AN UNEXPECTED VISIT
Disclaimer: This chapter contains very explicit scenes of violence.
Erianthe couldn't help feeling nervous. What did the Fates want? What were they going to reveal? A part of her already suspected it, and that terrified her. She felt that something terrible was about to happen, something that could change everyone's fate.
Beside her, Hades glanced at her. He didn't need to read her mind to know that a storm was raging inside that little head of hers. It hurt him to see her like this. More than he would ever admit. Because if there was one expression he wanted to see on that face, it was her smile. Her smile could light even the darkest corners of the underworld—even his heart.
They were holding hands. At first, he had offered it only to help her get out of bed, but, for some reason, neither of them had wanted to let go afterward. The gesture, although simple, felt comforting. Intimate.
Seeing the tension reflected on Erianthe's face, Hades gently squeezed her hand. She noticed and looked at him.
"Everything will be fine, you'll see," he said serenely.
"Then why do I feel like something terrible is going to happen?" she replied, her voice trembling, showing a hint of distress.
"Maybe it will," he admitted truthfully. "But you know what? I'll be with you. No matter what."
Erianthe stopped in her tracks, surprised by that declaration. She looked at him with tenderness. That the very Lord of the Underworld would offer her comfort like that. It was insane.
"Promise me you'll always stay by my side," she said suddenly.
Hades looked at her, puzzled at first. No one in their right mind would want the god of the dead by their side. But Erianthe… she was different. He raised a hand and took her by the chin, forcing her to look directly into his eyes. Those unique, beautiful eyes.
"I promise," he said firmly.
Without saying another word, Erianthe threw herself into his arms, burying her face in his chest. Hades held her gently, feeling his chest fill with warmth, a feeling he was slowly learning thanks to her.
"Although, we have an unfinished conversation, brat," he murmured, trying to soften the overwhelming emotion.
Erianthe pulled away a little, looking at him. Her cheeks turned red. Hades immediately knew what she was thinking—about that almost-kiss, for the second time. Before she could misinterpret it, he rushed to clarify:
"I mean, I want you to tell me more about what you've had to endure all these years in Thebes. Sometimes I feel like you don't trust me."
Erianthe's eyes widened in surprise. Of course, she trusted him! But the moment just hadn't come up. Besides, talking about such a painful past wasn't easy.
"I trust you, Hades. Truly. If you want, when we're done with the Fates, I can tell you everything you want to know," she assured, taking his large hand between hers.
He smiled and gently leaned down to kiss her knuckles.
"Don't think you're getting away without talking about this," he said, gesturing toward their intertwined hands with a mischievous grin.
Erianthe blushed again, to which the god chuckled softly.
"Don't worry. We'll talk when the time is right."
They arrived at the throne room, where the Fates were already waiting for them, alongside a very cheerful Euryale. The gorgon raised an eyebrow as she saw them enter holding hands, a sly smile curving her lips. Finally, she thought with satisfaction. It was something special, especially for those two, who appeared to never intend to cross the line. It was clear to anyone with eyes that there was something more than simple friendship between them: that tension, those glances, that closeness that said much more than words ever could.
Behind them came Pain and Panic, exchanging knowing glances. They had witnessed an intimate moment between their master and the daughter of Hercules, and although they didn't say anything, their smiles said it all. They weren't as dumb as they looked—at least not always—and they knew perfectly well that Hades was completely smitten with Erianthe.
And honestly, they didn't mind at all. In fact, they were happy about it. Ever since that orange-haired mortal had appeared, the god of the underworld's mood had improved significantly. He no longer threatened to mutilate them so often, nor yelled at them for every mistake. He took things more calmly, or it appears so.
The little demons also really liked her because she was so kind to them, so they considered her their friend.
Erianthe, unknowingly, was working miracles in the heart of their boss. And if that meant they would live a bit more peacefully, that he sat on his throne each day with a smile… then so be it.
After all, they were good for each other, even if they didn't yet know it.
The Fates observed them with no trace of surprise. After all, they were the ones who wove the tapestry of fate. Nothing escaped their knowledge, not even the threads that were beginning to entwine more tightly between the daughter of the hero and the god of the underworld.
"Ladies! What an unexpected and 'pleasant' surprise," Hades said in his smoothest tone, deploying his natural gift for smooth talking. "What brings you to the Underworld this time? Don't tell me you came for tea. Though I must say, you look radiant as always."
"Stop flattering us, Hades!" Clotho snapped, though a faint glimmer of amusement sparkled in her tone. "We haven't come for you. We came to speak with her," she added, pointing firmly at Erianthe.
"Daughter of Hercules and Megara, step forward. Let us see you properly," said Atropos in a raspy voice, lifting her head.
Without hesitation, Erianthe stepped forward. She stood tall, raising her chin, though inside her heart was beating wildly. She couldn't ignore the nerves. It was the first time she faced the Fates. Three figures dressed in black, with withered faces and empty sockets, except for a single eye that they passed among themselves. Their appearance matched perfectly with the stories she had heard as a child. And yet, seeing them in the flesh—or what was left of it—was intimidating.
"Well, young lady," said Lachesis softly. "You are beautiful and determined, a worthy daughter of Megara. And, of course, strong and brave, like your father. But tell me. Will that bravery be enough to face what is coming?"
Erianthe swallowed hard but remained firm. She looked at the three entities with respect, without lowering her gaze.
"Honorable Fates, please, I beg you to tell me why you are here. Is it about the fate of Thebes?"
"How polite!" exclaimed Clotho with a hint of satisfaction. "It's a pleasure to reveal prophecies like this. Don't worry, young Erianthe, you don't need to be so formal with us."
"We have come to warn you about what is about to happen," continued Lachesis, her voice deep and steady.
"But also, to remind you why you became who you are, Erianthe. Or, as you are better known, Phoenix," added Atropos, with a faint smirk of satisfaction upon seeing the young woman's face transform completely in shock at the revelation of one of her secrets.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Everyone in the room was left open-mouthed, eyes wide, staring at her as if they had just seen a ghost. Euryale was the first to break the silence, unable to contain her excitement.
"What? You're Phoenix? The leader of the Children of the Revolution!?" exclaimed the gorgon, her eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. "By all the gods! I have Phoenix in front of me!"
"No way, Eri! You're the most wanted person in all of Thebes!" added Pain, clearly impressed.
"Yes, yes! We've been doing some digging and heard there's a huge bounty on your head," Panic chimed in, completely stunned.
But the excitement faded when a deep, irate voice interrupted them.
"Silence!" roared Hades, his blue flames flickering with dangerous intensity. "When were you planning on telling me, Erianthe? When were you going to tell me, you were the leader?"
His tone wasn't just anger; it was disappointment. Pain. Because this was the girl, he had started to open his heart to, and she had kept something so important from him.
"Hades." Erianthe whispered, taking a step toward him, though she didn't break eye contact. "I couldn't tell you. I couldn't just shout to the world who I am… who I really am. Not when our rules clearly stipulate that we must remain anonymous."
She paused. Took a deep breath. Her voice trembled slightly, but her tone remained firm.
"It's one thing to know I'm part of the Revolution, but knowing that I am Phoenix, that's something entirely different. It's not just about protecting myself, Hades, but everyone who fights beside me. If my identity were to come out, everything we've built. Everything so many have died for… would be in danger."
Her eyes locked with the god's—sincere, with a flicker of pleading.
"It was never about trust, but about responsibility."
Hades said nothing. He simply stared at her with those dark, unreadable eyes. His face showed no emotion, but the flickering of his flames betrayed the turmoil boiling beneath his composed exterior.
Erianthe felt the weight of the silence like a wall between them. She had explained her reasons, honestly, but still, it hurts. It hurts to see him say nothing, especially when she saw the disappointment—and the pain—reflected in his gaze.
The god of the underworld looked away for just a second, clenching his jaw as if trying to steady his temper. His arms, crossed tightly over his chest, were tense.
He knew she was right. That protecting her identity had been the wisest course of action. The most responsible one. But that didn't make the bitterness of how he'd found out—publicly, like a stranger—any less sharp. Especially when he had begun to think there was something more between them.
Finally, his voice broke the silence.
"We've already discussed this on the way here. Still, once this meeting is over," he said, without looking directly at her, "we'll have a talk."
His words didn't sound like a threat, but they weren't quite a request either. It was an order. And from his expression, Erianthe could tell Hades was very upset.
She nodded quietly. They had already agreed to talk, but now it would be an uncomfortable conversation. Still, it was necessary—especially now that she had clearly upset the Lord of the Dead.
The Fates, meanwhile, watched the scene unfold with a blend of calm and expectation. They already knew how this would end. Even so, neither Hades nor Eri could escape what destiny had in store for them at that moment.
"Young one, remember when it all began. Remember that day, the day your father went off to war," said Lachesis, her voice rough.
As she spoke, she took the shared eye from her sisters. Her bony fingers lifted it, and the object began to glow with a bluish-white light, as if it held within it the reflection of a thousand intertwined fates.
Before all of them, the vision began to form. A glow enveloped the throne room, slowly revealing a scene from the past: the port of Thebes, nearly a decade ago.
The air smelled of salt. Seagulls soared above the warships as soldiers in golden armor loaded provisions and weapons. The waves gently lapped against the dock, unaware of the drama unfolding as people said farewell to their loved ones.
There, amidst the bustle of the port, a little girl with vibrant orange hair tightly held the hand of a beautiful woman. The girl kept her gaze fixed on the wooden planks of the dock, her brow furrowed, betraying the tension she felt.
"I don't understand why we had to wear our best tunics… We're not going to a wedding," the girl muttered in frustration.
At that, a booming laugh echoed among the voices. It was Hercules, tall and broad, with a smile as big as his legend.
"Eri! Why the long face? I'm glad you dressed up. That's how I'll always remember you— looking lovely," he said, with a joy that felt slightly forced.
"What a stupid idea." Erianthe muttered back, crossing her arms.
"Erianthe! Watch your mouth…" Megara scolded her gently, squeezing her hand.
"Oh, come on, sweetheart," chimed in Phil, who was standing beside them. "She's got a point. Today's not exactly a day for celebration…"
"I know…" Megara sighed, holding back emotion. "But we don't know when we'll all be together again. At the very least, I want this memory to be a beautiful one."
It was then that the royal procession crossed the dock. King Leandro walked at the front, with Queen Dione by his side—regal and elegant. Behind them followed the young princes, Lysander and Patroclus. At the rear of the group was Licario, his usual stern expression softened only by a wicked smirk.
Everyone watched in silence. There was a solemn mood. At that moment, Hercules daughter instinctively kneeled before her true king—and the former queen.
Seeing them, Erianthe felt a wave of nostalgia pierce her chest. Her gaze lit up as it fell upon her father, Phil, the queen, and Lysander.
"Is that Dione?" asked Euryale, fascinated. "She's so beautiful!"
"She really was." Erianthe murmured, a trembling smile on her lips as she stood up. "Really stunning."
The memories continued to flow. In the vision, King Leandro tightly embraced his family and then, with a firm gesture, removed his crown and placed it in the hands of his brother, Licario.
That gesture, that transfer of power.
It was the beginning of the end.
The scene shifted again, returning to where they stood. Hercules had already given Erianthe the medallion and was about to board the ship along with Phil and Pegasus.
"Wait, Daddy!" little Erianthe shouted, running toward him.
Hercules turned at the sound of her voice, and when he saw her approaching, he kneeled to her level.
"What is it, sweetheart?" he asked softly.
The girl pulled something from behind her back and offered it to him with both hands: a worn rag doll, made of white cloth with little red pigtails.
"I want you to take Mika with you," she said firmly.
The hero's face softened even more. He recognized the doll—it had been her favorite for as long as he could remember.
"Your favorite doll?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, choked with emotion. His eyes glistened, though he tried hard to keep his composure.
"Of course," the girl said with conviction, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "So, you won't forget us… Mika will protect you from everything."
The silence that followed was almost reverent. Hercules hugged his daughter tightly, hiding his face in her tiny shoulder. It was clear he wanted to cry—but he forced himself to smile, for her.
From a corner, the Erianthe from the present couldn't hold back her tears. Seeing that younger version of herself—so full of faith, so innocent…
Hades, by her side, remained silent. He wasn't someone easily swayed by nostalgia or human emotions, but that scene—that small gesture—he couldn't help but think:
"So, she was already like that as a child? She hasn't changed at all," the god mused, watching how that little girl… had grown into the young woman she was now. The woman who had him completely captivated.
"Thank you, Erianthe. I'll take care of her," said Hercules, as he gently took the doll in his hands. "I'll give her back to you when we see each other again."
"Okay, Daddy," whispered the girl, her voice trembling as she clung to his neck with all her might, unwilling to let him go.
Hercules caressed her back softly, trying to memorize that small body in his arms. His eldest daughter—one of his greatest treasures. Hercules thanked the gods of Olympus every day for blessing him with such a wonderful girl.
"Erianthe, promise me something," he said quietly, pulling back a little to look her in the eyes. "Promise me you'll take care of everyone."
The girl nodded without hesitation, swallowing the tears that threatened to fall.
"Yes, Daddy. I promise."
The hero smiled with pride, though his eyes were already filled with tears. He couldn't help but feel sad—he was leaving behind what he loved most in this world.
"Good, sweetheart. Then I'm leaving Thebes in good hands."
He stood up, carefully tucked the doll into his armor, and after one last look at his wife, his young son, his parents, and his daughter, he walked toward the ship without looking back. And although his steps were firm, each one felt heavy—he hadn't even left yet, and he already longed to return to them.
Erianthe watched him go, the ship growing smaller and smaller, the distance between her and her father growing wider. Then, as if driven by pure instinct, she ran. She didn't care about her mother's shouts calling her back. The girl ran and ran until she reached one of the coastal cliffs. There, she stood and looked out.
She saw hundreds of ships disappearing on the horizon, heading toward the unknown. And among them, she spotted it—the king's ship. The one carrying her father.
"DADDY!" she screamed, raising her arms, waving desperately.
For a moment, the wind seemed to stop.
And then she saw him. Hercules, standing on the deck, turning around. He had heard her. He had seen her. From afar, the hero raised his arm and waved goodbye, with a smile, trying to hide the knot in his throat.
Father and daughter stared at each other until their figures blurred, until they were nothing more than two dots lost in the vastness of the ocean. And though Erianthe didn't know it then, that would be the last memory she ever had of her father.
The vision faded, leaving the throne room wrapped in silence.
Erianthe stared at the floor, her cheeks soaked. The tears wouldn't stop falling. She hugged herself tightly, feeling the echo of that childhood promise: "I'll take care of everyone." A promise made by a little girl who still didn't know the price of loss, nor the weight of what was to come.
No one said a word.
Pain and Panic exchanged glances, not knowing what to do. They felt terrible about this bitter moment from their friend's past. Euryale showed signs of having cried, moved by seeing how this girl—someone she had started to care about—had to say goodbye to her father, such a kind and gentle soul, just like she was. She couldn't help but think of her sister, Medusa, and how much she missed her.
Hades couldn't take his eyes off her. He had witnessed countless goodbyes. He had guided thousands of souls through the underworld. Not only that, but he hadn't even cared when his nephew left for war. But seeing Erianthe cry? That he could not bear.
He stepped closer, saying nothing. It wasn't the time for words. He simply stood beside her, offering silent comfort. She felt it. She didn't look at him, but she took a step toward him, as someone seeking refuge without needing to ask for it.
"And now what?" the god asked. "Will you tell her what's coming?"
"Don't be so impatient, Hades," replied Atropos.
Then the eye began to glow again.
"Now, Erianthe, it's time to remember why the flame within you was born," said Clotho. "The fire with which Phoenixes are forged."
And the next vision began to take shape before their eyes…
It was a spacious room, bathed in the light streaming through large windows. Tables and chairs were arranged in neat rows, but one table stood out among the rest: a larger one at the front of the room, adorned with dried flowers and rolled-up scrolls. Seated there, a brown-haired woman hummed a cheerful melody as she organized some materials.
"Miss Aria, good morning!" a vibrant little voice called from the doorway.
A girl with bright orange hair and sparkling eyes burst into the room with an energetic step, a bundle of parchments in her hands.
"Erianthe! Good morning, you're early," the woman replied with a warm, welcoming smile.
"I wanted to show you my new drawings!" said the girl, approaching eagerly.
Aria took the papers in her hands and studied them carefully. Her eyes widened in admiration.
"By the gods, Eri! They're wonderful!" she exclaimed in genuine awe.
"Do you really think so, miss?" the girl asked, with a mix of shyness and hope. "Do you think if I keep this up, I could get into the art school in Athens?"
"Of course you can," Aria affirmed, gently brushing back her hair. "You have so much talent, Eri. If you keep working like this, I have no doubt you'll pass the exams and shine at that school."
The girl beamed from ear to ear, swelling with pride. Just then, other children began to fill the room with laughter and quick footsteps.
"Tadd!" Erianthe called, running toward her friend. "Your mom says I'm talented!"
"Of course you are," the boy replied with a smile. "And if my mom says it, it must be true."
"Your mom is the best teacher in the whole world!" Erianthe added, her eyes sparkling.
Aria watched them from her desk, a smile full of love on her face, though a faint glimmer of concern flickered in her eyes.
The Erianthe from the present watched the scene with a mixture of nostalgia and tenderness. However, she hadn't expected the Fates to show her this moment. Her chest tightened. She knew what came next. And she wasn't ready to relive it.
Her body tensed, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
Hades, who hadn't taken his eyes off her, noticed the change immediately. Without a word, he reached out and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.
The touch was enough.
Erianthe turned to him, her eyes shining with emotion, and before the god could say a word, she threw herself into his arms. She clung to him as if his embrace could shield her from what was to come.
Hades held her firmly, feeling the slight tremble that ran through her.
"I'm here. You won't go through this alone again."
The scene shifted abruptly. The cheerful atmosphere of the classroom dissolved, replaced by a grim and tension-filled setting.
It was the day the king decreed the closure of all schools, claiming they were a waste of time and corrupted children's education with dangerous ideas.
The teachers spoke out. They began to protest and demand explanations for such idiocy. Among them was Aria.
But King Licario had no intention of tolerating defiance. Tired of what he considered "insubordination," he issued a cruel and inhumane order: the execution of the teachers.
And he didn't stop there.
In an act of pure malice, he offered a horrifying reward to the students: if anyone killed a teacher, they would earn a place in the royal guard—a privilege reserved for only a few and accompanied by wealth and luxury.
Then, something happened that no one had expected: a student stood up to carry out an execution.
A girl with jet-black hair and an empty gaze stood up and made her way to the home greconomics classroom. There, she grabbed one of the sharp knives used for cooking.
Without saying a word, she returned to her class and walked straight to Miss Aria's desk.
Everyone in the room fell silent.
"Calista," the teacher whispered in disbelief.
And in the blink of an eye, it was over.
The blade flashed for a second and took the teacher's life. Her head rolled across the floor, leaving a trail of blood and horror behind.
Eight-year-old Erianthe screamed in terror. She was covered in blood, frozen in place, unable to comprehend how that girl—someone she had once shared laughs and games with—could do something so monstrous.
That day, one of the king's most ruthless assassins was born: Hybris, who laughed like a lunatic as she watched the blood soak everything around her.
The older Erianthe couldn't stop herself.
Tears streamed down her face. She raised a trembling hand to her mouth, trying to stifle a sob—but it was no use. Because it wasn't just the blood she remembered.
It was Tadd's face.
The look on her friend's face as he saw his mother's lifeless body as he witnessed that emotionless girl steal Aria's life without so much as a blink.
The disbelief. The horror. The way he dropped to his knees, frozen in place, his lips trembling, unable to understand why such an atrocity had taken place.
From that day on, Tadd had to hide in the catacombs beneath Thebes. Because the king also hunted down those with any kind of disability.
The scene shifted again. This time, it showed a corner of the palace that seemed untouched by the chaos engulfing Thebes: an elegant hall where Erianthe was receiving lessons in protocol, history, and good manners from Queen Dione. The woman, always strict yet gentle, would correct her posture delicately and teach her to walk with grace and to speak with clarity, but when the lessons ended, the two of them would escape into the gardens, laughing.
There, among rosebushes and trees, Erianthe and Patroclus practiced archery under the watchful eye of the queen, while Lysander trained nearby with a sword. The contrast was clear: between etiquette lessons and shooting arrows, Erianthe always chose the latter.
Back in the present, Hades still held her in his arms. He watched the scene with curiosity, though now and then his gaze would drift back to Erianthe. A faintly amused smile curled his lips.
"So, you were taught manners and protocol too, brat?" he asked with a teasing glint in his voice.
Erianthe lowered her gaze, slightly embarrassed, though a smile tugged at her lips.
"Well, that was my parents' doing," she said, then added in a playful tone, "Although, if you expect me to bow or call you 'Your Majesty,' you can forget it."
Hades let out a laugh at her remarks.
"I wouldn't expect anything less from you."
But the scene shifted again, turning to another unpleasant memory. A year had passed since the incident with the teachers, and the city was sinking deeper into misery. The queen was growing increasingly discontent with Licario, who only told her to stay out of his affairs. Arguments between them became frequent—until one day, the king had enough of his sister-in-law's defiance.
The queen fell ill. Toxicón had been poisoning her little by little. On her deathbed, Dione requested to speak with Meg in private. She wanted to ask her a favor: to take care of her children when she was gone.
"Dione, of course I'll care for them, but please don't give up," Meg pleaded, her voice cracking as she clutched the queen's hand in hers. "I'll take you home. You'll recover—I promise."
The queen's dimming eyes still held an incredible strength as she looked at Meg with warmth. A gentle smile crossed her lips, though the trembling of her chin betrayed the effort she was making to stay conscious.
"Thank you, Meg… But it's too late for me," she whispered. "What comforts me is knowing they'll be with you… that they won't be alone."
Dione then turned her gaze to a corner of the room.
"Eri, come here, sweetheart… I want to tell you something," the queen called softly, her voice weak but full of affection.
The little girl approached, her eyes brimming with tears.
"I'm proud of you," Dione said as she took her hand with effort. "You have a gift, my dear… and a warrior's heart." With great difficulty, she continued,
"Never forget who you are or what you can become."
Tears began to roll down Erianthe's cheeks as the queen gently stroked her face one last time.
"Promise me you'll fight for what's right, even when you're afraid. Protect those who can't protect themselves."
"I promise…" Erianthe whispered, her voice broken.
Lysander and Patroclus burst into the room; their faces stricken at the sight of their mother in such a vulnerable state—she had always been so strong. Without a second thought, they rushed to the bed and clung to her desperately, as if their embrace alone could stave off the inevitable.
That day, Queen Dione died.
Grief quickly turned to rage. Amid mourning, the young princes raised their voices. They publicly accused King Licario of poisoning her—of silencing her for standing against his tyranny.
The king responded without delay. Cold and calculated, he pointed at them in front of everyone, his voice ringing with feigned outrage.
"Traitors!" Licario shouted. "They've attempted to usurp the throne while their mother lay dying! Guards, arrest them!"
The order fell like a death sentence upon the princes.
But Meg had foreseen this. With the reflexes only a mother could possess, she seized the boys' hands and pulled them to safety. Erianthe, without hesitation, ran alongside them. Together, mother and daughter led the princes through a secret passage hidden in the walls of the royal wing—a hidden corridor, built years ago, one Licario had no knowledge of.
"That's how the queen died?" Euryale asked, her eyes still fixed on the image they had just witnessed.
"Unfortunately, yes…" Erianthe replied, her voice laced with pain and melancholy. "It was so unfair."
The scene shifted again. This time, it showed the peaceful villa of Hercules, where the young princes lived hidden from their uncle. Though they were safe, it was a fragile security—a tense calm that tasted of exile.
In one of the images, Lysander, Patroclus, and Erianthe were sitting at the edge of a cliff, their eyes fixed on the sea. They searched the horizon, hoping for a miracle that would bring their parents back.
Suddenly, Lysander stood up, a spark of determination shining in his eyes.
"I want to be a hero!" he declared. "I wish to help people… I wish to save them."
"What are you saying, brother?" Patroclus asked, confused.
"Pat, we must think about how to defeat our uncle and take back what's rightfully ours. Thebes needs justice," he answered firmly.
Erianthe looked at them. She felt the same fire burning inside her. She couldn't be left behind.
"I'm in, too. You're going to need someone who knows how to handle a bow," she said, crossing her arms with a half-smile.
Lysander turned to her and gave her that unique smile—bright and warm, the kind that made him seem invincible. A smile Erianthe would never forget.
The scene changed again. Now it was just Lysander and Erianthe under a starry sky, sitting together on the hillside. He held a small bouquet of wildflowers—Erianthe's favorites.
"You're someone special to me, Eri," Lysander murmured, his gaze fixed on her.
Erianthe blushed to the tips of her ears, unable to speak. But her heart was pounding wildly.
Hades watched the scene in complete silence, his expression difficult to read. Yet something stirred within him. An uncomfortable pang. Jealousy? No. It couldn't be that. He wasn't supposed to feel that way.
And yet, there it was.
Seeing Erianthe smile at Lysander, seeing the way she looked at him with that light in her eyes, it was unbearably uncomfortable. He clenched his jaw tightly, irritated with himself. It was absurd. He couldn't let it affect him. Not when that boy was no longer alive.
Still, it was infuriating.
Lysander had been part of Erianthe's life. They had shared laughter and many moments together. And what bothered him most wasn't the memory itself—it was the fact that this boy, that's what he was, a boy, had the courage to do what he still hadn't.
He'd had the guts to tell Erianthe how he felt.
The scene changed once more. This time, the image showed the villa's kitchen—chaotic yet full of warmth. Sunlight streamed through the windows, caressing the wooden shelves.
In the center, Alcmena, Erianthe's grandmother, her white hair tied in a messy bun, patiently explained how to mix the ingredients to knead pita bread. Her hands were dusted with flour, but her smile was as sweet as the aroma filling the kitchen.
"Like this, firm but gentle, Eri. Kneading takes stubbornness," she said with a laugh.
Meg was there too, fixing her hair, with a smudge of flour on her cheek. The three of them cooked as they talked, hands and clothes increasingly messy.
The kitchen was a disaster, yet it brimmed with life—with love. It was home.
Meanwhile, through an open window, Amphitryon could be seen in the meadow with the princes, tending to the livestock, laughing as Patroclus clumsily tried to herd the goats.
It was a fleeting moment of happiness. A sliver of peace was stolen from the chaos reigning in Thebes, as if time had paused before the storm. One of the last memories… just before the darkness swallowed everything.
Erianthe tensed as the scene shifted. The night she lost her home, part of her family, and Lysander. Hades held her close.
"You don't have to watch this, Eri," he murmured gently, in that low voice he reserved only for her.
"No," the daughter of Hercules whispered in return, eyes locked on the vision unfolding before them. "I have to."
In the image, a small convoy descended from the hill toward the villa. They bore the banners of Thebes, but she knew they didn't come in peace. They rode on horseback, firelight dancing across their black armor, blending into the night.
At the front of the group, one figure stood out, a manic grin on his face. Though hooded, the gleam in his wild, hungry eyes was unmistakable—like a starving wolf.
"Pyros…" Erianthe whispered. The man who destroyed her world.
Hades committed the man's face to memory. If he ever crossed his path, he would make him pay for everything he had made Erianthe endure.
He wouldn't kill him. That would be too merciful.
That would be a kindness Pyros didn't deserve. Hades would make him suffer for every tear Erianthe had ever shed. He would torture him slowly and imprison him in Tartarus for all eternity.
Not just him—all of them. Each one of those vicious bastards. Everyone who had contributed to Erianthe's suffering, especially the king.
He'd torture him until he begged for mercy.
He would do it for her.
Hades turned his face to look at her, seeing the anguish in her eyes. Just hours ago, they had been wrapped in each other's arms, sharing a moment of peace that had felt eternal. The warmth of her body, their breaths mixing. So close to a kiss. So close to crossing that invisible line that kept them apart.
Hades clenched his teeth. The fire within him didn't burn with passion now—but with fury. How he hated that damn king of Thebes. At that moment, the god of the dead swore that one day he would make that bastard pay. He would make him beg for his soul.
The witnesses watched in horror as the vision continued. There was Pyros, laughing like a lunatic as he held a burning torch. His eyes gleamed with maniacal light while he doused the villa's outer walls with oil. The fire began to consume everything.
Amphitryon was the first to sense something was wrong. Not because of the smoke or flames—but because of the animals. Their desperate cries shattered the night's stillness.
"Something's not right," he murmured, rising with difficulty.
Then the heat hit him. Smoke seeped through the cracks of the door, and a violent crackling sound made him stagger back. In that instant, flames burst near his chamber.
"ALCMENA!" he yelled, shaking his wife. "WAKE UP! FIRE!"
The old couple's desperate screams shattered the calm like thunder.
"FIRE! EVERYONE WAKE UP! FIRE!" Alcmena shouted, pounding on the walls to alert the rest.
In the east wing of the house, Meg woke with a start, coughing from the smoke creeping under the door. Her eyes widened as she saw the room bathed in a reddish glow.
"Zenos!" was her first thought, her heart tightening as she bolted out of the room.
She ran through the hallway, between shouts and ash. The nearest room belonged to the youngest of the family, and when she opened the door, her soul froze. Smoke already filled the space, and in the middle of it, Zenos sobbed, hiding beneath the bed.
"Mama! Mama!" he cried, his voice cracked with fear.
Meg dropped to the floor, ignoring the burning heat of the wood beneath her knees. She reached out, grabbed him, and pulled him tightly into her arms.
"It's okay, I'm here. I've got you," she whispered as she stood and ran, carrying him in her arms, searching for an escape through the shadows and fire.
The flames continued their advance, devouring wood, tapestries, vases, amphorae—but most of all, memories. The heat was unbearable, the smoke suffocating. But Meg didn't stop. With trembling Zenos clutched to her chest, she raced down the corridor with one goal in mind: save her family.
She had just exited the room when a figure crossed her path—it was Patroclus. The young prince, his face streaked with ash and sweat, still held a look of determination. He gripped a sword he could barely lift. His chest rose and fell rapidly, but surrender was not in his nature.
"Patroclus!" Meg coughed— "We must find Erianthe! Quickly!"
The boy nodded but stopped her with a hand.
"Lysander's already gone for her!" Patroclus replied, his voice raspy from the smoke. "He also went to find Alcmena and Amphitryon. He said he's not leaving anyone behind."
Meg's heart clenched sharply. Lysander… that boy had the soul of a leader, like his father, the king. But he was still just a kid. A brave one, yes, but like everyone else, he was in danger—and still, he was risking his life to save them.
"We'll leave through the back door," Patroclus muttered, his red eyes and clenched jaw showing resolve. He knew that if he didn't get Meg and Zenos out alive, Erianthe would never forgive him. "Come on, hurry."
Meg opened her mouth to protest. She couldn't leave. She would rather not abandon that house without knowing whether the rest of her family was safe. But then she looked down at Zenos—still trembling and crying in her arms—and at Patroclus, ready to protect them at all costs.
She clenched her teeth and nodded with resignation. She ran after the prince, holding her son close to her chest. Smoke engulfed them; the heat scorched their skin—but they didn't stop.
And as they crossed the threshold to the outside, Meg cast one last look at the sky, darkened by smoke.
"Please, gods of Olympus, protect them. Protect them all."
Meanwhile, inside the villa, Erianthe woke with a start.
It took her a few seconds to understand what was happening. First came the heat, then the smell of smoke, and finally, the screams. Everything was confusing, but she soon realized there was a fire.
"What?" she murmured, sitting up in bed with difficulty.
The air was heavy. She coughed violently, covering her mouth with her forearm. The room was filled with a dense grey haze. She could barely see anything.
Fire.
The fire was inside the house.
She jumped out of bed barefoot, stumbling from the dizziness and lack of oxygen. Panic was creeping in—if the villa was burning, that meant everyone was in danger. She knew she didn't have much time to get out.
She heard her grandparents screaming.
"Grandma! Grandpa!" Erianthe shouted at the top of her lungs, her voice cracking from smoke and fear.
The smoke was thick. She could barely see more than a few steps ahead, but she followed the screaming. Erianthe tripped as she moved forward but didn't stop. She couldn't. Not while her family was still inside.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the smoke. Someone crossed her path.
"Lysander!" she exclaimed, relieved.
"Eri!" the boy answered, gasping for breath. His face was covered in ash, and his tunic clung to his body from sweat, but he still gripped his sword firmly. "We have to get out of here! Let's find your grandparents. Patroclus went for your mother and Zenos; they're probably already outside."
Erianthe nodded, about to follow him, until she remembered.
"Wait!" she gasped, stopping in her tracks. "My father's medallion! I left it in my room!"
"Eri, no!" Lysander tried to stop her, but it was too late.
She turned on her heel and vanished into the smoke without looking back.
Flames seeped from everywhere. The wood crackled, the heat was unbearable, and breathing had become hell. But she didn't stop. She couldn't leave behind the only thing she had left of her father.
When she reached the room, flames were already entering through the broken window. The smoke blinded her, but she knew exactly where to go. She lunged toward the nightstand, opened the drawer with trembling hands, and there it was.
The medallion.
Hercules' medallion.
She clutched it tightly to her chest, as if holding it could bring her father back. She coughed violently, tears mixing with sweat—but when she turned to leave, the flames were partially blocking her path.
Erianthe jumped back, gasping. Her heart pounded in her ears. Fear overtook her, paralyzing her for a moment. The fire kept advancing.
"I'm going to die here… over a damn medallion," she thought, eyes stinging with smoke.
"Erianthe! Take this and put it over yourself!" a voice yelled through the flames. It was Lysander who threw her a thick, heavy tapestry. She caught it, her reflexes dulled by the heat, and without thinking, she wrapped herself in it.
"Jump to me! Hurry!" Lysander ordered; arms outstretched.
Summoning all the courage she had, she leapt toward the exit, jumping over the fire. Lysander caught her in midair, and the moment he felt her in his arms, he held her tight. He said nothing—he didn't need to. Both were shaking, drenched in sweat, but alive.
"Let's go! We have to get out of here," Lysander said, grabbing her hand.
They ran through the hallway toward Eri's grandparents' room, but when they got there, they both froze in horror.
The door was broken… and blocked. Two massive beams had fallen, sealing the entrance.
Through the flames, they could just make out Alcmena and Amphitryon holding each other, enduring the smoke, shouting with all their strength. But they weren't calling for help.
They were shouting for their family to run.
To live.
The Erianthe from the present broke down in tears. She knew exactly what was coming. Hades held her tightly as he watched the scene unfold. He said nothing. There was no need for words.
In the vision, Erianthe and Lysander struggled desperately to move the heavy beams blocking the entrance. The flames crept closer, the heat was unbearable, and the smoke burned their eyes and throats—but neither of them would give up.
"Come on, Lysander, push! We have to get them out!" Erianthe shouted, gasping, her hands full of splinters.
"I'm trying!" he growled, muscles straining.
Every second counted. The ceiling creaked threateningly, ready to collapse, and the flames inched closer. Time was running out.
Then, a hand gently touched Erianthe's cheek. She froze instantly. She would recognize that touch anywhere.
It was her grandmother.
Alcmena's warm, trembling hand reached through a gap in the broken door.
"Sweetheart, go," she whispered weakly, her voice broken from the smoke and yelling. "Your grandfather and I have lived long enough. Don't stay behind. You have to live."
Erianthe felt her heart shatter into a thousand pieces. Through the door, she saw her grandmother smiling at her with warmth. Her grandfather, Amphitryon, lay unconscious on the floor, likely overcome by the smoke.
"No, no, Grandma, please! We can get you out! We can do it!" Erianthe sobbed, tears mixing with sweat and soot.
"Yes, you can… live, Eri. Do it for us," Alcmena said calmly. Then, turning to Lysander with determination, she met his eyes.
"Take her. Save her," she pleaded silently.
Lysander swallowed hard and clenched his fists. He knew what he had to do—even if it broke him. He gave one last look to the woman who had caressed him like a grandson and nodded.
"I will," he whispered.
Before Erianthe could resist, Lysander grabbed her arm and pulled her away.
"No! Let me go! We have to save them!" she screamed through tears, hitting him weakly.
"I'm sorry, Eri! I can't lose you too!" Lysander replied, his voice cracking.
And they ran. They ran down the flaming hallway, while behind them the wood groaned and the room holding Alcmena and Amphitryon was devoured by fire.
They reached the back door of the villa and burst through it. A fleeting sense of relief washed over them as they left behind the smoke and flames—but it didn't last long. As soon as they stepped onto the path that led down to the beach, their hope crumbled.
A group of royal guards blocked their path.
Lysander came to a sudden halt, eyes wide. He hadn't expected that. Could it have been a trap? He didn't have time to find out. He didn't see his brother, which meant he'd likely escaped with Meg and Zenos—but they still had to get away.
"Damn it!" he muttered under his breath, turning to Erianthe, who was sobbing uncontrollably.
Without thinking, he grabbed her hand tightly.
"Come on, this way!" he shouted, pulling her toward the woods, where the thick foliage and darkness could provide cover.
They ran without looking back, following the path that would lead them into the forest. Erianthe kept tripping over the tapestry, crying, but she didn't stop. She couldn't. Her grandmother's words still echoed in her mind.
She would live.
Lysander moved forward with purpose, shielding her as best he could, until suddenly two shadows blocked their way. Guards.
Erianthe let out a strangled cry, but before she could react, Lysander unsheathed his sword in a swift motion. Within seconds, he disarmed the first guard with a sharp feint and blocked the second's strike with surprising strength for someone his age.
His movements were precise—he hadn't trained in vain. He wasn't just a boy improvising; he was a crown prince with years of instruction behind him. And that night, he would fight for her. To protect her.
The second guard collapsed with a groan of pain. Lysander turned to Erianthe, panting.
"Are you alright?"
She nodded; eyes full of tears.
"Thank you…"
Lysander gave her a tired but sincere smile.
"I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I promised."
Without wasting another second, Lysander took her hand again, and they continued their escape, nearing the forest's edge, their hearts pounding and the fire still casting light behind them.
What they didn't know was that the real danger was still lurking.
Amid the shadows cast by the trees and the red glow of the burning villa, a figure advanced with steady steps and a crazed gaze. Pyros. His eyes gleamed with madness, and his maniacal grin grew with every step he took. He moved like a living flame, consuming everything in his path.
"At last!" he rasped when he saw them. "I've got you, little girl!"
Before they could react, Pyros lunged at them. His burning hands clamped around Erianthe's arm, dragging her toward him with brutal force. She screamed, struggling with everything she had, fear tearing through her throat.
And then he drew his sword.
"I'm going to end you right now!"
The blade came down like lightning, aimed straight at Erianthe.
But it never reached her.
With the reflexes of a born warrior, Lysander threw himself between them, sword raised at the last moment. The clash of metal rang out on the path, and the force of the blow made him stumble, but he didn't fall.
"I won't let you touch her!" the prince roared, his eyes burning with resolve.
Erianthe fell to the ground, freed by the struggle, and crawled backward, watching the scene with her heart in her throat.
Pyros tilted his head, his eyes glinting with insanity.
"So, the little prince wants to play hero?"
Lysander clenched his jaw. This wasn't a game. Not this time. He gripped his sword with both hands and braced himself for the fight.
"Run, Erianthe!" he shouted without looking back. "Run and don't look back!"
"No! I'm not leaving you!" she cried, eyes full of tears, trembling but standing firm.
Lysander turned his head just long enough to look at her with a mix of tenderness and affection.
"Eri, promise me. Promise me you'll live!"
His words pierced her like a spear. Erianthe hesitated; something within her was breaking, but finally nodded with clenched lips. She got up, wiped her tears with the back of her hand, and with one last look at the boy who had meant everything to her, she turned and ran.
She ran like never before, her lungs burning and her heart ready to burst. The forest's thick darkness swallowed her, while the sounds of the fight faded behind her.
Lysander focused all his attention back on Pyros. Their swords clashed violently. The young prince, trained from childhood, held the advantage. His movements were fast and calculated. He blocked, dodged, and counterattacked. And for a moment, it looked like he could win.
Pyros's grin twisted into a snarl. He didn't like losing.
"You damned brat!" he bellowed, swinging a desperate strike that Lysander easily deflected.
"I warned you," the prince growled. "You'll never hurt anyone again."
But then something changed.
The air grew heavier. A dark mist slithered across the ground, like creeping vines. Lysander frowned as a chill ran down his spine. Something was grabbing at his shadow—something he couldn't quite see.
"What the hell!"he whispered, as he felt his feet rooted to the ground.
A dense shadow emerged from the earth, latching onto his legs and climbing his torso like it had a will of its own. He tried to move—but it was useless.
He was paralyzed.
In the present, the older Erianthe turned pale as she watched the scene, bringing a hand to her lips in disbelief.
"Catharsis," she murmured in a broken voice. "He was there too."
The puppeteer. The most feared. The hidden leader of the king's group of assassins. She had never known that he had also been there that night—and that he had something to do with the prince's death.
The vision continued. In it, Lysander struggled desperately, his muscles trembling with futile effort.
"What kind of sorcery is this?!" he roared in fury, his sword gleaming—but useless in his hands.
In front of him, Pyros just smiled. A twisted, enraged, maniacal smile.
"I'm not alone, little prince," he said in a cruel, raspy voice. "There are forces neither you… nor your sweet Erianthe… will ever comprehend."
And raising his sword, he stepped forward with grim determination.
Lysander, powerless, raised his eyes toward the forest. He knew she was there, running, escaping—alive. The pain in his chest wasn't from the spell; it was because he hadn't been able to say goodbye the way she deserved.
With the blade about to strike, he uttered his last will with a voice clear, firm, and filled with love:
"Erianthe, my Eri… live! Be happy! Promise me you'll always share that smile of yours with the world—that smile that lights up everything."
The blade came down.
But before the impact, a whisper escaped his lips, like a final breath:
"I love you, Erianthe."
For a moment, the throne room was plunged into absolute silence. Everyone had their eyes fixed on the daughter of Hercules, who, her face bathed in tears, slowly stepped away from Hades' protective embrace.
She walked toward the projection of the vision, toward that last frozen time when Lysander was still smiling, still alive. She extended her hand with trembling gentleness, as if by simply brushing the air, she could caress the cheek of the boy who had so often made her smile.
"Thank you, Lysander…" she whispered, her voice breaking with pain and gratitude.
And then the image of the prince vanished.
A new silence enveloped the room—heavier, more loaded. No one dared to speak. Not even breath. Until a figure broke the stillness.
Euryale was the first to react. With tear-filled eyes and a heart aching, she rushed toward Erianthe and hugged her tightly, wrapping her arms around her as if trying to protect her from the whole world. A few seconds later, Pain and Panic joined in, clinging tenderly to the girl's legs.
All three were shaken. They couldn't believe that someone so kind, so cheerful, and so full of light had gone through such a cruel hell.
From where he stood, Hades watched them in silence. A pang stirred in his chest. A part of him felt irritated—yes—because he wanted to be the one to hold her, to comfort her, not them. But he held himself back.
Yet beyond what he wanted, he couldn't deny he admired that girl. That stubborn little brat who, despite losing so much, still stood tall, lighting every corner with her beautiful smile. It was at that moment that Hades felt lucky to have met Erianthe.
But his gaze hardened as he turned toward the Fates. He had had enough. They had dug too deep into her past.
"Enough," he said, his deep voice echoing throughout the hall. "That's enough."
"Not so fast, Lord of the Dead," Clotho interjected again, her voice grave.
"We have not yet reached the moment when the Phoenix rose," added Lachesis, her intense gaze fixed on Erianthe.
A fresh wave of silence spread through the hall.
Erianthe slowly lowered her gaze to the floor. Her fingers trembled slightly at the memory of what was about to come. It wasn't shame she felt. Nor fear. It was the weight of the inevitable.
The vision didn't stop. The scene continued from the night of the fire, but this time it showed the forest, shrouded in dense, damp shadows, tinged with the lingering scent of smoke in the air. Erianthe was running, gasping, her eyes full of tears, and her heart pounding in her chest. She was fleeing—not just from Pyros, not only from the guards—but from strange shadows that moved along the ground. And now, the Erianthe from the present time knew they were the work of Catharsis.
The spectators could see the fear etched into the face of a ten-year-old girl. Alone, injured, and covered in dirt and ash, she crawled through roots, underbrush, and trees, trying to silence her breath.
And then fate gave her a moment's grace.
A man appeared through the thicket. The father of Ilena and Egan, the captain of the royal guard. His face showed the same desperation as hers but also regret. Erianthe had never blamed him for what happened that night—he was an honorable man. But she knew perfectly well that if he disobeyed orders, his family would pay the price.
He looked at her, and for a moment, time seemed to stop.
"Run," he told her in a firm voice. "Run toward the river. The guards will lose your trail there."
Erianthe hesitated for a second, but something in the man's eyes gave her strength. She nodded with a trembling gesture and took off running, tearing through the underbrush until she reached the riverbank.
For a moment, she felt lost—but some nymphs guided her to a hiding place for the night. Trembling alone, wrapped in the thick tapestry, and clutching her father's medallion to her chest, her heart was broken for all she had lost.
The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight barely touched the treetops, Erianthe emerged from her hiding place. The sky appeared overcast—but not from clouds. It was the thick, heavy smoke still rising from the ruins of the villa. The smell of ash and charred wood lingered in the air. She took a deep breath, feeling the pain settle in her chest like a stone.
Without a word, she began to follow the river's course. She knew it led to the sea, and deep in her heart, she hoped her mother, Zenos, and Patroclus—who had fled via the beach path—would be there at the end. It was her only hope.
Everyone watched in silence as little Erianthe walked for days, crossing the forest with her eyes fixed on the horizon. The nymphs accompanied her from a distance, appearing at key moments to offer her sweet water, fruits, and roots. They did so silently, moved by compassion for the girl.
Every step was agony. Her feet were covered in wounds, blisters, and dried blood. But she never stopped. She never cried. She had a goal—to find the family she had left.
And finally, after what felt like an eternal week, she found them.
The scene shifted instantly. On the beach were Meg, Zenos, and Patroclus, covered in dust and ash—but alive.
The girl ran toward them, and her mother's cry rang out loud and clear.
"ERIAN—!"
She didn't get to finish. Erianthe threw herself into her arms and, for the first time since that night, broke down in sobs. The most heartbreaking anyone in the hall had ever heard. Meg embraced her desperately, while Zenos clung tightly to his sister. Patroclus joined the hug, squeezing his eyes shut to hold back tears.
But the joy of reunion didn't last long.
"Grandma… Grandpa… Lysander…" Erianthe whispered through sobs, her voice broken. "They… they didn't make it."
Silence fell on the scene like a bucket of cold water. Meg froze. Her eyes filled with tears, and a choked scream escaped her throat. Patroclus turned pale, taking a step back, and Zenos burst into tears.
After that tearful and bitter reunion, the scene shifted once more.
The setting was now very different from before. A modest wooden cabin, hidden deep in the forest, stood alone in silence. There, the survivors of the tragedy had begun a new life.
The observers in the hall watched as Erianthe, Meg, Zenos, and Patroclus settled within those humble walls, far from the king and his henchmen. However, peace did not last. Soon after, Patroclus left for Thebes, searching for work at the quarry.
Then came the moment when Meg, exhausted from long days of labor in the fields, fell ill. The illness consumed her slowly, weakening her day by day. It was then that Erianthe decided that would mark a turning point in her life.
She had to help. She had to act.
Despite her fear, she traveled alone to Thebes. No one recognized her. She was no longer the daughter of Hercules. Just another girl desperate to find work to survive.
Everyone watched as Erianthe cut her hair in front of the mirror of an abandoned tavern. Her long orange mane was reduced to a practical cut, just above her shoulders. Hades was surprised to see her with that style—it didn't look bad at all, though he preferred her hair long.
The scene shifted to the moment she was branded with the number assigned to her at the quarry. A simple mark, nothing more than a number. A person without identity. A slave.
Days later, Patroclus gave her a uniform. It was stained and somewhat worn with time, but it held immense value. It had once belonged to Hercules.
Erianthe received it with trembling hands, and for a moment, the small light in her eyes seemed to flicker alive again. Just for a moment.
Weeks passed. Then months. The young woman worked tirelessly. Her hands covered in calluses, her back bent from labor. But her gaze… her gaze had gone empty. It had lost its shine, as if part of her had faded away in that quarry.
Until, one day, it happened. The moment Erianthe rose—and the Phoenix appeared.
It was a dark day; the sky blanketed in heavy clouds that foretold a storm. In the quarry, rumors spread like dust on the wind: King Licario had ordered the construction of a new statue in his honor, accompanied by a grand public square. A monument to ego. But to build it, space was needed. Which meant something had to go.
No one could have imagined what would be sacrificed.
The orphanage.
Erianthe overheard it from one of the guards, who spoke casually about how a member of the king's personal guard would personally "cleanse" the building. That word chilled her blood.
She ran to Patroclus, who had just finished his shift, and without hesitation, the two of them bolted into the streets, weaving desperately through the maze of Thebes. But when they arrived, it was already too late.
The vision showed the assassin stepping out of the building.
Toxicón.
He walked with the calm of someone who had no soul. His steps were slow, a satisfied smile on his face, while an empty vial spun between his fingers. He looked like Death itself.
Erianthe froze. The air burned in her lungs. Patroclus tried to stop her, but it was too late—she ran inside, ignoring the metallic odor that had already begun to fill the air.
And then she saw it.
The vision was disturbing. Bodies. Small bodies. Children sprawled across beds, on the floor, their skin pale and eyes shut. All… dead. Even the adults who cared for them lay motionless, like wax figures.
They had been poisoned.
"Cyanide…" Euryale whispered from the present, horrified. She covered her mouth as the horror of the act sank in.
The Erianthe in the vision walked to a small cradle. There, among the sheets and a thick blanket, lay a baby. Motionless.
The girl kneeled, her hands trembling. She touched the blanket with her fingertips, as if hoping to still find a trace of warmth. But there was none.
Erianthe screamed.
A scream that tore through the souls of everyone present in the throne room. A cry filled with rage, pain, and despair. Hades clenched his fists, his flames flickering violently at the sight of Erianthe's anguish. Euryale wept silently, while Pain and Panic stared wide-eyed. They had never imagined a mortal could be so cruel.
Erianthe was breathing heavily, her body tense, her gaze fixed on the image of that cradle. No one spoke. They couldn't. That day, something inside Erianthe died… and something else, something darker, stronger… was born.
The next day, Erianthe knew that Licario would make his grand announcement in the central square of Thebes. His glorious project. His damned statue. But the daughter of Hercules wasn't going to allow it. Not after what she had seen. Not after what she had felt.
The rage burned inside her like an uncontrollable fire. A fire that demanded blood. With her heart pounding, she ran through the cobbled streets of Thebes. The city bustled with activity, unaware of the storm brewing within a girl shattered by everything she had lived through, by everything she had witnessed. She didn't have a clear plan. She only knew one thing: that man had to pay.
For Aria. For Dione. For Lysander. For Alcmena. For Amphitryon. For all the children from the orphanage.
For all the suffering in the city of Thebes.
As she ran, she gathered what she needed: a long hooded red cloak; sturdy boots; leather gloves; and a mask. A theatrical one, with a neutral expression. Blank. Inhuman.
And lastly, the most important thing.
A bow.
And arrows.
A weapon she knew like an extension of her body. She had abandoned it for a time, but her hands hadn't forgotten how to draw the string. How to aim. How to kill.
She climbed.
Her feet pushed hard against the walls. She climbed with wild agility, as if the rooftops were her true home. Her heart pounded in her chest with every leap, every push over the slippery tiles.
She had loved running across the rooftops as a child.
That day, she did it to kill a king.
And there he was.
Licario.
Standing on his wooden platform, surrounded by guards, flaunting power and glory as if he deserved them. His clothes sparkled with all the gold he wore, and his voice boomed with arrogance as he spoke of statues, new public squares, and "the glorious future of Thebes."
He didn't deserve any of it.
Erianthe took a deep breath. Her bow was ready, the string taut, and the arrow lined up with her throat. One shot. That was all it would take. If she did it right, there would be no screams, no escape. A swift death—even if he didn't deserve one. Vengeance was a breath away.
Until a voice stopped her.
It couldn't be real.
It was her father's voice. Calm, warm, like a breeze brushing against her wounded soul.
"Erianthe, don't do it. You're not a murderer," her father's voice said. "A hero acts from the heart, not from hatred. Fight—but for justice."
Her hand trembled slightly. Her father was right, but he was also wrong. Erianthe would never be a hero. Not like him.
And yet, she couldn't kill Licario like this. Not this way. But she knew what she had to do.
She took a deep breath. Closed her eyes for just a second.
And fired.
The arrow flew like lightning and whistled through the air, cutting through the moment.
It struck just beside Licario's head. Mere inches from his ear. The impact made everyone shout. The guards moved. Some citizens ducked. Others looked up.
And then they saw her.
There, high on the rooftops, a lone figure in a red cloak fluttering in the wind. Her silhouette looked like it had wings. As if it were on fire.
Like a phoenix.
"Licario!" the firm voice cried out, echoing through the square— "You will pay for everything you've done. I declare war on you. You don't deserve to be king of Thebes."
The crowd fell silent… until the first cheer rang out. Then another. And another. Until the whole square roared, shouting a name no one knew, but everyone claimed as their own.
PHOENIX!
PHOENIX!
PHOENIX!
Even Euryale, thrilled to the core, joined in the cheers. Pain and Panic weren't far behind, shouting with enthusiasm, as if they had just witnessed the birth of a legend.
"Phoenix! Phoenix! Phoenix!" they repeated, their eyes sparkling with admiration.
Erianthe smiled. But it wasn't just any smile. Hades saw it and fell silent. It was different.
It wasn't the smile he was used to from Eri—it was something else.
In her eyes there was a spark that radiated charisma, determination, and pride.
The kind of look only true leaders possess.
And thus, like in every legend… That was how it all began.
The scene shifted once more.
Now it showed an old hideout beneath the depths of Thebes. There they were: Erianthe, Patroclus, Ilena, Tadd, and Egan, surrounded by notes, maps, and makeshift weapons. Determined faces, ready to fight and stand their ground.
The Children of the Revolution had been born.
One by one, they swore loyalty to the cause. Not just to avenge the past, but to build a future.
And they began to act.
Sabotaging the king's constructions. Interrupting public executions. Rescuing slaves. Silent attacks on royal supply warehouses. And the bravest of all: the creation of a secret hospital for the wounded—those whom Licario would have let die without blinking.
The king was furious.
Every attempt to wipe them out ended in failure. The Children of the Revolution were like smoke: untouchable. And Phoenix… The Phoenix was their symbol, their spark, their flame.
Silence still reigned in the throne room as the final images of Erianthe's past faded.
Everyone present kept their eyes fixed on the three hooded figures who, until that moment, had remained motionless like statues.
It was Clotho who stepped forward, her voice rough but firm:
"This is how it all began, dear child."
Lachesis continued, her tone tinged with melancholy:
"But like every story, everything has a beginning… and an ending as well."
Then Atropos, the one who cuts the thread, moved forward with steady steps and raised the eye to reveal one final vision. In the air, images began to form: a battle… no, a war.
"Daughter of Hercules," she said as the images sharpened.
"We have come to warn you."
Erianthe stepped forward, her heart pounding in her ears.
"What is this?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"The battle that will be fought in Thebes… in a few months," replied Lachesis.
Erianthe's eyes widened in horror. The visions were terrifying: all of them fighting, wounded, and covered in blood.
And then the Fates began to chant their prophecy in unison.
Those who swore by justice's flame
Shall rise once more to break their chains.
But heed to this truth; let love prevail,
Or war shall end with bitter wail.
For only a great sacrifice of love, in its purest form,
Can calm the tide and still the storm.
Yet should hatred blind and vengeance lead,
Then doom shall sprout from every seed.
And not just Thebes shall meet the night—
All Greece shall fall, snuffed of its light.
A chilling silence took hold of the hall. Erianthe felt her chest tighten.
"W-What…? What do you mean with Greece will fall…?" she asked, pale as marble.
Clotho looked at her before delivering the final sentence:
"You will die. All of you. If you fail, there will be no one left. Nothing will remain."
And with that verdict, the three sisters vanished like smoke, leaving behind the echo of their prophecy, leaving everyone stunned, and the throne room once again in utter silence.
Hello everyone!
Here's a new chapter. I think this is the longest chapter I've ever written, but I would rather not split it. It's an important one, as it reveals Erianthe's entire past and the reason she became Phoenix.
You'll also see the storm of emotions this stirs in Hades, which will take its toll on the "relationship" between him and Erianthe.
Honestly, I was a bit scared to write this chapter. It's very emotional, but also quite violent—cruel, even—and I'm not sure if all of you will feel comfortable reading it. But it was necessary for the development of the story to understand Erianthe as a character, to see her evolution and growth, and how she had to fight from a young age just to survive. Until she finally took a stand against the king's tyranny, even if she doesn't see herself as a heroine.
I hope you like it and enjoy the chapter. You know the drill—feel free to leave a review, hit that like button on the story, or click follow.
Thank you for continuing to read!