The once-glorious realm of Olympus, where the gods resided in splendor, was now a realm of chaos and decay. The grand halls and golden palaces that once sparkled under the light of eternal flames were now crumbling, shattered by the relentless onslaught of the Dark God and his monstrous minions. Columns lay broken, fragments of statues of once-great heroes littered the ground, and the air was thick with smoke and the acrid stench of burning wood. It was a sight that none of the gods ever thought possible, a sight that tore at their very essence as they struggled to comprehend the ruin of a place that was supposed to be eternal.
In the distance, a fire raged through the gardens, consuming the ancient olive trees and sacred groves. The once vibrant fields, where the godlings had once played and the nymphs danced, were now strewn with the fallen. The battlefield that stretched before Olympus was littered with the bodies of demigods, spirits of nature, and other celestial beings who had answered the call to defend their home. But now, their cries were replaced by the screams of the wounded and dying, as vile creatures—spawned from the darkest corners of Tartarus—rampaged across the sacred grounds.
Amid this chaos, the wail of a young child broke through the cacophony. It was the helpless cry of a baby, so out of place in this war-torn land. The sound carried with it a haunting innocence, a reminder of all that was pure and beautiful, even as everything around it was torn apart. A brunette woman stumbled across the ground, clutching the infant close to her chest. Her warm chocolate-brown eyes, usually filled with gentleness, were wide with terror as she tried to comfort the child. "Shh, Perseus," she whispered hoarsely, her voice trembling. "Everything is going to be okay." Her throat tightened as she spoke, the lie weighing heavily on her heart. How could she promise that when the world was collapsing around them?
She glanced up, her tear-filled gaze meeting a pair of sea-green eyes identical to the child's. Her brother stood there, his expression hardened with a mix of grief and steely resolve. He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around his sister, who buried her face in his shoulder, letting the tears flow. He had not seen her like this since she had lost her own children in the early battles; the loss had aged her in a way that even the centuries of divine life had not.
"There's still hope," he murmured, though the words felt hollow even to him. His sister had held back her despair for too long, and the dam had finally burst. It was all he could do to hold her steady as the invasion shattered their reality. Looking over her shoulder, he saw his other sister, Demeter, gently cradling his son and humming a soft lullaby that had once soothed many a crying child. But now, even the lullaby seemed tinged with the sorrow that hung in the air like a storm cloud.
His sister pulled back, her eyes red and swollen, as she tried to compose herself. "Poseidon," she began, her voice cracking. "What are we going to do?" But before he could answer, a thunderous voice echoed across Olympus, causing them both to flinch.
"Poseidon, it is time now," called a weary voice from the council chamber's entrance. Poseidon turned to see his younger brother, Hades, standing there, his gaunt face lined with exhaustion and grief. It was clear that Hades had been fighting for days on end, just like the rest of them. His dark robes were singed, and his once-vibrant eyes were dim with sorrow.
"Just a moment, brother," Poseidon replied, his voice heavy with resignation. He turned back toward Demeter and took his son from her arms, the baby's innocent face lighting up with a smile at the sight of his father. Even now, in the midst of such devastation, Poseidon felt a faint spark of warmth. The child did not understand the horrors unfolding around him; he knew only that his father was near.
Summoning a simple locket, Poseidon looped it around the baby's neck. It was a plain piece of jewelry, but the trident inscribed at its center held ancient magic, a fragment of Poseidon's own power. "This will always be with you," he whispered, leaning close to the boy. "It will guide you, protect you… and remind you of where you came from." His voice softened further, and he continued, "I am sorry, Perseus. I may not be there to see you grow, or to guide you when your powers manifest. I may not be there at all. But remember this: you are the hope. Not just for Olympus, but for all life. One day, you will rise to challenge the Dark Lord, and you will become the avenger of all that he has destroyed."
The baby's bright sea-green eyes sparkled with amusement, unaware of the weighty prophecy spoken over him. He clapped his tiny hands, his giggles like music amid the chaos. Poseidon swallowed hard, committing his son's joyful face to memory before steeling himself. He carried the boy to Hecate, who awaited them near the grand marble steps leading to the portal chamber.
Hecate's deep, mystical eyes—colored like the twilight sky—met his with a silent understanding. The goddess of magic and witchcraft, who held dominion over the realms between worlds, had taken on the task of sending the child to a place where even Tartarus would not find him. The risk was great, for it would take powerful magic to ensure the child's safety, magic that would leave the goddess vulnerable in its aftermath.
Hera stepped forward, her expression softening with concern as she glanced at the sleeping child. "Hecate," she said quietly, "are you certain this place is secure? The child must be safe… or we will have no hope left."
With a steadying breath, Hecate nodded. "It is a place forgotten by gods and men alike. It lies beyond the reach of our foes. The child will grow, hidden from Tartarus' gaze, and in time… he will fulfill the prophecy."
As Zeus stepped forward, his expression was one of barely contained rage. "Then send him at once. We do not have time to waste. I can feel Ares and Athena's presences slipping away," he growled, frustration and fury warring for control. The king of the gods was unused to being powerless, and now, with his children perishing in the fight, his anger burned hotter than ever.
The other gods were similarly affected. Hestia's usually calm demeanor was fraying at the edges, her hands trembling as she channeled her inner flame to stave off the chilling darkness spreading through Olympus. Even Demeter, who had always found solace in the cycles of nature, seemed lost, as if the eternal winter now settled upon her heart.
Hecate began her incantation, her voice deep and resonant, reciting the words in an ancient tongue older than Olympus itself. A shimmering golden portal flared into existence, its light spilling across the floor like liquid sunlight. She summoned a cradle with a wave of her hand and gently placed Perseus inside. Then, she gestured to the assembled gods, who raised their hands and chanted the incantation she had provided. The air around them pulsed with energy as beams of light extended from their hands, forming a protective dome around the cradle. Slowly, the cradle began to rise, hovering in the air as it was drawn toward the portal.
As the cradle passed through, a roar tore through the heavens. "NO!" The voice, filled with raw hatred and despair, made the gods turn in unison toward the source. Emerging from the shadows was Tartarus himself, in all his terrifying glory. His massive form loomed, the darkness that shrouded his face swirling like a living abyss. His monstrous figure seemed to stretch the very fabric of reality, his presence suffocating and absolute.
Without hesitation, Tartarus unleashed a wave of dark energy that surged through the air like a tidal wave. It struck the gods with crushing force, knocking them to the ground. Poseidon's limbs felt heavy, the exhaustion from days of battle finally catching up to him. He could hear the labored breathing of his brothers and sisters, all of them drained of their divine strength. But somewhere, deep inside, he found the resolve to rise once more. He would not fall without a fight, and he would make sure Tartarus paid for every life he had taken.
Summoning his trident, Poseidon fixed his gaze on Polybotes, who stood at Tartarus' side, a mocking grin plastered across his brutish face. It was Polybotes who had slaughtered Amphitrite and Triton during the siege of Atlantis. The memory of their deaths burned like acid in Poseidon's veins, and he channeled that rage into a powerful strike, charging at his enemy with all the fury of the sea.
Though he knew his chances of surviving the encounter were slim, a sense of peace filled him. Perseus was safe. No matter what became of him and the others, his son would live on, carrying with him the hope of all who had fallen. Poseidon braced himself for the clash, knowing that his blood—the blood of the sea—would never yield.
Far away, across the bounds of space and time, a young woman walked along the edge of her
late uncle's farm. The fields stretched endlessly around her, their quiet stillness a stark contrast to the turmoil that had consumed her life. The past week had been a blur, filled with arrangements for her uncle's burial and the condolences of neighbors. Yet no words could fill the emptiness that had settled within her since she had found him in his room, his chest no longer rising with breath.
Sally Jackson was nineteen, with long dark hair that fell in waves down her back. Her eyes, a piercing blue, were red-rimmed from crying. She had no close family left now; her parents had died when she was a child, leaving her in the care of her uncle. It was not an easy life, but it was a life. Now even that was gone, and she was left alone to manage the farm, to face a world that seemed too vast and too cold.
She had friends, of course. The Grace couple had moved into the old farmhouse a few miles away just last year, and they had a little boy now, Jason, who was only a couple of months old. Sally had held the baby once, marveled at his tiny hands and the way he would grasp her finger with surprising strength. It had brought her a strange comfort, though she had declined their invitation to stay with them, feeling that her grief was something she had to face alone.
A sudden neigh from the stables jolted her from her thoughts. She quickened her pace, expecting to see Blackjack and Guido fighting over apples again. As she approached, the stables came into view, and what she saw made her stop short. There, in the middle of the stable, lay a cradle, unlike any she had ever seen before. It seemed to shimmer with an unearthly glow, and the air around it was warmer, as if a summer breeze had just swept through.
With a heart pounding in her chest, Sally stepped forward, her eyes widening as she saw the infant inside. He was no more than six months old, with a head of raven-black hair and a peaceful expression. As if sensing her presence, the baby's eyes fluttered open, revealing a bright, vivid sea-green. He looked at her with a curiosity that seemed far too mature for a child so young.
She hesitated, then reached down and lifted the baby from the cradle. He was light in her arms, and he responded to her touch with a coo and a little smile. Sally's breath caught in her throat. She had never seen a more beautiful child. He seemed untouched by the world's cruelty, as if he had just arrived from some distant, purer realm.
"Hi, cutie," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "What's your name?" The baby did not reply, of course, but as he shifted, something fell from the folds of the blanket—a small piece of sea-green paper. Sally picked it up and read the single word written there: "PERSEUS."
"Perseus?" she said softly, testing the name. "Well, I suppose that's a start." She looked down at the child, who was now gripping a lock of her hair in his tiny fist. "You sure know how to make an entrance, don't you?"
Sally carried the child into the house, her heart racing with a mixture of confusion and excitement. She didn't know what raising a child would mean for her future—her dream of becoming an author seemed farther away than ever now. Yet, as she looked at Perseus, she felt a warmth inside her that she hadn't felt since her parents died.
Standing in the doorway, she watched the sun dip below the horizon, the last rays of light bathing the world in gold. "It's going to be alright, Perseus," she whispered, her voice filled with a resolve she hadn't known she possessed. "We're going to be okay. I'll make sure of it."
And so, with the stars beginning to glimmer overhead, Sally Jackson made a promise to the child in her arms—a promise to love and protect him, no matter what the future held. From this day forward, he would be known as Perseus Jackson. The boy who had fallen from the heavens would grow up to face whatever destiny awaited him.