Olympus glowed under a golden dusk, the skies tinted with the fire of sunset. From a distance, it appeared divine—untouchable. But within its shimmering halls, war brewed in silence.
Hera stood before the Council of Twelve, her emerald cloak coiling like mist around her feet. Her eyes gleamed with triumph and venom.
"I have done what needed to be done," she said. "The mortal woman is no more. The boy will fade into nothing."
The gods murmured among themselves. Some, like Ares, nodded in approval—war and destruction were the only language he respected. Others, like Hestia and Demeter, frowned, troubled by the quiet cruelty in Hera's voice.
Athena stepped forward, arms folded across her silver armor. Her owl perched on her shoulder, watching with golden eyes.
"You acted without the consent of the council," she said coolly.
"I acted in defense of Olympus," Hera replied. "Zeus's bastard child was a threat. A prophecy confirmed it. Shall we wait until he grows strong enough to burn Olympus down?"
Poseidon, lounging on a throne of coral and pearl, chuckled. "What's the boy to you, sister? Are you truly afraid of a child?"
"I fear prophecy," Hera said sharply. "And history. Have you forgotten Heracles? Dionysus? All the seeds Zeus has sown without thought to consequence? This one was born under a storm—and not even Zeus knows the extent of his power."
Zeus sat silent on his throne, shadows curling behind his crown like a brewing thundercloud. His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
Hades was absent, as always. The Lord of the Underworld never concerned himself with the squabbles of the sky.
"I warned you not to touch them," Zeus finally said. His voice rumbled like distant thunder.
Hera turned to him, her expression unreadable. "You warned me after the damage was done. You didn't even try to stop me."
Zeus's silence was confirmation.
"You still don't understand," Athena muttered. "You think you've silenced fate, but all you've done is ignite it."
---
In the ashes of Cliffhaven, Kaelos buried his mother with his own hands.
He did not cry. His tears had burned away with the fire. He only stared at the blackened soil, his heart a void.
The villagers—those who had once feared him—had vanished. Some fled. Others, perhaps, were taken. There was no one left to tell him what to do. No one to guide him.
But the storm inside him had awakened.
At night, he sat by the shore, staring into the sea. He no longer feared the sparks that leapt from his fingertips. He summoned them now—willed them into life, watched them dance like angry fireflies.
His mother's pendant, though broken, never left his neck. It was the only warmth left to him.
He heard the voice again—distant, echoing through his dreams.
"He shall be your silence, your reckoning…"
The Fates whispered, even when he closed his ears.
One night, as Kaelos slept in the remnants of his home, he dreamed of a woman in emerald robes standing over his mother's body. Her eyes burned with cruelty. Her lips curled in contempt.
He woke with a gasp, fists clenched. His body sparked uncontrollably.
And in that moment, Kaelos knew two things:
One, the gods had taken everything from him.
Two, he would make them pay.
Not today. Not tomorrow.
But soon.