Chapter 11: Era

As the dusk settled over the village of Anavra, its last rays of sunlight seemed to shy away from the spectacle unfolding at its gates. Once a place of tranquil passage for those entering and leaving the town, the field now bore the marks of a battleground, disturbed soil and scattered debris painting a picture of chaos. In the midst of this disarray stood Perseus, his figure a finitude to the destruction surrounding him. Blood, a vivid red that clashed against the black ivory fabric of his chiton, stained the garment as if marking him as a warrior prince in the truest sense. The royal attire, now marred by the violence of his actions, did little to detract from the authority he exuded.

Among the cluster of soldiers that surrounded the primordial, a nervous whisper began to ripple through their ranks, their earlier bravado now replaced by a tactile fear. One, younger and less seasoned than the others, his armor ill-fitting and his hands gripping his spear with an uncertainty that aired volumes, spoke up. "Should we not pray to the Olympians for protection?"

"Alas! I dearly neglect the offerings of mine meal yesternight."

"To Hades with such, I say we flee," Another voice uttered.

"Aye, young one. To flee would be the wiser course."

A fifth, clad in nothing but leather that shifted with each tremulous breath he took, chimed in, his voice a mere whisper, as if afraid to be overheard by the gods themselves. "Yet, should we not stand our ground? To retreat in the face of a heretic may draw Olympian ire upon us as well."

"Nay, I fear the gods no less than yon demigod, but to stand against such power is to court death itself. What hope have we against a force that felled the great Heracles?" Their conversation fell to a hush as they observed Perseus move, each man wrestling with his own courage and cowardice.

Perseus's posture, as he stood over the petrified form of Heracles, was one of undisputed dominance. His gaze, fixed upon the stone figure beneath him, was as sharp as blade, reflecting a resolve that bordered on the divine. The air, heavy with the scent of turned earth and the iron tang of blood carried the weight of a moment that would be etched in the memory of the village for generations to come.

In the shadow of the ongoing scene, Zoë found herself enveloped in the warmth of Prometheus's woolen embrace. The blanket, a simple piece of cloth moments ago, had become a sanctuary from the horror that had unfolded before her eyes. Yet, as the reality of her safety settled in, she hurriedly scrambled out of it, a blush coloring her cheeks at the intimacy of the gesture. "I... thank thee," she murmured, her voice barely carrying over the gentle breeze that ruffled the wheat fields around them.

Prometheus, his gaze fixed on the scene ahead, offered a scoff in response, a sound that seemed out of place amidst the solemn aftermath. "Thou art under the protection of His Grace now," he stated matter-of-factly, his voice carrying a hint of sternness. "And thus, by extension, mine own responsibility."

Taken aback, Zoë crossed her arms defensively, her eyes flitting between the titan and the distant figure of Perseus. The reminder of her newfound "protection" did little to ease the turmoil of emotions within her. She opened her mouth to retort, only to be cut off by a loud, commanding shout from the direction of the guards.

The guards of Anavra, a motley crew clad in armor that had seen better days, encircled Perseus with trepidation etched deeply into their faces. Their disarray was not just in their attire but mirrored in their faltering steps and the hesitant glances they exchanged, as if questioning the wisdom of confronting a figure of Perseus's stature. Their swords, held with grips both awkward and unsure, seemed more a plea than a threat, their bodies angled in ways that spoke of retreat more than engagement.

Among them, a figure with a faded red sash draped over his shoulder stepped forward, his stance found a false semblance of authority amidst the chaos. Grey streaks betrayed his age, weaving through his hair like rivers of time. "Thy crimes against the gods and their worshippers will... not... go unheard," he spoke, his voice faltering as Perseus turned to him slowly. The way the man held his sword was more confident than the others, but his eyes gave way to his true nature.

Fear. He was terrified. Terrified of the boy, who looked no older than 16, who had just bested the greatest hero of their generation.

From his vantage point, Prometheus gently rose to his full, imposing height, his eyes never leaving the unfolding scene. His stance, one of readiness to leap into action, belied the calm assessment in his gaze. Beside him, Zoë stood transfixed, her gaze locked on Perseus with a mix of apprehension and awe. Together, they observed as Perseus, with an air of nonchalance that verged on contempt, advanced towards the stone effigy of Heracles, utterly disregarding the veiled threats of the encircling knights. The world seemed to hold its breath as Perseus approached the petrified form of Heracles. There was a poetry to his movements, a grace that seemed almost out of place on the battlefield.

"H-HALT!" One of the Anavrans demanded. "Halt!"

Perseus' steps, measured and deliberate, carried him to the side of his fallen foe with an elegance that belied the brutality of the conflict that had preceded this moment. As he stood before the statue, his gaze swept over the figure, not with the triumph of a victor but with the dispassionate eye of an artist assessing his work. His fingers, stained with the remnants of battle, reached out, tracing the lines and contours of the stone with a reverence that seemed at odds with the indifference in his eyes. They moved with a precision that spoke of a deep familiarity with the art of conflict.

The search was brief and purposeful as if guided by a sense that went beyond mere sight. And then, he found what he sought - a celestial bronze blade, its form dormant yet imposing, thrust deep into the earth as though it were a part of the landscape itself. The retrieval was nothing short of mesmerizing. The god's hand clasped around the hilt, and with a motion as fluid as the River Styx, he freed the sword from its earthen sheath—lifting it from the ground as if lifting a feather.

Around them, the guards, who had moments before positioned themselves as challengers to this divine figure, found themselves reduced to mere bystanders in a drama far beyond their control. Their bluster and bravado evaporated into the ether, leaving them as statuesque as the figure of Heracles before them. Their bodies tensed, petrified not by power but by the overwhelming realization of their own insignificance in the face of true divinity. Their eyes, once filled with the fire of duty, were as cold as the stone gaze of Heracles, wide with a terror that anchored them to their spots, unable to move, unable to look away.

As Perseus moved forward, the guards instinctively parted, their actions less a result of discipline than of an overwhelming desire to distance themselves from the godly figure before them. Their inaction was not born of respect but of terror, a visceral acknowledgment of Perseus's dominance that was palpable in the very air. They watched, wide-eyed and immobile, as he navigated through their ranks with the ease of a predator moving amongst its prey, their fear rendering them as ineffective as if they had been turned to stone themselves.

The sight of Perseus approaching was like that of a figure from the darkest of myths, a demon made flesh. Crimson liquid dripped to the ground from his hands in a macabre rhythm. His expression, however, revealed nothing of the tumult and turmoil that such an act might have incited within a mortal heart. There was no satisfaction in his gaze, no malice, nor any hint of regret. His face was as devoid of emotion as a mask, betraying no sign that the act of slaying a legend was anything more than a mundane task to be completed.

Zoë's breath hitched in her throat, a fragile sound against the backdrop of an uneasy calm. "Was he always thus?" she ventured, her voice a whisper barely carried on the wind, eyes fixed on Perseus's approaching form.

For a moment, as Perseus drew nearer, Prometheus remained silent, his gaze lost in the horizon, perhaps in thoughts as distant. Zoë braced herself for the void of an unanswered question, the silence stretching taut between them. Then, unexpectedly, Prometheus's voice, soft yet laden with an emotion Zoë could not quite place—was it confusion or sorrow—broke the silence. "Nay," he murmured, his tone a low rumble, "not ever hath Perseus been thus. In all conflict, against foes fierce and daunting, never did he revel in violence as he doth now."

The revelation shook Zoë, a shiver running down her spine. The idea that Prometheus, ancient and unyielding, could be unsettled by Perseus's actions instilled in her a deep, unnerving sense of discomfort. It was as though she could, through Prometheus's words, touch the very disquiet that haunted him.

"His Grace was ever known to be kind, possessed of a wisdom that belied his years. Yet, even at the cosmos's dawn, amidst the birth of stars and the forging of fates, he was sung the most dangerous among even his elder primordials."

Zoë's heart raced as she processed his words. The dichotomy of Perseus—kind and wise, yet the most dangerous entity since the cosmos's birth—was a paradox that twisted in her mind, a puzzle that seemed to have no solution. The most dangerous? More dangerous than the Earth Mother? More dangerous than even the fabled Primordial of Creation? "How might one be both the gentlest and the most perilous?"

The knowledge that the man she had seen, clothed in the trophy of his recent violence, held within him such depths of power and potential for destruction was overwhelming. "The prince," Prometheus intoned, "may not have stood tallest in prowess of body, craft of magic, or sharpness of mind. His greatest skill, that of swift motion, might be mirrored by another through strive of millenia, though 'tis a rare chance. Yet in one vital measure, he did outshine all others."

The nymph leaned forward, eager to gain further insight. She yearned to know, desperate to learn what made Perseus the most fearsome of all ancient deities. "His influence," A golden sheen seemed to pass through the titan's eyes as if a glint of profound pride.

"Like a puppeteer with strings doth stretch 'cross the very stars, he commanded obedience. All things, breathing and not, felt the compulsion to bend the knee at his presence, wisdom, smile, and might. His Grace was born to rule not just as a king, but as a monarch of creation—king of all."

With each word, the figure of Perseus loomed larger in Zoë's perception, his approach not just that of a man but a force of nature, his presence seemingly bending the very air around them with the weight of his unseen crown. Even in this weakened form, with the boundless energy of his strength concealed at his fingertips, if one looked close enough, they might have seen even the dying grass of the highlands bend toward him. They may have seen the way the rocks and pebbles of the rough dirt flowed back and forth like a dance to entertain the god.

"His power lay not merely in his ability to control," Prometheus continued, his voice a soft rumble, "but in his wisdom to wield that control with precision. For His Grace to shed the restraints he once held over himself, signifies a potential for destruction unparalleled."

The titan exhaled slowly as he finished his train of thought, "Those puppet strings, once emblems of his sovereign dominion, might yet turn into harbingers of ruin should they wrap about the world unchecked."

As Perseus finally arrived within speaking distance, the ominous aura that had preceded him seemed to dissipate; the shadows of the demon he had appeared to be retreating as if banished by the light of his own shifting demeanor. The transformation was startling, the brooding intensity replaced almost instantaneously by a casual, lopsided grin that seemed utterly at odds with the dire warnings Prometheus had just imparted.

He chuckled, a sound that carried no hint of the darkness that had enveloped him moments before, and extended his hand towards Zoë, offering the sword by its blade, hilt pointed in her direction. "I do hope, Zoë, thou wilt take care not to injure thyself with such a pointy hairpin," he joked, the lightness in his voice belying the depths from which he'd just emerged. The sudden shift from the divine emperor to the gallant, albeit cheeky, boy was jarring.

Zoë's gaze shifted between the hilt of the sword and Perseus's face, her obsidian eyes widening with the realization that he had identified the true nature of what she had called merely a hairpin. Her surprise did not go unnoticed, and Perseus, with an understanding smile, scratched his head as he addressed her unspoken question. "The energy within this blade, it resonates almost parallel to thine own," he explained, his tone gentle, hinting at a shared secret between them.

He then squatted down to her level, pointing at himself with his free hand, his expression turning thoughtful as he seemed to delve into memories of a distant past. "In mine childyears, I found myself excelling at all things magical and divine," he reminisced, a wistful note in his voice suggesting a time of innocence and discovery.

As he spoke, the light of the setting sun caught the blade, Anaklusmos, enhancing its celestial bronze glow. The blood from Perseus's hands, Heracles' blood, mingled with the metal, tracing rivulets along the intricate designs etched into the surface. "Celestial bronze. Tis' well crafted."

The sun's rays glinted off the blood-stained bronze, giving the blade an almost ethereal illumination that seemed to pulse with an ancient power. Zoë's mother had given her this blade, and at this moment, it felt as if the weapon carried the weight of her heritage and destiny. Perseus's eyes brightened as he shook the hilt slightly towards her, his smile encouraging. "Taketh it," he urged, his voice imbued with a camaraderie that could bridge the distance between god and mortal.

Reluctantly, yet with a sense of reclaiming a part of her past, Zoë reached out and grasped Anaklusmos, feeling the cool weight of the blade in her hands. As she held her blade, now restored to her after so long, Perseus rose to his feet, his demeanor shifting to one of purpose. "Now that we have retrieved thy hairpin," Perseus declared, his resonant voice sweeping across the field towards where Prometheus stood, rooted in contemplation.

His eyes flickered with anticipation as he continued, "It is time for Prometheus to recount what hath transpired in the centuries of my slumber."

Prometheus, caught off guard by the request, paused, his features tightening as he processed Perseus's words. His usually placid brow furrowed, and a shadow seemed to pass over his face as the weight of history and unspoken truths stretched the silence to near breaking. "Centuries?"

"Aye, Prometheus. Gaea's plane hath gone amongst most transformation in such mere time. Surely we must call a celebration, send a raven to Nike for the Council's assembly. I must commend Ananke's quilting to aid in my vision of mortality!"

The words drifted off into the low wind. The trio stood in a skewed circle as both Perseus and Zoë looked to the titan. After a tense moment, Prometheus spoke, his deep voice seeming to slow the very passage of time around them. "Centuries, my lord? Thou wert not asleep, my lord."

Perseus, struck by the unexpected correction, knitted his brows and tilted his head, a puzzled frown forming as he searched Prometheus's ancient, weathered face for meaning. "What meanest thou?" he queried, the confusion in his voice mirroring the uncertainty in his eyes.

Prometheus let out a slow, measured exhale, the sound like the whisper of wind through ancient ruins, drawing the encroaching dusk closer around them. "Thou didst not merely fall into a deep slumber," he began, his voice bearing the gravity of a divine oracle. "Thou hast been absent not for mere centuries but for hundreds of thousands of years, my lord."

This revelation struck Perseus with the force of a storm. He staggered slightly, his body instinctively recoiling as if to reject the inconceivable notion. His hand reached out, grasping at the air for balance as the ground beneath him seemed to sway. "Hundreds of thousands...?" he murmured under his breath, the words catching in his throat.

"Indeed, thou fell beyond our reach—a true immortal's death," Prometheus added solemnly, the setting sun casting long shadows that seemed to underscore the finality of his words.

Watching Perseus grapple with the revelation, Prometheus's expression softened, aged eyes filled with a mixture of compassion and resignation. "Take comfort in the fields, Your Grace" he suggested with gentle firmness, gesturing to a nearby stone worn smooth by time and weather. "I shall tell thee everything I know."

Perseus, still visibly shaken, moved slowly toward the stone, his movements hesitant as he processed the enormity of what he had just learned. With a heavy sigh, he lowered himself onto the cold, hard surface, the act of sitting seeming to anchor him back into the reality of his existence—a reality that had shifted irrevocably in the span of a single conversation.

I had watched with grave concern as the forces of nature stirred uneasily, drawing us away from the tranquil oceans to the heights of Olympus. It had been only a few days since the daimones and I had departed from Lord Perseus's side having left at his bidding to aid Lady Gaea in a pressing matter: the birth of a new race of titans. Before the return to Mount Othrys, Lady Gaea had approached us with a sense of urgency that permeated her every word and gesture.

"Prometheus, daimones," she had begun, her voice resonant with the power of the earth itself, "we are summoned to Olympus. An assembly of great consequence has been called, and our presence is required without delay."

Her expression had seemed to bear the weight of the world, her eyes reflecting the deep currents of knowledge that only a primordial earth mother could possess. It felt as though the winds themselves carried her command, stirring the leaves and whispering of the urgency. I recall Madam Nike, Madam Nemesis, and even Ser Eros looking to me for guidance, urging my foresight in the likely absence of our creator. Without the prince, we did not see it appropriate to follow the whims of another primordial being unless directly ordered.

"This is no ordinary gathering," she had continued, her tone laden with a rare intensity. "My oldest brother Phanes himself has called for all the protogenoi. The matter at hand must surely weigh heavily on the balance of the cosmos."

With that solemn declaration, we knew that whatever awaited us at the summit of Olympus was far beyond the usual disputes or declarations that occasionally stirred among the deities. Something profound and potentially world-altering was unfolding, compelling us to heed the call with the utmost seriousness. Lady Gaea then smiled at us softly, "I assure you that Percy will be in attendance."

I believe with that, we set out immediately, leaving the serene seas behind as we climbed the celestial pathways that would lead us to the council chamber—a place where the threads of fate often tangled and where the decisions of the primordial gods could reshape the very fabric of existence. As Olympus came into view, its eternal splendor a stark contrast to the urgency of our summons, I felt the pressure of impending decisions that might well determine the future courses of gods and stars alike.

The call to assemble had come directly from Lord Phanes, his voice resonating through the skies, summoning all the primordials to gather in the hallowed council chamber of Olympus. Sensing the gravity of his words, each of us had hastened to heed his summons, aware that such a gathering foretold a matter of profound significance. As I ascended the celestial pathways that led to the council chamber, Olympus unveiled itself in all its resplendent glory. The eternal mountain was bathed in the golden light of a never-setting sun; its peaks were shrouded in the radiant mists of divine presence.

It has been so long since I've seen the old Olympus, now under the rule of the self-titled "Olympians," that truthfully, I am incapable of putting it into words. Perhaps it is the same... perhaps not. Marble colonnades had stood as testaments to the might and artistry of the primordials, their surfaces gleaming like polished bone under the ethereal light. Gardens abundant with ambrosial flora perfumed the air, their sweet fragrances mingling with the crisp mountain breeze, crafting an atmosphere of celestial serenity that belied the tense undercurrent sweeping through the realms of the immortals.

Upon entering the council chamber, a magnificent hall where the essence of creation itself seemed to converge, I was met with the sight of the great primordial deities, each seated upon their thrones. These were no mere seats but embodiments of their dominions and powers. Lady Chaos, the first primordial and, most importantly, the mother to the prince, was seated on a floating throne high above the others. I remember how regal she sat; the way she leaned slightly into the side made her posture look identical to that of the Lord Perseus.

I recall our presence being the last to arrive. Following Lady Gaea, I led the daimones through the throne room doors of Lady Chaos' palace. My eyes had scanned the room, locking with each of the great primordial deities before settling onto the only vacant seat. "To where is His Grace?" Madam Hebe had whispered from the middle of our pack, the soft sound of her wings flapping nervously, filling my ears.

Ser Thanatos, always aware of the principles of the primordials, quickly hushed her. "Be still with your words, Hebe. Only the Protogenoi may speak freely amidst the council."

As the assembly settled, a hush fell over the throne room, every deity poised in anticipation. I remember that as Lord Phanes was the first to rise, a ripple of murmurs spread through the gathered primordials. The assembly, normally a stately affair, was tinged with an air of tension due to the conspicuous absence of one among them. A soft cough came from above the seated deities. "Why do we convene without Percy?" Lady Chaos questioned, her voice echoing like a distant storm. "His absence surely bodes ill for whatever matter presses us."

"Indeed, to where is he? To begin without the favorite child is most unusual," Lord Erebus added, a slight grin covering his features that almost seemed to crawl along the darkened corners of the chamber.

Before Lord Phanes could even begin to address the gathering, Lord Tartarus voiced his skepticism loudly, a smirk playing across his dark visage. "It is unlike Brother Phanes to start without all present; surely, this isn't some sort of jest," he had boomed. "Perseus! Baby Percy! Come out of hiding or fear that I shall drag you out!"

Lady Nyx had chimed in with a lightness that starkly contrasted with the growing dread, "A joke from Phanes? Now, that would be a sight indeed. Mayhap Perseus is influencing even the self-acclaimed 'Perfected God,' hmmm?"

I recall Lady Hemera and even Lady Ananke giggling a bit at Lady Nyx's antics. "D'you not feel shame, my dear mother? For it was you that would plot the abduction of Percy more than any!" Lady Hemera claimed loud and brightly.

If my memory serves me correctly, the entire Primordial Council erupted into applause and cheers at the night mother's expense. They all had laughed and giggled, pointing fingers at Lady Nyx as she shielded her face; only raising a hand to hit her daughter on the arm out of embarrassment. Similar claims and jabs were thrown toward Lady Nyx amongst the other primordials. The joyous shouts and roars of laughter filled the chamber that it almost hurts to think about.

Yes, I remember this well. I can almost picture the scene in clearest day. Perhaps it was out of duty or principle. Or may it have simply been the way I can still feel the weight of the smile that had been on my face as I watched the most powerful beings in the universe embody the happiness that His Grace had once described to be. No. That wasn't it. That was not it. I am capable of recalling this memory in such detail because of what followed.

For that was the last time I could say with certainty that the primordial deities ever smiled again.

It was Lord Phanes, his demeanor as radiant and commanding as ever, who had hushed the room with a gesture of his hand. With a solemnity that commanded attention, he had declared the first words that would plunge the world into its darkest silence. "I must insist on your quietude. This gathering is no jest," his voice reverberating through the chamber like the final toll of a bell.

"Be mute. All of you know Phanes would not call for such counsel in haste unless necessary," a low grumble from Lord Chronos had ushered the remnants of any playful demeanor.

A loud sigh came from one of the seats across from where I and the daimones stood at the foot of Lord Perseus's throne. I'm not certain, but it's possible I remember hearing the soft cadence of a distant thunder echo. "Yes, as Chronos says. I must request this matter be dealt with swiftly as my dear sister has recently unleashed a rather nasty beast into the oceans, and it is now my duty to tame it before it wreaks any more havoc on the western coasts."

"Oh, cease your whining, Pontus," Lady Thalassa had groaned, rolling her light turquoise eyes, "I apologize for not being as well suited to creation as Percy. Next time, I shall ask him for his assistance."

"Next time?!"

Another soft cough came from above the pair, causing them to fall silent. I can only assume Lady Chaos had been giving them a rather pointed look. "You may continue, Phanes," She spoke softly, her hand lofted down at him to give him consent to proceed.

As Lord Phanes stood before the assembly of primordials, the air within the council chamber grew thick with palpable tension. Silence draped over us like a heavy cloak, suffocating in its intensity. I had been standing near the back, my heart tightening in my chest as I observed Lord Phanes, his usual radiant composure marred by a subtle yet unmistakable tremor of hesitation. It was unlike him, the firstborn of Lady Chaos, to falter or show signs of distress, and this alone was enough to send a ripple of unease through my core.

The murmurs had died down completely now, every deity within the vast chamber held in thrall by the gravity of the moment. Lord Phanes seemed to struggle internally, his celestial features wrought with an emotional battle that was rarely witnessed by any. The divine aura that typically surrounded him flickered like a flame caught in a sudden breeze, betraying his turmoil. Across the room, though many paces away, I could hear the faintest catch in his voice, a soft whimper that one might miss if not listening intently. It was a sound of profound grief, muffled by his divine dignity yet heartbreakingly clear in the hushed stillness.

"I bear dire news—the gravest of tidings." His eyes, usually a wellspring of wisdom and authority, now mirrored a sorrow so deep it seemed to fracture the very essence of his being.

He gathered himself visibly, drawing a deep breath that seemed to pull the weight of the cosmos into his lungs. The chamber awaited his words with bated breath, each of us ensnared in the web of tension that his silence spun around us. "Well, begin with it!" Lord Tartarus roared playfully as he slapped his hand against his throne's armrest.

A few of the primordials had snickered at that, unaware of what Lord Phanes was about to say. But I, myself, looking back, I might've known it before the words left the mouth of him.

When Lord Phanes finally spoke, his voice was a whisper forced against the tide of his emotions, heavy with the burden of his news. The room itself seemed to lean in, bracing for the impact of his next words. The God of Creation drew in a slow breath.

"Perseus has been slain... eternally."

The chilling proclamation echoed through the council chamber.

I recall that the first to succumb to the wave of grief was Lady Hemera. She almost seemed to dim before the eyes of the assembly, her usual luminescence swallowed by a shadow of despair. With a small, almost imperceptible sigh, she collapsed back into her throne, the ringing of her descent resonating like the quiet fall of dusk.

As Lady Hemera's light waned, the chamber's atmosphere thickened with sorrow and shock. Lord Tartarus, whose earlier laughter had filled the hall with its booming resonance, found himself abruptly silenced. The humor that had so recently danced in his eyes was extinguished, replaced by a dawning horror that seemed to root him to his dark throne. Next to myself, Madam Nike's legs gave way, crumpling to her knees, her figure crumpled in defeat, her wings—a symbol of triumph—now listlessly draped along the cold marble floor. The sight of Madam Nike in despair, the distant yet respected knight of the prince, quickly erupted the other daimones into a frenzy.

Madam Hebe's youthful voice shattered the somber quietude with a heart-wrenching scream. Her cry, filled with the raw pain of untimely loss, cut through the chamber until Ser Thanatos, gently but firmly, quickly moved to comfort her. Covering her mouth with his hand, he stifled her screams, his own eyes brimming with tears as he bit down on his other hand to contain his grief. My eyes had shied away from Lord Perseus's servants, only to return themselves to further misery.

In a tender attempt to provide solace to her daughter, Lady Nyx had risen to comfort Lady Hemera, moving with a grace that belied her own turmoil. Yet, halfway to her side, the strength that had defined her through eons faltered, and she collapsed, overwhelmed by the depth of her own anguish. Lord Erebus, ever the companion to Lady Nyx, was quick to envelop her in an embrace, his dark form a cradle of support in their shared darkness.

This sequence of grief and support wove a tapestry of profound sorrow that enveloped each member of the council. The gods, so often perceived as unshakable pillars of the cosmos, were visibly shaken, each rendered powerless by the loss of one of their own. As Lady Hemera's cries continued to fill the space, echoing off the ancient stones of the chamber, a heavy silence settled back over the assembly.

The atmosphere thickened further when Lord Tartarus, unable to contain his tumultuous emotions, surged to his feet. With a speed that belied his abyssal nature, he closed the distance to Lord Phanes, his massive hands seizing the edges of the elder god's chiton. His grip was iron, his eyes burning with a ferocity that could rival the darkest pits of the underworld. "INFEASIBLE! Do not jest!" Lord Tartarus had bellowed, his voice booming through the chamber, the walls themselves seeming to tremble under the weight of his fury.

His demand for clarity was not just a question—it was a command, one that echoed with the depth of the abyss from which he ruled. Before Lord Phanes could muster a response, Lady Gaea, tears streaming down her cheeks, interjected with a voice choked with emotion. "He cannot be faded; he is immortal!"

Her denial was not just a refusal to accept the prince's death; it was a plea, a sister's hope clinging to the impossibility that her brother could be permanently lost. Lord Tartarus, his gaze momentarily drawn to Lady Gaea's tearful countenance, seemed to grow even more incensed by the sight of her distress. As I observed from a distance, I could feel a shift in the atmosphere; the pain Lady Gaea exhibited only fuelled Lord Tartarus's rage further, reinforcing his resolve.

Whirling back to face Lord Phanes, Lord Tartarus's voice thundered with the full might of the abyss, a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of Olympus. "Perseus could not be gone! I trained him myself—no force in the cosmos could best him!" His declaration was a testament to his belief in the prince's invincibility, a belief that was now being tested in the most brutal of ways.

"I trained him myself! I trained him, me. Me! I did." He slammed Lord Phanes' weight against his own throne.

Lord Phanes, standing solemnly under the weight of Lord Tartarus's fury, remained silent. His head hung low, not in defeat, but perhaps in acknowledgment of the pain his words had caused. It was as if he were allowing Lord Tartarus to vent his wrath upon him, accepting the role of a scapegoat, bearing the collective ire as a form of atonement for the unbearable news he had delivered. As the cries and shouts filled the chamber, it was clear that the implications of the prince's demise would resonate far beyond the confines of this celestial gathering, challenging the very foundations of what these ancient beings understood about their immortal existence.

"What shall we do, Prometheus?" A voice had whispered behind me, soft and breaking through tears.

The speaker was Madam Eris, the embodiment of strife and the youngest of the prince's knights. Her wings were folded in a way that covered most of her face, and her medium-length, cool-blue hair almost covered the rest. "Quiet Eris, were you not listening when Thanatos was scolding Hebe?" Madam Dike interjected.

Madam Dike, similar to Madam Eris, was quite young in comparison to her fellow daimones. As the embodiment of justice, she closely worked with Madam Nike as her advisor and, characteristically, was the only angel amongst the flock who was able to keep her composure in the face of the council's anguish. Regardless, Madam Eris had continued to eye me, waiting for a response. I knew at the time that she was seeking my insight; I knew that she was attempting to find solace in myself. I knew this because even Madam Dike had stopped chiding her younger cohort because she, too, was looking to see if I had an answer.

All I could think of was how I, the great Prometheus, Titan of Foresight and Forethought, a being created for the sole purpose of his capabilities to rival the wisdom and perception of the Prince of the Cosmos himself—was reduced to a speechless, thoughtless, blubbering fool. I was failing them, failing the prince. Watching as the light of hope in their pleading eyes slowly extinguished was possibly an even greater pain than witnessing their chokes and cries.

A yell had then ripped through the chamber that took my attention. "No! I refuse to believe such nonsense. Where is he?" Speak of truth, Phanes!" Lord Erebus roared, still holding onto Lady Nyx's shuddering form.

It was then that Lord Ouranos stepped forward, his usually calm demeanor twisted with frustration and guilt. He cracked his neck, clearly nervous and frightened, as he prepared to speak for the first time since the council's assembly. "It is true," he asserted, his voice strained as if carrying a great weight. "Truth it is!"

Olympus's halls quieted, waiting to hear what the Protogenos of the Sky had to contribute. Only sniffles and whimpers, soft wails and gags, and the deep breaths of the immortal beings within the throne room were to be heard. "The skies themselves bore witness. The heavens turned a blinding white, piercing my domain with such fierce energy I was compelled to return to Perseus's kingdom." As Lord Ouranos continued, his gaze drifted downwards, haunted by the memory of what he had witnessed.

"Upon my arrival, I beheld a scene of utter devastation. A being, clad in the purest of whites, stood over Perseus. It was burning away everything that constituted his immortality. His energy, his very essence, was consumed in flames of unnatural fervor. Before my eyes, all that made him a god was obliterated. There can be no doubt left of his fate."

A heavy silence ensued, the gravity of Lord Ouranos's testimony pressing down upon every deity present. The air itself felt thick, charged with a mournful energy that seemed to mute any attempts at denial or disbelief. In a sudden display of emotion that startled the assembly, Lord Ouranos spun and struck the side of his throne. The sharp crack of fracturing stone echoed ominously through the chamber, mirroring the fractures in the gods' understanding of their own immortal lives. The powerful, resounding impact served as a harsh physical manifestation of the internal strife they all felt.

"I was powerless to help him," Lord Ouranos exclaimed, his voice cracking as it broke through the suffocating silence, filled with self-reproach. "THE BLAME IS MINE!"

Lord Phanes had then extended his hand across the expanse of the council chamber, a gesture of solidarity and shared burden as he addressed the assembly. "Do not direct the blade of blame at yourself, Ouranos," he called out, his voice resonant with authority yet tinged with empathy.

"For I, too, stood but a mere onlooker to this tragedy. We both share in this guilt." His words, meant as reassurance, hung heavily in the air, acknowledging the collective helplessness that had marked this dark moment.

The reactions to this immense loss varied dramatically among the gods, reflecting their diverse natures and dominions. A solemn quiet had initially settled over the room as each deity processed the gravity of Lord Phanes's words. This silence, however, soon gave way to a cascade of emotional responses. Her voice, usually clear and resonant like the morning sun, Lady Hemera now trembled with vulnerability as she whispered into the still air, "It cannot be permanent... surely. It is Percy, this is Percy we're talking of!"

"Yes, there must be some misunderstanding. Perseus, lost to us? It defies belief. Nowhere in my tapestry is such woven," Lady Ananke added with short words, filled with denial and disbelief, reflecting a raw, unfiltered hope against hope.

This undercurrent of denial soon erupted into overt conflict as sorrow turned to frustration. Lady Thalassa, her voice rising like a tide, lashed out at Lady Gaea, "You took his guardians away at a time most critical! Did you not consider the peril left in your wake?" Her accusation struck a chord, resonating through the chamber with the force of a storm surge.

In defense of Lady Gaea, Lord Pontus countered with heated fervor, "Cease your foolishness. It was all for you—the birth of new titans! We cannot blame her for acts of fate!" His words, passionate and protective, clashed with Lady Thalassa's like waves against the rock, highlighting the deep divisions that the prince's death was exposing among them.

"You must have known!" Lady Thalassa's voice cracked under the strain of her emotions as she continued to blame her own mother, "With the rings—the rings that absorb his divinity—Percy was vulnerable alone without his protectors!"

Lord Pontus, wearied and disheartened by the relentless blame, fell silent, his final whisper a confession of his own perceived failing, "I should have been there to protect him as if he were my own brother." His somber admission laid bare the personal connections and protective instincts that even gods of their stature felt towards one another.

"What is the meaning of our existence if not to protect our own? How fragile is our immortality if it can be so easily undone?" Lord Erebus had spoken to himself, questioning the very foundations of the Protogenoi's existence.

Approaching Lord Erebus, Lord Chronos spoke with a calm that seemed almost out of place amidst the tumult, "Nothing in this universe is certain, Erebus, save for change itself. We must find strength even in uncertainty. In time, all will find certainty."

Lord Tartarus's towering frame trembled with barely contained rage, evidently not caring about Lord Erebus's reflection. The tension that had been simmering beneath his stony exterior finally erupted. With a swift and powerful motion, he hurled Lord Phanes by his robes, sending the elder brother back towards his throne with such force that the sound of the divine seat cracking under the sudden weight echoed ominously in the chamber.

The other primordial deities flinched at the raw display of brawn. Without a word, Lord Tartarus had then turned on his heel, his heavy steps resounding like thunder as he strode toward the throne room's exit, intent on leaving the assembly behind. "To where do you rush with such haste, Tartarus?" Lady Nyx squeaked, her voice typically soft as the velvet of dark carrying an unusual sharp edge of urgent concern.

Without slowing or turning to face her, Lord Tartarus bellowed back, his voice booming through the hall. "I will not allow the bastard that stole my brother away, to walk with legs!"

The last thing I can recall was the way the chamber, heavy with sorrow and regret, became even more stifling as the burden of guilt began to weigh visibly on Lord Ouranos, Lord Phanes, and Lady Gaea. His features drawn, and ashen, Lord Ouranos stood with slumped shoulders, the crushing weight of his failure bearing down on him like a physical force. Lady Gaea, usually a figure of nurturing strength, seemed to shrink before the eyes of the assembly, her earthy complexion paling as the reality of her role in the prince's absence—and vulnerability—settled in.

Lord Phanes moved with a slow, somber grace; his usual luminance dimmed. I watched as he glanced across the room at Lady Chaos, the prince's mother, who had remained eerily silent throughout the unfolding drama. Her expression was unreadable, her eyes reflecting a turmoil so profound that it seemed to warp the very space around her.

Unable to remain passive any longer, Lord Phanes approached Lady Chaos, his steps hesitant but determined. As he neared, the air around her seemed to thicken, her aura of primordial void intensifying as if to shield her from the pain of any further interaction. "Chaos," Lord Phanes began, his voice gentle, laden with a sorrow that mirrored her own. "We all share in this grief, but none more so than you. Let not this burden consume you alone."

"Mother?" Lady Nyx had called out too, raising her head from Lord Erebus's embrace to find Lady Chaos. "Mother, are you well?"

Like clockwork, several of the other primordial gods had quickly abandoned their own grief as they approached Lady Chaos in an attempt to comfort her. "Mother, everything will be okay."

"We will find a way to return Percy to us, Mother."

"Might there be something we can do for you, Mother?"

"Mother? Mother?" Lady Chaos, her gaze fixed on some distant point known only to her, remained still for a long moment before Phanes reached out to her. His hand, glowing softly with the nascent light of creation, extended in an offer of comfort. As he touched her shoulder, his warmth seemed to break through her icy reserve for a brief instant.

"If I must, I will beg your forgiveness. Yet, we cannot change what has transpired; together, we may find a path forward," Lord Phanes continued, trying to draw her back from the precipice of despair.

However, as he spoke, Lady Chaos's form began to ripple like the surface of a disturbed pond. The fabric of reality around her bent and twisted, her essence as the embodiment of the primordial void reacting to her intense emotions. "Chaos?" Lord Phanes had whispered, concerned.

"No," she whispered, a sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, reverberating through the chamber with a quiet power. "I must be alone."

With those words, Lord Phanes's attempt to console her was met with a sudden and decisive rejection. Before he could react, Lady Chaos embraced her nature as the formless beginning, her figure blurring into a swirl of shadows and cosmic dust. Lord Phanes reached out, trying to maintain his grip, to keep her anchored to the moment, to their shared reality. "Stay, please," Lord Phanes pleaded, his voice echoing with a rare crack of desperation. "We need you, Chaos. Now, more than ever."

But it was too late. With a soft whimper that seemed to carry the weight of eons, Lady Chaos slipped from his grasp, her form dissipating into the void from which she had once emerged. Lord Phanes was left clutching at empty air, his fingers curling around the nothingness she had left behind.

The spot where Chaos had stood moments before now lay bare, her departure leaving behind a visible void that seemed to suck even the faintest light from the room. Lord Phanes stood frozen; his hand still outstretched, the warmth of his glow dimming in the cold absence left by Lady Chaos. The chamber fell silent, the other primordials watching in a mix of shock and sadness as Lord Phanes slowly withdrew his hand, turning back to face the assembly.

It had seemed to me that the duty of being an almost parentlike deity to the other primordials must have been difficult, even for Lord Phanes. His face, once the picture of divine composure, now bore the marks of a profound grief, reflecting the loss that all felt but could scarcely comprehend. "Chaos has withdrawn to the void," Lord Phanes announced solemnly, his voice barely above a whisper. "We must respect her need for solitude, but let us not forget that we are bound by ties that even this tragedy cannot sever. We must support each other, now more than ever."

Lord Phanes then spat with an uncharacteristic hate, "I, too, will join in the search for Perseus's slayer. May the light of creation shine down on their darkness."

I might have sworn on the Ancient Laws that I had seen tears fall from his eyes as he burst into a light, no doubt following in the footsteps of Lord Tartarus.

That was the day the universe had darkened. Without the prince, the Era of the Cosmos had fallen into dusk, ending its reign. But with its end came the rise of a new period, a time of titans and artificial peace—the rise of a new era.

The Golden Era.

AN

Hey readers! Apologies for the delay; I've been focusing on situating several personal projects that required my attention so I never had time to actually finish this chapter despite having the outline already structured.

My courses are entering finals week so I'm not sure when I'll be updating this story next; but, I'd like to believe that I will still have the initiative to update throughout the summer. Regardless, I hope you all enjoy this chapter that will give you all a scope of how things played out after Percy's death!

Please leave your thoughts, comments, criticism, and the like for me to review. Thank you!

- ANAKX

Word Count: 8097