulled by horses born from the same stock as her mother's—flesh-eating beasts with eyes like molten coals. Their snarls echoed across the battlefield, the ground scorching under their hooves as they tore through the earth with feral hunger. Smoke billowed from their nostrils, filling the air with the stench of sulfur, their jagged teeth flashing as if eager for the taste of blood and bone.
Hecate herself was a vision of terror, her form flickering between shadow and blue flame, as though she were both present and not, a part of the darkness itself. Her eyes, twin infernos of arcane fire, burned with unbridled power. Her robes clung to her as if they too were woven from the night, whipping around her in an unnatural wind, alive with dark magic. The staff she held crackled with energy, tendrils of shadow and flame swirling around it, hissing like serpents poised to strike.
The battlefield buckled under her, reality itself trembling at the force of her arrival. The earth smoldered where her chariot passed, cracks forming in the dirt as her magic seeped into the ground. Demigods and giants alike shuddered, feeling the weight of her presence pressing down on their very souls. Her aura was a suffocating force, pulling at the edges of their minds, whispering ancient, forbidden things that chilled them to their core.
It was as if she carried the very essence of night with her, a reminder that darkness is not just the absence of light, but a force unto itself—a force capable of swallowing everything whole.
The air was thick with dread, the giants hesitating as if sensing the shift, the demigods clutching their weapons tighter. This was no ordinary goddess. This was the daughter of night, a force older than civilization itself. The darkness didn't just obscure sight—it strangled hope. It felt as if the battlefield itself was collapsing under the weight of something that should never have been unleashed.
Nyx's silent presence seeped into every crack, every breath, as if the primordial herself had taken a side in this war, and the heavens trembled in response. The night had come, and with it, a reckoning.
The battlefield seemed to shift in Hecate's presence, the balance tipping dangerously, as though even the cosmos recognized that the goddess of witchcraft had come to play her hand.
Percy's POV: The Moon's Muse ~
The battlefield was a nightmare.
Hecate's arrival had torn through reality like a rip in the fabric of the world. Blue flames blazed through the air, casting an eerie glow over the scene, but the real power came from the darkness that followed. It wasn't the gentle fall of night; this was something alive, thick, and suffocating—yet somehow, it wasn't crushing me. Where others seemed weighed down by its presence, I felt something different. The darkness felt like it was wrapping itself around me, not to suffocate but to protect, like a heavy blanket shielding me from the worst of what was happening. It wasn't just nightfall—it was something else, something intentional. And for a fleeting moment, I wondered if Nyx herself was behind it, her presence lingering over me like a shadow that wasn't there to harm but to guard.
The darkness clung to the battlefield, alive, almost feral, swirling with the raw, ancient power Hecate had brought with her. But I pushed the thought of Nyx aside because something else had taken my breath away.
It was Artemis.
Even with chaos all around us—the earth buckling under the weight of the gods, the demigods readying for battle, and giants towering on the horizon—I couldn't tear my eyes away from her. She arrived like a streak of moonlight in the darkness, her chariot pulled by deer, led by the Ceryneian Hind, its golden form gliding through the blackness like a beam of pure light. Her presence was overwhelming, her beauty raw and untamed, something that wasn't just seen but felt deep in your bones.
Her silver eyes pierced the gloom, sharp and cold as they scanned the battlefield, yet beautiful in their intensity. She wore her hunting outfit—shorts, a green T-shirt, and her signature silver parka—as if she hadn't changed at all since we last met at Delos. But now, she was no mere goddess on an island—she was the Hunt incarnate, wild and fierce. Arrows flew from her bow faster than the eye could follow, striking true with every shot, and with each pull of the string, she was a force of nature unleashed.
I couldn't help but catch my breath. Everything about her commanded attention, demanded respect. Wolves howled in the distance, their calls growing louder as they answered her summons. The predators of the world were converging upon Greece, upon Athens, following their goddess into battle.
And then, in the midst of the darkness, in the chaos of the battlefield, her eyes found mine.
For a moment, everything else fell away. The battle, the war, even the strange protection I felt from the darkness around me—all of it disappeared, leaving just her and me. Her silver eyes softened for a fraction of a second, and my heart skipped a beat. There was something in that look, something unspoken between us that hung in the air, a connection that had nothing to do with the battle. It was just... us.
The shadows still loomed, the air heavy with the presence of gods and giants alike. But in that moment, all I could feel was the quiet pull between me and Artemis. The battlefield was a world away, and I couldn't tear my gaze from hers. She was the Hunt, the Moon, and everything wild that the night held. And somehow, amidst all this chaos, she had come straight toward me.
Her chariot surged forward, her arrows flying, and the wildness of the hunt descended upon Athens. But no matter how intense the battle became, no matter how loud the clash of weapons or the roars of the giants, I couldn't shake the feeling that, somehow, we were meant to... but then my mind cleared and the battle returned to focus. Looking around, I couldn't help but pity the Giants and Gaia.
For the old gods had come home, and I had a feeling everything was about to change.
Athena PoV:
We arrived just in time. The giants, in their arrogance, have finally declared their intent. War is here, and now we get to end these pathetic excuses for replacements. Our so-called banes—what a joke. Some even dare to think they can claim us goddesses, as if we're trophies to be won. They'll learn the truth soon enough. We are not the fledgling gods we once were. We're ancient, entrenched, and our power has only grown sharper with time.
The real threat is the Earth Mother, now that she's awake. But my father and uncles should be able to handle her. Together, they should be more than a match for her. And if they're not... well, that's where the fear comes in. Only the Big Three have a chance against her.
I find my daughter among the chaos. Annabeth looks up at me, eyes sharp, expecting answers. She deserves them. I haven't made her path easy—perhaps I'll make amends after this. The boy has earned my favor, and a few other rewards might just patch things up between us. She's my best, my greatest, my favorite, even if I haven't always shown it.
I lay out the plan, quick and to the point. "We cut the head off the snake before Gaia can pull herself together. We can't let her unite with the giants. They need to be taken down fast—separated, isolated, beaten before they can rally to their mother."
Annabeth's brow furrows. "Just like that? You're not even worried about them?"
I shake my head, almost amused. "They're gnats, Annabeth. They may be tall and full of bluster, but they're nothing compared to us. The only reason they're a threat is that they can't die unless one of you sends them down with us. But with us—Olympians—and the strongest demigods of this era? They're already as good as dust."
Her expression shifts, but I keep talking, my voice low. "We each face a different bane. No distractions, no egos. We can't afford even one mistake. It's cautious, maybe too much so—but I'll take caution over defeat. You know what's at stake if we fail." I don't need to spell it out for her. The shame, the indignities that would follow... it's a future too bitter to imagine. No, better to focus on what we can control—on cutting down every last one of them.
Then I see him—Percy, diving into the fray, a force of nature amid the chaos. For a moment, everything else fades away. There's something captivating about the way he moves—too skilled, too disciplined, too furious. He fights like a god of war, but not like Ares. No, Percy's rage is a controlled burn, refined into a weapon, precise and lethal. My grip tightens on my spear, my hand sliding along the shaft as if it has a mind of its own, as though my body is acting on instinct, separate from my mind's reason. He shouldn't be this good.
Riptide is a blur of bronze in his hand, each arc and thrust cutting down giants with a savage grace. Anger and amusement flicker in his sea-green eyes, like he's daring the chaos to overwhelm him, and somehow, he always wins. With a vicious swing, he severs Mimas's hand clean off, and the giant staggers back, howling in pain. But I know it will heal; it always does—unless god and demigod strike in unison. But Percy doesn't falter. He doesn't hesitate. He drives forward, heading straight for Polybotes—his father's bane.
Why does he infuriate me so? I should despise him. He is the son of my greatest rival, an upstart sea spawn who dares to think he belongs beside my daughter. I've told myself that a thousand times, clinging to logic like a shield. He isn't good enough for Annabeth—how could he be? But the thought rings hollow, brittle, crumbling under the weight of what I've seen. It shatters in my mind when I watch him fight, the way he moves—like he's part of some grand ballet, elegant and furious in equal measure. I've seen him achieve the impossible too many times. Slaying his father's old lover, Medusa, and mailing her head to Olympus as a message. Beating Ares—my brother—in single combat. And he did it using Annabeth's own advice, that strength must bow to wisdom. To my surprise, he listened. He bowed to wisdom—my wisdom—without even realizing it, like some twisted, unknowing pledge of allegiance to me.
It makes me furious. And yet... I remember the way he saved Artemis from Atlas, the way he throws himself into the fires of the world to protect those I hold dear. It's not just Annabeth he's protected, time and again—it's everything I hold sacred. Why does it bother me so much? Why does his presence on this battlefield make my chest tighten, a warning I can't quite put into words?
Poseidon is near him, swatting away monsters with barely a thought, trying to reach his son. Zeus battles nearby, hurling thunderbolts with a fury I've rarely seen. And across the battlefield, Artemis cuts her way toward Percy, her expression fiercer than I've ever seen. She's been... different, ever since he saved her. There's a softness, a vulnerability that she never showed before, even if it's buried beneath her ferocity now. I don't understand it, and it grates against everything I thought I knew. It fills me with something foreign, something hot and spiteful that twists deep in my chest.
Then, cutting through the chaos, comes a manic, chilling laugh. I turn sharply to see Dionysus, his face wild with glee as he breaks a Cyclops's mind with a mere look. Madness burns in his eyes as he sets his sights on his banes, Otis and Ephialtes. He's too far gone to stick to the plan, drunk on the bloodshed and chaos. With Father lifting his leash, there's no hope of controlling him. He is madness incarnate, unleashed.
I grit my teeth, turning to Annabeth, urgency boiling over into frustration. "Dionysus was supposed to fight my bane. We're supposed to fight his. We have to back him up. Now. With me."
She nods, understanding the urgency, and we charge. My spear tears through the air, each strike vicious and unrelenting, ripping through anything that dares stand in my way—it cannot be withstood. Annabeth's drakon-bone sword is a blur beside me, cutting down enemies like they are nothing but reeds in a field. She moves with precision, with a ferocity that burns as brightly as my own. Pride surges through me, fierce and undeniable. She is my daughter, my greatest creation.
But behind that pride, a nagging, gnawing question festers—a thought I can't quite shake. Did I lose her? Did I push her away, all because of my stubborn pride, my refusal to accept her relationship with the Sea Spawn, and my role in her descent into Tartarus? I sent her on a fool's quest, both dangerous and impossible, a decision born of a manic madness, driven by Minerva's rage. The weight of that miscalculation lingers like a shadow, even as we tear through the battlefield, even as I fight beside the daughter I might have failed.
Dionysus:
The Cyclopes are massive, towering over me, but I don't care. I haven't felt this alive in centuries. One lunges, but I sidestep easily, my body moving with a fluidity that feels almost alien after so long restrained. My hand lashes out, cracking against the other's chest with a force that sends it stumbling. Laughter bubbles up from deep within, high and wild, as I spin back to face the first.
It swings a fist the size of a boulder, but I catch its arm and pull it close, dragging it into an embrace. I feel my form swell, stretching until I meet its eye to eye, matching its monstrous size. The wine boils in my veins, thrumming with the power Father finally let me tap into. It's more intoxicating than any vintage I've ever known, raw and electric.
"Blood to wine?" I muse aloud, a manic laugh tearing from my throat at the sheer absurdity of it. My fingers dig in, feeling the pulse shift beneath my grip—thick, golden ichor thinning, darkening, transforming into something richer. The metallic tang fades, replaced by the heady, intoxicating aroma of crushed grapes. It shudders, its once-golden blood now a deep, dark red, bubbling up through parted lips like a fountain. I bare my teeth and bite down into his neck, sinking deep into the hot, pulsing flow.
The taste explodes across my senses—dense, complex, like a Château Latour, powerful and wild. Each heartbeat reveals layers of dark plum and earth, mingling with the heat of divine ichor. But there's more, a sharper edge beneath it all—a streak of vibrant acidity like an Aubert Chardonnay, cutting through the darkness with bright, electric notes of citrus and oak. Full-bodied and unrestrained, it's fire and sweetness all at once, burning down my throat and searing through my veins.
It lingers on my tongue, a rich, heady blend that imprints itself on my mind, a secret I'll savor for centuries. The last traces of its essence dissolve into golden dust beneath me, leaving a faint, honeyed sweetness on my lips. A thrill crackles through my blood, a reminder of this wild, untamed power.
The other Cyclops watches, its eye wide with terror, and I can't help but laugh again, the sound tearing through the battlefield. It tries to flee, but I'm faster. My hand snaps out, seizing its head, pulling it close until our foreheads press together. "Look into my eyes," I whisper, voice barely more than a hiss. It shudders, a low moan escaping as I rip through its mind, unraveling the threads of sanity like a tangled spool. I leave it with a gift—a potent cocktail of madness, paranoia, and delusions that would shatter even the most stable mind. I release it, shoving it toward its allies. It stumbles, eyes wild, howling as it tears into them, a drunken, mad puppet at my command.
And then I see them—my banes. Otis and Ephialtes. The sight of the giants, their faces twisted into mocking sneers, cuts through the haze of pleasure clouding my thoughts. Rage swells, untamed and blistering, blotting out everything else. I throw back my head and howl, a sound that splits the air, primal and raw. Without thinking, I hurl myself at them, every ounce of my power focused on a single, animalistic need—destruction.
Hazel PoV:
The gods' arrival slams into me like a tidal wave, the air crackling with a charge that sears my skin and rattles my bones. It's overwhelming—like standing too close to a roaring bonfire, feeling the heat threaten to consume me. But I dig my heels into the trembling ground, forcing myself to stay upright, to focus. I can't afford to get swept away by the awe of it.
Hecate emerges from the shadows, slipping into existence like a sudden gust of icy wind. Her presence bites through the chaos, her eyes sharp and distant, the cold edge of her power cutting into me. But there—beneath that distant gaze—I catch a glimmer of something warmer. It could be pride, or maybe it's just my desperation imagining things.
"Alcyoneus we shall face, child. You will have your vengeance and defeat your father's bane. For a third time, he shall taste defeat by your hands," she says, her voice hammering into me, stripped of any gentleness, raw and unrestrained. It's as if she and the other gods have cast aside all pretense, revealing the unbridled force they've kept hidden behind their facades. Is this what they really are? Power and fury, unmasked and unleashed, no longer pretending to appear human? It's terrifying, a glimpse into the primal essence beneath their polished exteriors, and it sends a shiver crawling up my spine.
After all these years the name still sends a jolt through me, and I tighten my grip on my sword, fighting the tremor in my hands. My death all those decades ago, my mothers death, Asphodel….. No concentrate Hazel!
"How can we beat him?" My voice comes out strained, barely rising above the rumble of shifting earth. "We're in the heart of the gods' kingdom!"
Her eyes narrow, her harsh words slicing through my fear. "What have I been teaching you, child? Your power is greater than you know! You are the new mistress of the maze—Daedalus's creation, reborn by your will. I could not have predicted such a thing. Ananke must favor you, child. Now concentrate—open a passage to the land beyond the gods."
Her command strikes me like a whip, the shock snapping me out of my haze. Mistress of the maze? It feels impossible, but there's no room for doubt. I see the expectation in her eyes, the command in her words, and something wild stirs inside me—something that refuses to be afraid.
I grit my teeth and plant my feet, willing my heart to slow. The ground shifts beneath me, rolling like it's waiting for me to shape it. I reach out with my mind, feeling for that familiar, elusive thread, like trying to grip smoke with my bare hands. My breath catches, fear clawing up my throat, but I shove it down, focusing on that thin, fragile thread of power.
The air around me bends, a tremor running through the earth, as if the world itself is holding its breath. The ground groans, splitting open with a sound like tearing flesh, revealing a dark spiral that reaches down into the depths. From that abyss, a door rises, ancient wood twisted and splintered, each creak and shudder like a heartbeat.
And then I feel it—the maze. Its presence rushes over me like a wave, eager and hungry, like a pet too long confined that's finally caught my scent. It purrs, a deep, resonant hum that thrums through my bones, coiling around my mind with an intoxicating warmth. It's wild, fierce, waiting for me to guide it, to command it. A smile pulls at my lips, even as the chill of terror lingers in my gut. The maze is mine, and it's ready to obey.
Cold air seeps from the dark passage, biting into my skin, leaving trails of frost where it touches. But the way is open, real by my will alone, leading into a place where gods cannot follow. I've done it—I've carved a door where there should be none, and my heart pounds with the thrill and terror of bending reality to my will.
Hecate's grip tightens on my shoulder, her fingers like shards of ice biting into my skin, seeping cold deep into my bones. Her voice is unyielding iron, sharp and unforgiving. "You must face this beast alone, Hazel Levesque. I cannot follow you through that door. My power would bleed away in that place—drain from me until I am weaker than the shadows themselves. I would become a burden, not an ally."
Her words slam into me like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs. My thoughts spiral, spinning out of control, my vision blurring around the edges as the reality of her words sinks in, deep and suffocating. "Alone?" The word scrapes out of my throat, raw with desperation. "I—I can't—what if I can't—" My voice shakes, each syllable quivering with the cold, clawing fingers of fear. Alone. She expects me to face Alcyoneus alone?
Hecate's gaze snaps to mine, sharp as the edge of a drawn blade, cutting through the fog of my panic. The air around us thickens, pressing in like a vise, squeezing my chest until my heartbeat thunders in my ears. Her eyes burn with a darkness that devours the light, ancient and merciless. It's like staring into the heart of a void where stars dare not shine, where even hope curls up and dies. Her expression is a storm—cold, unrelenting and dangerous.
She doesn't waste another breath. She raises her hand, and the shadows around us writhe and coil, twisting into shape like smoke being dragged through a keyhole. A staff emerges from the darkness, blacker than a moonless night, the ebony wood gleaming with a slick, oily sheen that seems to drink in the light around it. At its head, a skull leers, its hollow eye sockets burning with a faint, eerie glow that pulses in rhythm with my racing heartbeat.
"This," Hecate intones, her voice resonating with a depth that seems to rise from the very bowels of the earth, "is the staff of Merlin. I won it in a wager that cost him dearly, and I made it my own, binding it with the skull of Baba Yaga—a demon from the Slavic barbari of the north. Together, they form a weapon unlike any other—blessed by the gods of two pantheons, Celtic and Greek, and infused with the essence of a creature that knew neither love nor hope, a being of pure malice and darkness. Now, that power is bound to serve whoever wields this staff."
The air around the staff ripples like a heatwave, pressing against my skin with a heavy, tangible weight that makes my legs quiver. Hecate thrusts the staff into my hands, and the moment it touches my palms, a shock jolts through me, a crackling surge of energy that snaps through my veins like live wires. The skull's empty eyes burn with an inner light, piercing through me, scraping against the corners of my mind, testing the strength of my soul.
Her face remains a mask, cold and implacable, but there's a tremor in her voice, a crack just wide enough to reveal a sliver of... hope, a raw, jagged vulnerability that no god or goddess should possess. It's there, fleeting and brittle, buried beneath centuries of hard-won indifference. "Use this, child. Guide him through the maze, drag him through its twisting paths to the land beyond the gods. There, his power will bleed out, and there, you will have the chance to break him."
Her grip tightens on my shoulder, her nails digging in, sharp and unyielding. It's like she's trying to carve her desperation into my skin, a mark that will stay with me long after she's gone. "Don't hold back. Use your power—every last drop—until you're hollowed out. Show no pity, no hesitation. You must be ruthless and unforgiving, child. Crush him with every ounce of hatred you can muster. Let it consume you, sharpen you into a weapon."
Her eyes bore into mine, twin pits of darkness swallowing the world around us. "Forget your mercy. Kill any softness inside you before it kills you. Strip away your compassion until there's nothing left but the desire to see him broken. Make him beg, make him suffer. Do not let him rise, not even for a breath. Destroy him utterly, or you will die beneath his heel."
The air thickens around us, clinging to my skin like tar. Her words lash at me, each one biting deeper, cutting through the fear until all that's left is a raw, burning core of desperation. I can feel the weight of the staff in my hands, heavy with the promise of ruin. The skull's empty sockets glint with a predatory hunger, daring me to embrace what Hecate demands.
Her expression remains a marble mask, but the weight of her command settles like iron chains around my shoulders. There's no softness here, no room for doubt. Only the darkness she's asking me to become.
Hecate's grip is iron on my shoulder, her voice low and fierce, cutting through the chaos like a blade. "I'll send him down, drag him to the depths of the maze where he belongs. Go ahead, child—claim your dominion."
I manage a stiff nod, my throat tight, squeezing shut against the scream clawing to escape. The cold air from the doorway is a slap to my skin, a breath of death and despair that coils around me as I step forward. Without a glance back, I throw myself into the yawning darkness, the world blurring past in a rush of shadow. My stomach lurches as I plummet, the wind shrieking past my ears, and then I slam into the ground, ancient stone cracking beneath my weight. The impact rattles my bones, sending pain skittering through my limbs, but I push it aside. The darkness engulfs me, thick and suffocating, but then... I hear it.
Low, haunting whispers seep through the air—words in a language I don't recognize, winding through my mind like thorny vines. Chanting, a rhythm that thrums through the stone, vibrating through my teeth, my skull, my very bones. It tangles with the ragged, guttural screams of Alcyoneus as the shadows drag him down, grinding against my ears like nails on metal. A twisted smile tugs at my lips. There's power in that sound—my power, bending the air to my will, making the shadows dance to my command.
And then I feel it—the maze, a living, breathing thing beneath my feet, its pulse syncing with mine, coiling around my thoughts like a serpent around prey. It shifts in time with my heartbeat, my will snaking through its endless passages, shaping it, bending it. The air crackles, thick with expectation, every corner and crevice of the labyrinth eager to move at my whim. It purrs, low and throaty, like a beast ready to devour. The terror I felt facing Alcyoneus disintegrates, replaced by a fierce, electric thrill that surges through my veins like lightning.
I look up as Alcyoneus slams into the labyrinth, shadowy tendrils wrapping around his massive form, digging into his flesh, dragging him down like a drowning man. He crashes into the stone with a sound like thunder, the earth shuddering beneath the force of his fall. Slowly, he rises, ripping free of the shadows with a snarl, his golden eyes burning with raw hatred as he finds me. His smile twists into something cruel, mocking, a predator baring its teeth.
"Well, well," he sneers, his voice rumbling through the darkness, dripping with disdain. "Look who's all grown up—the little daughter of Pluto. Tell me, how is dear old mother? Still digging through the dirt, chasing scraps of wealth? When I take your father's throne, perhaps I'll make her my consort. Think of it—a sweet little reunion, the two of you, kneeling before me." He lets out a laugh, cold and grating, each word driving deeper into the shadows around us. "And here you are, all alone, just like the gods to leave the dirty work to their spawn, tossing away those foolish enough to trust them. You're no different. You think they care? They'll abandon you the moment it suits them. But don't worry," he leans closer, his golden eyes gleaming with malice. "I'll be here to pick up the pieces. I'll enjoy breaking you, child. Crushing you until there's nothing left but your pitiful cries."
A chill settles over me, an ice-cold fury that seeps into every part of me, freezing my blood, numbing the ache in my chest. It's not the kind of anger that burns hot and wild, flaring up and then vanishing. No, this is different. This is the fury of the Underworld itself—slow, merciless, and unyielding, the kind of anger that could turn rivers to ice and shatter mountains into dust without ever raising its voice. It is the darkness of the tomb, the silence of death, the cold inevitability that drags everything into its grasp. My father's fury. Hades' wrath. And now, it is mine.
I can feel it coiling tighter with every mocking word that spills from Alcyoneus's lips, digging into my mind like splinters, feeding that cold fire. The shadows around me sharpen in response, shifting and curling with a hunger that matches my own. My hands tremble—not with fear, but with the overwhelming need to crush him, to grind every smug word into dust beneath my heel. The shadows themselves seem to thrum with my thoughts, eager to devour him, to tear him apart piece by piece until there's nothing left but his broken and flayed psyche, laid bare and trembling before me. They coil and twist, reflecting my own dark hunger, ready to strip away every last shred of his arrogance, to gnaw at his mind until he is nothing more than a hollow shell. The air thickens with their hunger, the darkness vibrating with a promise of pain that makes the edges of my lips curl into a cold, merciless smile.
When I meet his eyes, I don't see a giant. I see a creature I will destroy. I see his end, slow and excruciating, drawn out in a thousand tiny torments. I will break him, as he vowed to break me, but I will do it with a precision and cruelty he could never imagine. No mercy. No hesitation. Just the cold, unrelenting darkness that now flows through my veins, commanding the shadows to obey my will.
The air around us chills, the shadows growing denser, darker, pressing in closer, and my voice comes out like a blade, cold and unforgiving. "You have no idea what I am capable of, Alcyoneus. But you will learn. I promise you that." And in that moment, I know that I will make him suffer, as only the darkness knows how.
Dark, twisted ideas flicker through my mind, weaving together into a tapestry of torment. Why take him to the land beyond the gods so quickly? Maybe I can make this last—drag it out—see how he likes the taste of fear when the shadows are clawing at his flesh, when the maze twists around him, reshaping itself into a prison with no escape. A smile creeps across my lips—sharp, feral—as the air around me ripples, the shadows bending to my will.
I step closer, letting the darkness curl around me, swallowing the fear that once gnawed at my mind. "You think you're in control, Alcyoneus?" My voice is a rasp, barely a whisper, but in this place, it carries, slicing through the shadows like a blade. "Let me show you what control really looks like."
The air thickens, the shadows twisting and writhing at my command, eager to reshape reality into something monstrous, something that will break him. "You're in my domain now, Alcyoneus," I hiss, my voice cutting through the darkness like a blade. "I can make you see anything, feel anything. Illusions? Nightmares? I'll peel back your mind layer by layer, twist it until you're begging for the final darkness my father offers, until you'd do anything to be swallowed whole by oblivion." The shadows pulse with my words, their edges blurring as they tighten around us. "Here, I am more than just a demigod. I am everything."
I take another step, and the shadows surge with me, coiling tighter around him, and I bare my teeth in a cold smile. "You think you're invincible, but down here, in my maze, I may as well be god. This place bends to me, and I'll make it break you."
Nyx:
Shadows writhe around me, slick and sinuous, as I weave through the unseen spaces between worlds. They pulse with a dark, restless energy, almost mirroring the beat that has begun to throb within me. I hover, hidden within the folds of night, watching, and something strange curls through me—something sharp, almost painful. It started when Perseus stumbled into my domain, a mortal blazing with a defiance that cut through my shadows like a blade.
His light had no place in my realm. It seared through the dark, casting shadows so deep they seemed to stretch to the heart of existence itself. He should have been swallowed by my night, his hope crushed like all the others before him. Yet he burned, fierce and unyielding, carving out a space where even my darkness dared not press. It was a challenge, a disturbance—a king of shadows, born of blinding brilliance, daring to walk through the heart of night without flinching.
I realized then what had eluded me for so long—the duality of him. His light, so blindingly pure, cast shadows deeper and darker than any I could conjure—me, the embodiment of night and terror. That is the beauty of him, the thing that has haunted my thoughts ever since I first met him. It's the brilliance of his light, burning bright, and yet, in its wake, the darkness that follows—darker, richer, more profound than anything I've ever known.
The memory of that moment grips me, coiling tight around my thoughts, drawing them back to him. It's a gnawing ache, a hunger that I can't quite name. Even now, a sliver of my essence clings to him, wound tight around the threads of his existence, drawn to the ripples he sends through the shadows—ripples that should not be. His presence lingers in my mind, an ember that refuses to die, scorching everything it touches.
I feel his defiance like a sting, a bitter heat that won't cool, even here in the depths of night. His wildness, that untamed strength thrumming just beneath his skin—it lingers in my senses, like the scent of a storm that's yet to break. He met my gaze without fear, stared into the abyss and did not blink, and the memory of that moment is a wound that refuses to heal, a wound I desire to never heal.
He has become an ache that tightens with my every waking thought. I feel it in the way the shadows curl tighter, the way they seem to pulse and purr with a hunger that mirrors my own. He has become a part of my darkness, a thread woven into the fabric of my being, pulling me toward him, over and over again.
Yet now I find myself within the twisting corridors of this labyrinth, and something else demands my attention. Hazel Levesque.
The maze pulses with her presence, as if it's alive, bending and reshaping itself to her will. I can feel her grip on the Mist, the way she weaves it into the fabric of reality, making truth bleed into illusion. She doesn't realize it yet, the power thrumming through her, it's the gift I gave to my daughter—the ability to twist perception, to bend the mind until it no longer knows what's real. Her control is rough, unrefined, a hammer where there should be a scalpel, but it's effective. And oh, the promise in that untamed power... it sings to me like a half-remembered melody, dark and tantalizing.
She strikes at Alcyoneus, shrouding him in nightmare, warping his mind until his own fears are all that is left of him, She is clawing at him from the inside. He thrashes against the darkness, but I hear the shift in his voice, the crack in his defiance as terror slips into the cracks. His roars echo through the maze, mingling with the whispers that Hazel weaves into every shadow. She makes him see horrors that aren't there, and yet they are. She bends reality until even I can't tell where her illusions end and reality begins. It is raw, brutal, but there is beauty in it—a beauty born of shadows and fear.
A low hum of pleasure vibrates through my being. She is imperfect, yes, but she understands something fundamental. Terror isn't just a weapon; it's an art. It's the slow creep of doubt, the flicker in the corner of the eye, the darkness that feels deeper when you're alone. She wraps herself in it, lets it coil around her like a second skin, and I watch as she takes pleasure in his suffering. Alcyoneus's pride crumbles, piece by agonizing piece, until his rage is hollow, a brittle mask hiding the fear beneath.
It is exquisite, this dance of shadows, even if she does not yet know all the steps. Her power swells with every broken cry, every gasp of terror she wrings from him. As she feeds me, I feed her, our essences intertwining like threads in a tapestry of darkness. I see in her the potential to be so much more than a mere player in this war—she could become a weaver of nightmares, a mistress of the unseen, shaping fear like a sculptor molds clay. She could be my Queen of Night.
The thought curls through me, sweet as the first taste of ripe fruit. She could guide the shadows, command them, even rule over me. She could be my voice, my prophet, my heir. I am an unseen force woven into the fabric of reality, and for too long I have been without a true vessel. She could draw terror from the hearts of gods and mortals alike, wielding my shadows with a mastery that mirrors my own. In her, I see raw potential—a power waiting to be refined, capable of shaping the darkness into something truly formidable, something even the Olympians would hesitate to challenge. A ruler of the unknown, holding dominion over the darkness that seeps beneath the skin of every living thing. And I could shape her, mold her into something more—something worthy of that power.
Yet even as these thoughts take root, Perseus lingers in my mind. he is always there, a constant undercurrent, like the pull of a distant tide. My thoughts twist around him, ensnaring me in a fascination that burns hotter with each passing moment.
I want him—not just as a curiosity, but as something more. A partner, a reflection of my own darkness, a force that I could stand beside as it tore down the very foundations of this flawed reality. My mother, the void that birthed me, sees something in him, a rare flicker of interest in the creation she birthed. This above all other has shaped my own thoughts. If she favors him, then there is something there, something I should not ignore. Her will is woven into the very fabric of my existence, I am nothing without her and if she desires Perseus, then so, too, do I.
Hazel is a different kind of promise—one less sensual but no less important, she is unshaped and eager to be molded. She could become my emissary, my shadow queen, while Perseus... he could be a partner, a lover, together, they could reshape the world in my image. A kingdom of shadows, ruled by the night and her queen, with a burning inferno of destruction incarnate at it's heart.
I drift closer, my presence sliding through the darkness like a caress against her skin, I begin slipping my darkness into the folds of her illusions, the very fabric of her maze. She does not see me, cannot see me—not yet—but she will feel me soon enough.
Alcyoneus's screams cut through the dark, ragged and raw, and I watch as Hazel's lips curl into a smile, sharp with satisfaction. She doesn't yet understand how far her power can reach, what heights she could climb. But I do. I could show her, teach her how to bend the darkness to her will, how to become the terror that slumbers beneath the surface of every mind. And with Perseus... the possibilities stretch before me like an endless, starless sky.
It's time to extend my hand, to offer her a taste of the power that could be hers. To offer her everything she could desire—power, vengeance, a freedom that knows no chains. A place by my side, as the Queen of Night.
"Yes," I murmur into the darkness, my voice a breath through the shadows, yet it weaves into the whispers that fill the maze. "Yes, Hazel Levesque. Come, child. Foster my endless night, feed the fear that festers in the minds of gods and mortals alike. Let me show you what it means to rule the darkness."
Alcyoneus's PoV:
I remember the fall—how the shadows tore into me, clawing, dragging me down into this twisted nightmare. At first, I scoffed. How could a maze, a trick of shadows, hope to hold me? I am Alcyoneus, the bane of Hades, forged from the very bones of the Earth Mother herself. But time has no meaning here. Hours, days, years—they all blur together into an endless, maddening stretch of darkness. It feels like an eternity, like I've been wandering these twisting paths forever.
I don't know what's real anymore. The ground shifts beneath my feet—solid one moment, crumbling to dust the next. Walls appear where there were none, shifting like the ribs of some vast, living beast. And all the while, the whispers gnaw at the edges of my mind, slipping into my thoughts like a slow, creeping poison. They tell me lies, twisting my reality, warping my memories.
You are nothing. You are no king, no giant. You are nobody. A pathetic worthless failure.
At first, I roared against them, fought them, tried to rip the shadows apart with my bare hands. But the laughter never stops, low and mocking, crawling through the darkness, filling every corner of this cursed place. My own voice echoes back at me, twisted and warped until it sounds broken, unfamiliar. It's eating away at me.
I've been burned, crushed beneath falling stone, chased by shadows that shift and twist into monstrous forms—some real, some illusions spun from this place. I don't know which is worse. The pain feels real, searing through my flesh, but I can't tell if it's the maze or my own mind tearing itself apart. I lash out at the darkness, but it's like fighting smoke—every strike passes through, every blow lands on empty air.
And then I see it—another shape moving in the darkness, hulking and savage, its eyes glowing like molten gold. It has my eyes and wears my face. My breath catches, and rage surges through me. I charge at it, roaring, my fists swinging, each strike heavy with desperation. I feel my blows land, solid and real, feel the satisfying crunch of bones breaking beneath my hands. It fights back, matching me blow for blow, our roars blending into a twisted, snarling harmony.
But something is wrong. I can feel it—every blow I land reverberates through me, each wound I inflict mirrored back into my flesh, sapping my strength with every strike. My vision wavers, blurring at the edges, my thoughts twisting like tangled roots as I wrestle my opponent to the ground, my hands locking around its throat. It stares up at me with my own eyes, lips curled into a twisted, mocking smile, blood spilling from the corners of its mouth like a dark secret. I squeeze harder, feeling the crunch of bone beneath my grip, but the satisfaction curdles into cold dread as the shadows peel away, revealing what I've truly been fighting.
My own hands.…
My own throat, crushed beneath my fingers. The realization strikes like a thunderclap, forcing the air from my lungs. I stagger back, gasping, the sensation of my own fingers clawing into my flesh lingering like a phantom pain. The shadows writhe around me, warping my reflection into a grotesque mask of terror, eyes wide and hollow, mouth twisted in a silent scream. My voice—warped, broken—echoes through the darkness, twisting through the air like a discordant melody, mingling with the whispers that burrow deeper into my skull, each word like a jagged knife.
You are nothing. You are nobody. Look at you, fighting shadows. Figments of your own twisted imagination, you are fighting yourself down here, how can you possibly win?
I stagger back, pressing my hands to my ears, trying to drown out the voices, but they slip through my fingers, curling around my mind like chains. The maze shifts again, and the air thickens, turning to sludge in my lungs. I run, my legs trembling, barely holding my weight, but every step feels like wading through quicksand. I know I'm being toyed with—know that she's watching me, twisting the maze around me, bending reality to her will.
And then I see her. Looming above me, her form vast and shadowed, her eyes burning with the light of a dying sun—Gaia. My mother. Her laughter ripples through the air, the ground trembling beneath me, each word a hammer blow driving me deeper into the darkness. "Look at you, my weakest child. You think you can conquer this place? You think you're anything more than a failed creation, a monster I should have let your father devour? You are a failure, Alcyoneus, a pitiful mistake I should have buried beneath the earth."
Her voice coils around my heart, squeezing, crushing, dragging me down until I feel the suffocating weight of the earth pressing against my chest. "You are no giant. You are no king. You are nothing but a broken piece of me, Alcyoneus. A fragment that should have never crawled from the earth."
I try to speak, to scream, but my voice shatters, splintering into silence. Her face draws closer, her breath hot and rancid, filling the air with the stench of rot and decay. Her laughter is a sound like grinding rocks, a discordant scrape that tears through my thoughts, leaving only jagged edges behind. I claw at my head, my fingers digging into my skull, desperate to rip her voice out, but it's inside me, devouring me from within.
The shadows shift again, her form dissolving into the darkness, but her laughter remains, echoing through the twisting corridors of the maze, burrowing deeper into my mind. I hear her in every corner, every shadow, whispering that I am weak, that I am nothing. And I believe it. Gods, I believe it.
I turn another corner, my heart slamming against my ribs, and find myself staring at the same dead end I've seen a thousand times before. The darkness presses in, suffocating, a living thing that tightens around me with every breath, every thought. I claw at the walls, at the shadows, but they only close in tighter, squeezing until I can't think, can't breathe. I'm trapped. Trapped like an animal. Trapped like a—
"No," I whisper, but the word is a rasp, lost to the shadows that eat the sound before it even leaves my lips. "No, I am Alcyoneus. I am... I am…."
But the name crumbles in my mouth, turning to dust, and the whispers rush in to fill the void, digging deeper, deeper until they're all I can hear.
You are nothing.
You have always been nothing.
You are a whisper,
an echo of a lie.
My legs buckle beneath me, and I fall to the cold stone, my breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps. I try to hold on to the memories, the battles, the victories, but they slip through my fingers like smoke. I don't know if they were ever real. I don't know if I'm real. And somewhere in the darkness, I hear her voice—Hazel's—cold and mocking, her words slicing through the shadows like knives.
"Run, Alcyoneus. Run."
So I run, but my feet stumble over the uneven ground, and the maze shifts with every step, twisting back on itself, mocking me with every turn. I know I'll never escape. I know I am trapped. And worse—deep in the pit of my mind, where the whispers have dug their claws—I start to believe her. Maybe there was never anything else? Maybe this is all their is and ever will be. Maybe I am just an echo…. A Lie.
Hazel PoV: I am the Terror in the darkness, I am the death of truth
For Alcyoneus, it's been centuries. For me? Weeks, maybe a month—time twists and bends in the maze, ever shifting to appease me. In the real world, perhaps ten, fifteen minutes have slipped by. But that's irrelevant. It's worked. As we near the land beyond the gods, Alcyoneus is a husk of what he once was—a shadow of his former self, reduced to a weeping, broken shell. He clutches at his head, muttering incoherently, his once-towering form hunched and trembling. The giant who once saw himself as invincible, the bane of Hades, now nothing more than a shivering wreck, shattered by the very darkness he thought he could master.
A dark thought coils in my mind, cold and delicious. Would it not be better—more prudent—to keep him here? Trapped in the twisting depths of my maze, harmless and forever cut off from the safety of his father's kingdom. A prisoner of his own mind, lost in an endless labyrinth, with only shadows and madness for company. It would be so easy. More practical, yes. And far sweeter.
I watch him with a detached curiosity, my fingers tightening on the staff Hecate gave me. His pain... it doesn't stir pity in me. I feel no sympathy, no guilt. Only the cold satisfaction of power—of control. This is my domain, and for the first time in my life, I am the one in control. I decide what happens. Not Gaia. Not Hecate. And certainly not Alcyoneus.
He looks up, eyes wild and hollow, pleading with the shadows that twist around us. He doesn't even know I'm here, too lost in his madness. I almost laugh at the sight—how pitiful he looks, how small. This giant who once loomed over me, who once threatened my father's kingdom, who took my life, my mother's life, is now no more than a broken shell, and I am the one who has made him that way.
A shiver runs through me, not of fear but of exhilaration. The power thrums beneath my skin, flows through my veins like wildfire. This is my kingdom. The maze bends to my will. Alcyoneus is mine. The shadows around me seem to pulse in agreement, as if they too recognize their true master's will.
I could keep him here, turn this place into his eternal prison. Make him relive his nightmares over and over, until he forgets what it was to be a giant—until he forgets himself entirely. It would be so simple, so satisfying, to watch him unravel further. I see the terror in his eyes, the way he flinches at shadows that aren't even there, as if expecting them to swallow him whole. And I want to see more. I want him to suffer, to drown in the endless darkness he once thought he could command. To pay for every life he's taken, for every threat he made against me, my family, and everyone I've ever cared about. Let him know what it means to be truly powerless.
My grip on the staff tightens, the skull glowing with an unholy light. The air crackles with anticipation, and the maze seems to breathe with me, ready to obey my command, ready to lock him away forever. A small smile curls at the edge of my lips, sharp and cold.
"Maybe I'll keep you here," I murmur, my voice carrying through the maze. It's not meant for him—he's too far gone to understand—but the shadows, the walls, the very air seem to respond to my words, pressing in tighter, sealing off the escape routes. "You like it here, don't you, Alcyoneus? So many friends to keep you company. So many nightmares to remind you of what you are."
He whimpers, flinching at a phantom sound, and I almost laugh. There's a part of me that knows this is wrong, knows that Hecate might not approve, that my friends might call it cruelty. But what do they know about what he's done? Of what I've suffered at his hands? The threat he poses to my family. He deserves this. He deserves every ounce of suffering I can give him. And who are they to tell me otherwise? Who is anyone to take this chance at justice from me?
This is my chance to right the wrongs that have haunted me my entire life, to seize control of a world that's done nothing but try to bend me, break me. I've been powerless for too long—helpless against the whims of fate, against the cruelty of the gods, against the relentless fury of giants and monsters. But here, now, in the heart of this maze, I hold the power. The strength to take what I want, to protect what matters to me. It thrums in my veins, a fire that I've never felt before, and I won't let it slip away. Not now. Not ever.
The shadows coil around me, eager to obey, to twist the maze tighter, to make it his eternal tomb. The power thrums beneath my skin, whispering how easy it would be to leave him here, trapped in a nightmare he'd never escape. I could make him suffer endlessly, a fate far crueler than any he would find in Tartarus. I could watch him break, shatter, unravel into nothing. The thought lingers, wraps around my mind like a vice, and I can feel a dark satisfaction bloom in my chest. It's tempting—so tempting—to play god in this place where my word is law.
But then... The voice of the girl I once was whispers to me,
the doorway to the land beyond the gods is still open, waiting to drain away what remains of his strength. A place where I could end this cleanly, send him to Tartarus and be done with it. To end his threat once and for all, just as Hecate intended.
My hand clenches around the staff, the weight of it grounding me, a reminder of the purpose I swore to fulfill.
But do I want that? To let him go so easily? Or do I want to be the one to see him suffer, to watch his arrogance turn to fear, to repay him for every scar he's left on my life? My thoughts twist like the shadows, warping between rage and doubt. I can feel the maze pulsing around me, feeding off my uncertainty, bending to every flicker of my emotions. It's intoxicating, this control, this power, after being so powerless for so long.
But is this the right way? The thought claws at me, raw and uncertain, the last thread of hesitation holding me back from the plunge. Tartarus through the land beyond the gods, or keep him here, under my control, in my dominion? The choice is mine, and for a heartbeat, I'm paralyzed by the weight of it.
I look down at him—this creature who once thought himself a terror, now broken and weeping at my feet. I hold his fate in my hands, and I can't help but savor the sweetness of that realization. For now, he is mine. All of this is mine. The shadows, the maze, the power thrumming through my veins—it bends to my will.
I take a slow, deliberate breath, letting the cool air fill my lungs, feeling the weight of my decision settle within me like a stone sinking into dark waters. The power coils around me, eager and waiting, and I know what I have to do.
I lean closer, my voice a low murmur that wraps around him like the shadows themselves. "You are mine, Alcyoneus. Now and forever…"
Hades PoV:
Clytius's agonized howls cut through the air as I drive my Stygian blade into his chest once more. Shadows coil around the wound, devouring the light, snuffing out the last glimmer of life in his eyes. He collapses, his massive form crumpling like a felled tree. But I know better than to linger on this false victory—his immortality clings to him like a curse, dragging him back from the brink time and again. It's a dance I know too well, death and those who are relentless in their struggle against it. A reality that only I can fully appreciate. It should be tedious by now, but my thoughts are elsewhere, drawn back to that closed door, to the labyrinth, to her.
Hazel. My daughter. I watched as she descended into the labyrinth with Alcyoneus, dragging that creature into her domain, into shadows shaped by her own will. The moment that door sealed behind her, I tried to follow, but the maze denied me—its magic locking me out, as if a power both old and powerful kept me at bay. Hecate's decision to send her alone gnawed at me like an open wound, my anger simmering beneath the surface, barely contained by the pressing demands of this battlefield. Yet even as fury and fear twisted inside my chest, I knew my place was here—holding the line against Clytius, keeping this beast at bay until a demigod could strike the final blow.
But now, she's returned. She steps out of the shadows, the darkness peeling back like a veil, revealing her standing tall and unbroken. For a fleeting moment, relief loosens the knot in my chest, but it's a cold, fleeting thing—immediately overtaken by a darker curiosity as I take in the sight of her.
She is... changed. There's a power rolling off her that thrums through the air, vibrating against my senses like a discordant note. It's not the familiar chill of the underworld that I command—the final darkness that envelops souls as they cross the river Styx, the shroud of death that wraps the world in its silence. No, this is the touch of Nyx, the primordial night that cloaks the world in terror. It is the fear of what lurks just beyond sight, the unease that creeps in when the firelight dims.
Nyx's shadows are different from mine, born from the terror of the unknown—the feeling that something lurks just out of sight, hidden in the darkness. They are the whispers that send mortals turning on their heels, searching for threats that aren't there. My power, drawn from Erebus, is different in many ways. It is the weight of the tomb, the finality that comes with death's embrace, the silence that wraps around the dead like a shroud. It is absolute, inevitable—a darkness that knows no fear because it is beyond all terror. But Hazel... she wields shadows that shift when your back is turned, the chill that crawls up your spine as the light fades. Her power is the unknown, the unseen, and that is what makes it dangerous.
Somehow, Nyx has found my daughter and pressed her claim.
My grip tightens around my sword as Clytius charges me once more, a bellow of rage shaking the air. I dispatch him with a brutal swipe, not bothering to watch as his body crumbles back into the dirt. I'll deal with him as many times as I have to—he's nothing compared to the threat that looms over her.
Hazel, my daughter, strides through the battlefield like she owns the shadows, and in a way, she does. As she moves, the shadows of those around her bend toward her, drawn like iron filings to a magnet. They curl and twist, a dark tide that absorbs into her presence with every step, as if each tendril of darkness seeks to be closer to her. It's almost unconscious—her gaze remains fixed ahead, yet the shadows respond, shifting and flowing as if she is the center of their gravity. The darkness clings to her, weaving into her form, growing thicker, deeper, until it seems to pulse with her heartbeat. I feel the shift, the way the shadows thin across the battlefield, drawn irresistibly to her, like soldiers rallying around a new commander.
And others notice, too.
Hecate stands nearby, her eyes gleaming like a cat's in the dark, a crooked smile curling her lips. There is a knowing in her gaze, a twisted satisfaction that makes my discomfort grow sharper, deeper. She watches Hazel like she's witnessing the unfolding of a long-awaited promise, something dark and ancient that only she understands. It's an expression that sends a shiver through me—one that hints at plans that stretch beyond my understanding, beyond the reach of even my dominion.
Hecate's smile is a reminder that the darkness Hazel commands is not just mine. It is not just the quiet, inevitable shadow of death that I know. It is Nyx's touch, the power of fear and the unknown, and it is something Hecate is all too familiar with. The goddess of crossroads and dark magic sees potential in Hazel that is not entirely of my making. And that potential has caught the eyes of others—eyes that linger too long, that calculate and weigh her worth in ways that I do not like.
If Nyx intends to shape her, to make her a queen of shadows as I am the king of the dead, it would place Hazel in a position of unfathomable power... and peril. The kind of power that others will covet, will fear. Power that would make her a target, a threat to be eliminated before she fully realizes what she is capable of.
I cast a glance back at Clytius as he begins to rise yet again, his shadowy form struggling to pull itself together. For a moment, he is nothing but an inconvenience, a distraction from the realization that has taken root in my mind. If Nyx's touch lingers on Hazel, if she has taken notice of my daughter's potential, then others might too. And they will either seek to claim that power for themselves or destroy it before it becomes a threat.
My thoughts twist through possibilities, through dangers. I cannot let that happen. She may have grown beyond needing my protection from giants and monsters, but this is different. This is the kind of danger that whispers to the ancient things of the world, that calls forth the primordial forces that see no difference between god and mortal.
My grip tightens around my sword as I stand guard, slaying Clytius each time he rises, waiting for the demigod who can seal his fate. I will watch carefully, quietly. I will ensure that no one—nothing—comes to claim her, to turn her into a pawn in a game far older than she knows. She is strong, yes, but she is still young. And power like hers... it will demand a price.
When the time comes to face that price, I will be there. Whether to guide her or to remind those ancient forces that even Nyx's shadows can not reach into my domain unchallenged. For I am Hades, and Hazel is my daughter, and woe to any who try to harm my own..
Zeus:
"Alive! Fates, I feel young again! These old muscles, stiff from centuries on that blasted throne, numbed by wine and fleeting pleasures—awakened at last. This is bliss! A fire I've longed for so dearly, now coursing through my veins like a thunderclap, electrifying every fiber of my being. I had forgotten what it was to feel this way—to live on the edge, every sense sharpened, every strike of my lightning a herald of the end times. I am more than a king—I am the god of the sky, lord of the heavens, a warrior above all others. I am power unchained. This... this is what it means to live.
Polybotes lunges, his trident gleaming as it slices through the air toward my chest. I don't bother with my Master Bolt—why waste the effort? Instead, I sidestep, seize the trident's handle, and unleash a pulse of raw electricity. The weapon crackles in my grip, the surge forcing him to drop it as his muscles convulse. My fist crashes into his jaw with a satisfying crunch, and I summon the winds to sweep him off his feet, sending him sprawling across the ground.
As he tumbles, I raise my Master Bolt—an extension of my very being, as much a part of me as my arms or eyes. His gaze meets mine, wide with the realization of what's coming—just before—
BOOM.
He is vaporized, disintegrated into a cloud of ash, but the victory is fleeting. Even as his remnants scatter, his form begins to knit itself back together, bones and sinew pulling from the dust like a grotesque mannequin. He isn't who I want—Porphyrion is the blood I desire. That beast, the things he's said about my Hera…. He captured her while I was helpless on my damned mountain. My throne chains me, these damned laws we were forced into by the Fates to secure their continued loyalty. I dream of stretching my wings as I once did, of being a god again. To not hide, but rule as we did in the days of old.
I sigh, scanning the battlefield for a demigod—no, for my son, Grace. A proper son, dutiful and strong, who has brought me pride time and time again. Yet as I scan the chaos, something else pulls my focus.
There, cutting through the maelstrom like a force of nature—Jackson. He moves like a hurricane, fire coiling around him like molten gold, flowing like a river of magma. His blade, is a streak of bronze, slicing through the air, every strike precise yet wild, like lightning cracking through a thunderhead.
With a single, seamless motion, he swings, and Mimas's hand flies free, severed clean from the giant's arm. The ichor spills out in a burst, spraying across the battlefield like rain, leaving trails of golden mist in his wake. It's brutal, a raw display of power, and I can't help but feel the sheer intensity of it—an echo of the untamed storms I once reveled in.
I sigh and close my eyes, letting the chaos around me fade into the background, feeling the world as it truly is—my domain. The sky hums in my veins, every current of air a thread I can pull, every drop of water and wisp of vapor as familiar as my own breath. The storm's electricity pulses through my blood, growing with each beat of my heart.
I stretch my senses outward, soaring above the battlefield in my mind, seeing through a thousand invisible eyes. My armies shift below, a living river surging through the broken terrain, their movements guided by the whisper of my winds. I nudge a current here, turn a breeze there, directing their strength where the lines falter, turning a retreat into a charge, pushing them forward with a sudden gust. The air carries my commands, and I feel their answer in the rumble of the ground beneath me.
Farther out, I sense a familiar presence—my son, high above the fray, the storm swirling around him. Jason rides the currents like a master, tearing through enemy ranks with blasts of wind and bursts of lightning. The western flank trembles under his wrath, the monsters scattering before him.
A smile tugs at my lips, pride swelling in my chest. My son—young, fierce, seizing the moment with all the force of a true son of the sky. I savor the sight for a heartbeat longer, then I join my power with his, sending my own bolts crashing down across the battlefield. Lightning splits the sky, striking in a hundred places at once, scattering our enemies like leaves in a hurricane.
I hear the roar of my soldiers in the distance, their cheers rolling like thunder as they surge through the paths we've cleared. For a brief moment, everything aligns—the will of a king, the might of an army, and the fury of the storm, all bending to my command. I hold the vision, feeling the harmony of it thrumming through my veins. But beneath it all, the satisfaction lingers. My power is the infinity of the open sky, and today, it will have its due.
And then I open my eyes and i'm back. I see Percy, diving into the fray, a force of nature amid the chaos. For a moment, it's like staring at a reflection. The thought hits like a hammer to the chest, leaving me both nostalgic and angry. I see myself in the boy—my own fire, my own defiance. I remember when I stood against my father, Kronus, when I faced him not for the sake of a throne or dominion but for the sake of my family. My brothers and sisters, broken and devoured, suffering in the darkness of his belly. The horror of it all burned inside me, turned my blood to molten rage. I swore that I would not rest until I tore them free, until I made Kronus pay for every ounce of pain he inflicted upon us.
I was a storm back then, wild and unchained, each blow fueled by the anguish of our suffering and the righteous fury of a son claiming his place as the protector of his kin. The clash of our powers shattered the earth, split mountains, and sent the seas boiling over with the force of our conflict. It wasn't greed, nor the fear of losing my throne that drove me—not then. It was the raw, unyielding rage of a young god who refused to accept the horrors of his world, who would tear apart the very fabric of the cosmos if it meant saving those he loved.
Every strike was a promise, a declaration that I would carve out a future for my siblings with my own two hands. I was the storm that shattered titans, that tore open Tartarus itself, freeing the cyclopi and hundred handed ones. A rebel, a hero, dashing and daring. My wrath shaking the very bones of the world. Before the weight of the throne settled over my shoulders, before the crown dulled my edge, I was everything a god should be—relentless, ruthless, unstoppable... Loved.
And now, I see that same fire in him, but he is not a god. I want to hate him, to resent that mortal heart that dares to defy my will by its mere existence. But how can I, when in him, I see a reflection of what I once was—before the weight of Olympus bore down on me, before the centuries dulled my edge and the glory of my youth faded into memory? He fights with his cousins, with my son, as I once fought beside my brothers, before we poisoned our bonds with paranoia and politics. The fire that drives him, the fury in his eyes—it's the same that coursed through me when I was a young god, unstoppable and free, before the throne chained me.
There is a purity in his defiance, a wildness that the years have stripped from me. He lives unburdened, like I once did. How can I despise the boy, when in him, I see the echoes of my own greatness?
I turn back to Polybotes, fully reformed, a smirk stretching across his grotesque face. I have a few moments before the sea spawn arrives—just enough time to see if Gaia's creation has nerves, and if they can feel the kiss of my lightning."
Jason PoV:
I carve through the chaos, Tempest crackling like a storm in my grip. The head of a Cyclops rolls away as I cleave it clean off, the blade biting through bone and muscle. A dracaena lunges, fangs bared, but I twist, slicing her arm from her body. She crumples with a scream, her blood painting the air as I dive past, wind roaring in my ears, the sky bending to my will. The battlefield below is mine, a maelstrom of death, and my enemies fall beneath me like rain.
I pull up from my dive, Tempest vibrating with the thrill of the storm, and that's when I spot him—my brother. Apollo, riding his golden chariot like a sun god descending from the heavens, loose and languid as he strings arrows with effortless grace. Each shot finds its mark—monsters crumple, pierced through heart or eye. His gaze snaps to mine, a grin cutting across his face, brilliant as the light blazing around him. And then, in the blink of an eye, he's there beside me, stepping onto a slab of solid light as if he's emerged from the sun itself.
"Hello, brother!" He beams, the grin sharp, dangerous. "Fancy meeting you here. Care to help shove our embarrassingly fugly cousins back into the loser corner?"
I smile at him and nod, before turning and looking westward, Tempest thrums in my hands, the power I've stored over the last few days I've owned it, pouring into me, filling every nerve with crackling energy. My veins buzz with raw power, the storm building behind my eyes, thunder pounding in my chest. I suck in a breath, The western flank is failing to make headway—Cyclopi and Satyrs falling back from their push towards the gods and demigods, they were fighting tooth and nail just to hold the line.
I raise my hand, feeling that familiar pull—a tug like a fishhook buried deep in my shoulder, yanking me upward toward the heavens.
Boom.
A hundred monsters are obliterated in a flash, vaporized beneath the largest bolt of lightning I've ever called down. The blast leaves the air sizzling, the smell of ozone thick in my nose. But I don't even feel the strain—power surges through me, burning in my blood, Ever since Hera's kidnapping of me and Percy. I've been stronger than I've ever been. But even as I unleash my power, the realization hits me like a punch to the gut—I am nothing compared to him. Across the battlefield, where our lines waver and threaten to break, the air explodes with power. Bolts of lightning, each one stronger than anything I could summon, rip through the sky, turning night into day. The earth trembles with the force of each strike, and our troops surge forward, rallying with renewed fervor. Their voices rise above the clash of steel and the roar of monsters, a single name chanted with reverence and awe, echoing like thunder.
"Zeus"
"Zeus"
"Zeus"
I glance back at Apollo, the urgency of the situation taking root in my psyche. "We need to take down these giants—quickly. Our forces might be able to break through their rearguard, but right now, we're surrounded. And I don't fancy facing both giants and thousands of monsters at the same time."
Apollo's smile falters, sharpening into something predatory. The light around him dims, turning cold, focused. "Then shall we?"
"We shall, brother." I clasp his hand, and a jolt of raw energy crackles between us, lightning sparking where our grips meet. Our eyes lock—brief, searing—a silent understanding passes between us, the weight of our father's legacy heavy on both our shoulders. Two sons of the king, forged to be weapons in service of the throne, tempered in the fires of battle. There's no need for words, only the unspoken promise of what we'll unleash together.
The chaos rages below, the air thick with blood and smoke, but all that matters is the thrill pounding in our chests. This moment, the storm and the sun, united for a single purpose. I tighten my grip, feeling the power coil within me, and as we dive, our minds are in sync, both thinking the same thing:
Let's end these bastards.