Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Percy Jackson was daydreaming again.

The words on the textbook swam in front of his eyes, twisting and rearranging themselves into nonsense. The letters refused to stay still, shifting like waves on the shore, and Percy had to blink hard to force them back into some semblance of order. He could hear Mr. Kevin's voice—smooth, patient, and oddly calming—talking about ancient civilizations, but the details slipped through Percy's mind like sand through fingers.

ADHD sucked.

Especially when your brain decided that now was the perfect time to replay the weird dream he'd had last night—something about a giant eagle stealing his mom's blue cookies.

He drummed his fingers against the desk, his knee bouncing under the table like it had a life of its own. The classroom was too small, too stuffy, and the fluorescent lights buzzed in a way that made his teeth ache. He could practically feel Nancy Bobofit's smug stare from across the room—there goes Percy, spacing out again—but he was used to it by now.

Then, a gentle tap on his desk.

Percy blinked, refocusing to see Mr. Kevin standing beside him, his expression unreadable behind those thin-rimmed glasses. The man didn't look annoyed, though. He never did.

One would think someone with hair as white as his would be some stern, no-nonsense type, but Mr. Kevin was the opposite. He was the only teacher in New York who hadn't once snapped at a student—not even when Eddie from 3B accidentally set a literal fire in the trash can last semester.

"Percy," he said, voice low enough that only Percy could hear. "You with us?" His tone was light, but his eyes held something Percy couldn't quite place—like he knew Percy wasn't just slacking off.

Percy swallowed, embarrassment creeping up his neck. "Uh. Yeah. Sorry."

Mr. Kevin didn't sigh. Didn't roll his eyes. Instead, he just nodded and tapped the textbook again, right next to a single highlighted sentence.

"The Minoans worshipped the bull as a sacred animal."

Percy blinked and rubbed his eyes, thanking his lucky stars the letters aligned long enough for him to read it. That… actually didn't feel so far-fetched. He could picture it—great horned beasts, dark eyes gleaming, hooves thundering against stone. It reminded him of the Minotaur card Grover had shown him yesterday, and he had to bite back a snort at the idea of Greeks worshipping an overgrown bull in underpants.

"Thanks," Percy muttered, rubbing his head awkwardly.

Mr. Kevin gave him a small, knowing smile before returning to the front of the class.

That was the thing about Mr. Kevin—he got it.

Most teachers treated Percy like he was either lazy or stupid, but Mr. Kevin never did. He didn't get frustrated when Percy's mind wandered, didn't snap at him when he had to read the same paragraph five times just to understand it. He just… helped. Adjusted. Like he knew what was going on in Percy's head.

And the weirdest part? The rest of the school loved him too.

Mr. Kevin was one of those rare teachers who didn't just tolerate students—he liked them. He remembered their interests, asked about their weekends, and somehow made even the driest history lessons engaging. Rumor had it he'd once shut down Nancy Bobofit with nothing but a look, and since then, she'd avoided Percy like he had cooties.

Percy respected him. A lot.

The bell rang, snapping Percy out of his thoughts. He shoved his books into his bag and was halfway out the door when Mr. Kevin called after him.

"Percy. Walk with me?"

Percy hesitated. Normally, he'd bolt—school was over, and freedom called—but something in Mr. Kevin's tone made him pause.

"Uh. Sure."

They fell into step together, weaving through the crowded halls. Students parted for Mr. Kevin like he was some kind of VIP, nodding in greeting as he passed. Percy stuck close, half-expecting someone to give him crap for hanging around a teacher outside of class, but nobody did.

Weird.

"You doing alright?" Mr. Kevin asked as they stepped outside. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the pavement.

Percy shrugged. "Same as always."

"Hm." Mr. Kevin adjusted his glasses. "You seemed…distracted today. More than usual."

Percy winced. "Yeah. Sorry. It's just—" He gestured vaguely. "Words don't like me."

Mr. Kevin chuckled. "They're fickle creatures."

They walked in comfortable silence for a while, heading in the direction of their neighborhood. Percy had been surprised when he first found out Mr. Kevin lived nearby—teachers weren't supposed to exist outside of school, right?—but over time, it had become normal.

Their block was…different.

In a good way.

Percy's mom had moved them there after finally leaving Smelly Gabe, and from the first day, it had felt like a fresh start. The neighbors were nice. Like, actually nice. Not the fake-polite kind, but the kind who brought over food when Sally was exhausted from double shifts, or who fixed their leaky sink for free. There were a lot of kids there too, ones who got dealt the same hand from life as him.

He'd rather not talk about how rowdy it got each time one of them had a birthday party. Still, it was fun. Having friends who shared the same difficulties, people he could talk to who weren't at least twice his age. Most of all, having fellow ADHD-riddled souls around meant they could combine their dyslexic brains when schoolwork got tough.

And it was always tough. Every. Damn. Time.

At the center of it all was Mr. Kevin and his… friends? Family? Percy wasn't sure what to call them. He only knew them as the local aunties, courtesy of his mom practically forcing him to accompany them on those god-awful long shopping trips.

There was Aglaea, the seamstress who always had a kind word and a spare cookie. Castorice, who ran the local flower shop and had once shown Percy how to make a proper bouquet (and then laughed when he accidentally turned it into a lopsided mess). Cinthia, the neighborhood doctor the local kids actually wanted to visit… mostly to hug the giant, soft horse plushie she kept in her office. Silena, the scary swimming instructor and owner of a nearby water park—Percy's favorite auntie, even if he'd never dare blurt that out. Cerydra, the lawyer who helped his mom with court stuff before they moved in the block. Auntie Tribios, the baker whose pastries were literally divine. And Cifera, the sneaky lady who always scared the crap out of him when no one was looking…and always dragged him to the animal shelter to help out on the weekends.

They were…weird. In a good way.

Like Mr. Kevin.

Percy was about to ask something—he wasn't sure what—when he saw it.

Towering over everybody else and clad in a dirty trench coat, the monster's one big eye stared at him intently from across the street. A crooked smile appeared on its godawful face—too wide, too wrong.

Percy's blood turned to ice, his body rooted in place.

He'd seen things before. The black-winged horse. The giant golden bull. Things that shouldn't exist. But this—this was real. And it was looking at him.

His breath hitched. His fingers twitched, searching for a weapon he didn't have. 'Yeah, right. Like I could beat a weird creepy thing three times my size. Great thinking, Percy.' His brain quickly shelved that idea, instead focusing on finding some way to lose whatever that thing was in the crowd.

Then—

A hand on his shoulder, and all the tension in his body melted. Like a warm blanket on a chilly night.

Mr. Kevin.

"Percy." His voice was calm. Too calm. "Breathe."

'There's a monster right there!' Percy wanted to scream, but the words died in his throat as Mr. Kevin stepped forward, just slightly, placing himself between Percy and the cyclops.

The creature froze.

Not like it was hesitating. Like it had been stopped.

Its single eye widened in something Percy had never seen on a monster before—fear. It was shivering, malformed teeth clattering as its jaws tried and failed to form words. "Ke-k-k…" Its hands clasped together, the hulking figure falling to its knees, struggling to even beg properly.

Then, without a sound, the cyclops dissolved.

Not into dust. Into golden mist.

Percy's jaw dropped at the sparkling display, watching passersby casually ignoring what had just happened. The only sign it had ever been there was a poor dude sneezing when he inhaled a handful of golden particles.

And for the briefest second, Percy saw Mr. Kevin's eyes—gleaming, burning gold—before the teacher turned back to him, expression perfectly jovial.

"Everything alright?" Mr. Kevin asked, as if he hadn't just made a monster disappear with a look. He grinned, a sight Percy was sure could earn him decent money if he took a picture of it. Unfortunately, monster encounters tended to rank higher on the survival totem pole than selling photos of the popular teacher to his die-hard fans.

Percy's mouth was dry, blinking at the place where the creature had vanished. "Uh. Yeah." He nodded, choosing not to comment on Mr. Kevin's glare powers. 'Wish he did that with Nancy… and Gabe… and that one bird who pooped on me.'

Mr. Kevin studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Good. Let's keep going." He ruffled Percy's hair, holding his hand as they crossed the street, leaving the matter behind.

Percy followed, his mind racing. He cast one final glance behind him, watching the golden particles flying away with the wind. Clear as day, yet invisible to the innumerable people around him.

Grover is not going to believe this.

Dinner was at Chrysos, the local restaurant run by Mr. Kevin's…group. (He really needed to find a better word for them.)

He'd asked once what the name meant. Mr. Kevin had just smiled and said, "Golden."

The place was always packed, but they had a reserved table near the back—one that Percy and his mom were invited to more often than not. Tonight, the whole gang was there: Aglaea laughing with Sally, Tribios sliding a plate of still-warm bread toward Percy, while Silena silently refilled drinks.

It was normal…or at least as normal as one would expect if they didn't notice Auntie Castorice cooking with the largest wok known to man. Percy didn't know where she'd even found something big enough to feed ten people at a time, never mind learning to use it. He pitied the two cooks scrambling through the kitchen behind her, trying to keep up with her insane pace.

He watched as three red blurs raced between the tables, their cheerful smiles and warm voices drawing many a coo from the parents in the restaurant. Tribios's three daughters—always his rescuers when he needed help with school or finding the right gift for his mom on Mother's Day. Even if it was awkward to call girls shorter than him big sisters.

Except Percy couldn't stop thinking about the cyclops. He kept stealing glances at his teacher, happily munching away at his food as if he hadn't just evaporated a scary mini-giant with a glare.

He was halfway through his meal when Mr. Kevin suddenly stiffened. Everyone around them seemed to sense it—a soft smile appearing on Auntie Aglaea's face.

Then, without warning, he stood.

"Apologies," he said smoothly. "I just remembered an urgent matter."

Sally frowned. "Everything okay?"

Mr. Kevin's smile didn't waver. "Nothing to worry about. Please, enjoy the meal."

"We'll save you some extra portions for later," Tribios said, giving him a wink as the teacher nodded and walked out the door.

And then he was gone.

The woods were dark.

Two demigods—one barely eight, the other maybe twelve—stumbled through the underbrush, blood dripping from their wounds. Behind them, the snarls of monsters grew louder.

"We're not gonna make it," the younger one whimpered.

The older boy—Argo—gritted his teeth. "We have to."

But he knew it was hopeless.

They'd been separated from their satyr guide for hours now, trying to outrun their pursuers. No weapons. No backup. And the monsters were closing in.

Argo pushed his little sister behind him, shielding her with his body as the first of the creatures emerged from the trees. A pack of hellhounds. Then an empousa. Then more—so many more.

Argo's hands shook.

He wasn't a hero. He wasn't special. Just another unclaimed demigod who'd gotten in over his head.

But he wouldn't let his sister get hurt.

So he stood his ground.

And, silently, desperately, he prayed.

Not to his absent godly parent. Not to any of the Olympians.

Just…to anyone.

'Please. Help us.'

The empousa lunged—

—and stopped.

A hand caught its wrist, followed by a sickening crack as it was bent backward.

Argo blinked.

A man stood between them and the monsters. Tall. Snow-white hair gleaming in the moonlight as he adjusted his glasses. He turned their way, cyan eyes shimmering unnaturally. Argo was speechless, his breath calming as he hugged his sister protectively. He watched as the empousa struggled to free itself from his grip, bones jutting through its skin.

"It's alright now. You've done well holding your ground."

Then, a greatsword appeared in their savior's grasp. Its gleaming edge bit into the terrifying monster, beheading it in a blink before its body was flung aside like a bag of trash.

Argo almost yelped as another man landed beside the swordsman, the earth trembling under his feet. Broad-shouldered, tattooed, with a chilling glare that promised violence, the newcomer's proud figure seemed just as inviolable as the swordsman's gaze.

"Took you long enough, Deliverer." the tattooed man said, crimson eyes sparing a brief glance at the two children. Argo straightened under the man's scrutiny, his hands trembling but no less spread in front of his sibling.

Phainon smirked, flicking the monster blood off Dawnmaker. "Mydeimos, must you always complain?"

The monsters hesitated, their hesitation and terror morphing into desperation as the two tyrants turned their gazes toward them. Then, as one, they attacked.

Phainon didn't move.

Mydeimos cracked his knuckles.

"Bet I can kill more without powers," he said, welcoming the hellhounds' futile bites before ripping their heads off with a casual pull. Blood soaked his body, even as his hands claimed one foe after another.

The Deliverer took off his glasses, his sword running through the incoming cyclops's head before splitting it in two. "You're on."

And then—

Chaos.

Argo had seen their satyr fight before. He'd even fought a few monsters himself on the way here. But this?

This was something else entirely.

The two moved like storms—precise, effortless, devastating. Their savior's greatsword struck with impunity, every swing adding another corpse to the pile. The golden-haired warrior burst through the monsters with sheer brute force, all power and fury, laughing as he shattered bones and twisted bodies with his bare hands.

In minutes, the horde they were running from was gone.

The last of the monsters dissolved into golden mist, their snarls cut short as Phainon dismissed his weapon, the blade shimmering like liquid sunlight before vanishing into the air. The forest fell silent—unnaturally so, as if even the wind dared not disturb the two figures standing before the trembling demigods.

Argo's breath came in ragged gasps, his arms still outstretched in front of his sister, though the fight had long since been stolen from him. His knees shook, his body screaming in protest from the wounds littering his skin, but he refused to collapse. Not yet. Not until he knew they were safe.

Then—

A hand, rough and calloused, patted his head.

"You've done well, child."

Argo flinched, turning to see the towering warrior—Mydeimos—staring down at him with an intensity that should have been terrifying. But instead of fear, Argo felt something else—recognition. The man's crimson eyes burned like embers, his face bearing a ghost of a smile, but there was no mockery in his voice. Only approval.

"Standing your ground against your foes, regardless of the odds." Mydeimos snorted, ruffling his hair awkwardly. "That's the kind of grit that forges legends."

Argo's throat tightened. No one had ever praised him like that before.

His sister whimpered behind him, her small frame trembling from exhaustion and pain. Before Argo could react, Mydeimos moved—swift as a predator—scooping the girl into his arms with surprising gentleness.

"Easy, little one," he rumbled. "You've run enough for today."

Argo tensed, instinct screaming at him to protest, but his body betrayed him. His legs gave out.

A second pair of hands caught him before he hit the ground.

"We got you," Phainon murmured, his voice like the deep, resonant hum of the earth itself.

Argo looked up—and for the first time, truly saw the man who had saved them.

Phainon stood like a giant from the stories his mom always told them about—not just in stature, but in presence. Hair gleaming under the moonlight, cyan eyes shimmering with an otherworldly light…like the sky, Argo realized. His features were regal, his bearing unshakable, as though nothing in the world could bother him. There was something overwhelming about him the demigod couldn't put into words, a quiet, overwhelming majesty that made Argo's chest ache.

And beside him, Mydeimos burned like war incarnate. His muscles were corded with power, his tattoos twisting like living flames across his skin. Where Phainon was serene, Mydeimos was stoic—a barely disciplined storm. Something inside Argo resonated with the warrior, a connection he didn't understand. There was a protectiveness in the way he held his sister, as though he'd raze any threat before letting harm come to her.

"You have a choice," Phainon said, his voice calm but firm. "We can take you to Camp Half-Blood. You'll be safe there."

Argo's stomach twisted. Camp. The place their satyr had spoken of with such reverence. The place where their godly parent was supposed to claim them. If they proved themselves.

But they hadn't even bothered to talk to them.

They'd abandoned them.

Argo's hands clenched. "No."

Phainon tilted his head. "No?"

"We don't want to go there," Argo said, his voice raw but steady. "Our—our dad didn't care enough to save us. Why should we go when he'll just keep ignoring us anyway?"

A beat of silence.

Then—

"Good answer," Mydeimos growled. Before Argo could react, the warrior reached down and hauled him up into his other arm, holding both siblings against his chest as easily as if they weighed nothing. "Then you're coming with us."

Argo blinked. "W-what?"

"You stood your ground when the gods didn't, defending your kin when they didn't. Standing your ground in the face of despair." Mydeimos said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "That makes you mine now. Part of my household."

Argo's breath caught.

Household.

Family.

Something warm and fierce bloomed in his chest.

Then—

A thunderous crack split the sky.

Argo's sister shrieked as a fiery light streaked across the heavens, illuminating the forest in an eerie, crimson glow. The ground trembled, the trees shuddering as though in fear.

"W-what was that?!" Argo stammered, clutching at Mydeimos's arm.

Phainon didn't even glance up. "Nothing you need to worry about."

Mydeimos snorted, staring up defiantly at the crimson glow. "Just the gods throwing a tantrum. Ignore it." He held them tighter, meeting the scathing divine glare with a snort.

Argo stared. They weren't afraid.

At all.

Phainon stepped closer, resting a hand on Argo's head. "I am Phainon. This reckless fool is Mydeimos."

"Hey," Mydeimos grunted, though there was no real heat in it.

Phainon ignored him. "Let's go to your new home, you two."

Argo's vision blurred.

Home.

The sky rumbled again, distant and angry, but for the first time in his life—

Argo wasn't afraid.

Historical Excerpt: The Titans of Okhema

From the Fragmented Scrolls of Herodotus the Lesser (Disputed Authenticity, ca. 5th Century BCE)

"Beyond the lands ruled by the Olympians, there once stood the city of Okhema—a realm untouched by the whims of Zeus, where the earth itself answered to different gods. These were the Titans of Okhema, not the defeated husks of Kronos' kin, but sovereigns in their own right, who walked among mortals as both guardians and kings.

The Olympians knew of them—how could they not? There were whispers of clashes, of pacts made and broken. Most accounts paint a picture of a rather uneasy relationship between the two sides after these new titans revealed themselves just as Zeus was solidifying his budding reign after overthrowing his father. It is said the king and his brothers sought to bring ruin to the city when news of their worship of titans reached Olympus.

Yet, the city endured. By the grace of a singular figure painted and heralded across the prosperous city. Sword in hand as he cleaved the seas, split the heavens, and cratered the earth. His grace is said to have spared Okhema from the devastation of a great cataclysm.

Oh Valiant Kephale, may his sword point only to a world of peace and clarity."

Chapter Text

"My wish? My wish is to fulfill everyone else's wishes!"

"If I can't fulfill them…then send them on to tomorrow!"

The first rays of dawn painted the New York skyline in hues of gold and amber as Phainon watched from his apartment balcony. A steaming cup of tea warmed his hands, the aroma of jasmine curling through the crisp morning air.

"You're up early, little Sun God." He mused aloud, raising his cup in mock salute to the rising sun. A gleam shone in his cyan eyes, lips quirking slightly when he felt the rays of light grow a bit brighter. "Though I suppose you can't resist showing off for your big sis Cinthia." Somewhere in the distance, he imagined Apollo scowling at the jab before inevitably taking it as a compliment. Neither he nor others under Zeus were allowed to speak to them outside of events and ceremonies since his last bout with the King of Olympus.

It was a shame, really. Apollo used to be more of a free spirit when he was a young godling. Phainon could still recall the times he'd come to hide in Hyacinthia's domain whenever he made trouble for his sister or his father. Between his antics and his siblings' constant visits, the days were never gray. Although the others might've never noticed, he was sure Apollo knew he was always looking out for them despite their sire's constant slights.

Good ol uncle Kephale, looking after the young godlings for millennia with a very respectable record when it came to stopping them from making terrible mistakes…even if it took beating them over the head to do it. You'd be surprised what a few reality checks can do for a budding divinity's upbringing.

Three thousand years. That's how long it had been since he first set foot in this world—since Okhema's golden spires had scraped the heavens and fell, since mortals had whispered his name with reverence rather than fear. The memories came unbidden: children's laughter echoing through marble halls, Cyrene's playful cheers as she brought everyone together for a new expedition or adventure (only for him to somehow end up encountering and subsequently killing Pan…again.), Mydeimos' proud grin after their people's first victory against Olympus' forces, only to butt heads with Ares about some other matter the next day.

He exhaled, watching his breath fog in the cool air. How much had changed. Once, he'd been a sovereign—a titan who carved a better future for others. Now? A history teacher with a fondness for terrible puns and a soft spot for misfit children.

Not that he regretted it. Every nation and civilization must fall, just as it once rose. Professor Anaxa's words rang in his head every time he went through memory lane, keeping him from straying too far into dreams that shouldn't be entertained. After all, before him stands proof of his mentor's reason.

By the time the sun fully crested the horizon, Phainon was already weaving through the neighborhood streets, his presence as steady as the dawn itself. Mrs. Henderson's groceries needed carrying ("Oh Kevin, you're a saint!"), old Mr. Chen's fence required mending ("Didn't even need to ask, did you?"), and the Rodriguez twins' soccer ball had gotten stuck—again—in the tallest oak tree ("Mr. Keeeevin, pleaaaase!").

Each interaction left warmth curling in his chest, a quiet joy that had become as familiar as breathing. This was his purpose, back then and always: Helping others. Worship meant little to him compared to a sincere smile. The heavy burden of Humanity was but yet another weight on the back of the worldbearer…and he welcomed it.

Going through his rounds, Phainon found Cyrene in the park, her pink hair a vibrant splash against the muted greens of early spring. She was scribbling in that ratty notebook of hers, crystalline blue eyes flicking between the pages and the children playing nearby.

"Plotting world domination again?" Phainon teased, settling beside her on the bench.

"Only if you'll be my morally ambiguous lieutenant," she shot back, snapping the book shut with a dazzling smile. Her gaze drifted to a little girl with freckles and wild curls, currently attempting to climb a slide backward. "Look. Second row, third button on her overalls."

Phainon followed her gaze—and there it was: a tiny, stylized marking etched into the denim. The sigil of Kephale. It was hidden by the Mist quite well. He doubted the girl or her immediate family ever noticed it.

His breath caught.

"Her ancestor was one of our scribes, the one who pranked Cipher with a cucumber if I remember correctly." Cyrene murmured, pride softening her voice. "She looks just like a mini-version of her, too. Adorable cheeks and all."

For a moment, the present blurred. He saw not the park, but the Academy's courtyard—heard not the shrieks of playing children, but the cadence of Anaxa' voice as he lectured their youngest scholars. The worldbearer flowed along with the visions, walking through the grove's narrow corridors, through Okhema's streets, waving at the grey-haired hero from beyond the sky whacking Bartholos with his bat.

"Phainon?" Cyrene's hand found his, her thumb brushing his knuckles. "You're thinking of him again."

He didn't need to nod. She knew. They all carried the same quiet grief. It was…difficult to live life when you realize everything was a simulation once. One's trust in everything around them would naturally shatter, from the pain they felt to the very air they breathed. However, this world was real. He had seen it with his own eyes, breaking through the sky to observe it in a way he never had in Amphoreus.

Still, the knowledge didn't bring relief. It only made him worried for the one who freed them from their hell.

"He'd laugh at us," she said softly, recalling the memory she saw of the trailblazer's proud grin before he was nearly devoured by a droma. "Worrying after three millennia. As if time ever meant anything to that stubborn—"

"—weirdly smelly," Phainon interjected.

"—cute raccoon," she finished, bumping his shoulder. "He's fine. Wherever he is."

Phainon exhaled, squeezing her fingers before standing. The subject remained a grim part of who they were, their origin and true identity. Still, with a true deliverer ushered forth, Phainon was certain their dear friend would overcome that prison's machinations. "I'm due at the Sanctum. Try not to corrupt the youth with your terrible stories while I'm gone."

Her laughter followed him down the path.

Sanctum Imperialis wasn't marked on any mortal map.

To outsiders, it appeared as nothing more than an abandoned military base on Long Island's southern shores. But past the rusted gates and crumbling barracks, past the illusions that made cameras slip and eyes glaze over, lay a sanctuary reborn.

Titan-forged walls gleamed under the midday sun, manned and protected by Titankin meticulously refined by the hands of Strife. Training yards hummed with activity—demigods sparring, mortals drilling with celestial bronze weapons, children laughing as they raced between the olive trees that had once grown in the central square. Phainon floated above the expansive area, the subdimension easily as large as the island itself. Every part was meticulously planned out, be it the houses stretching far and wide, neatly organized around the healthcare and education establishments spread out across the twelve household districts.

Professor Anaxa's masterpiece. A land to nurture and hone those who sought purpose and meaning, and to provide for the lost and the abandoned…as well as accommodate and pamper all the dromas in the world. Not that Phainon would ever dare say the last part out loud. He would leave that somber task to Aglaea's capable hands.

Oh, the fairies already noticed him. He could see their fluffy forms floating about the streets, helping wherever they could. Most of them turned his way, waving at him enthusiastically. Not wishing to hamper their duties, Phainon gently floated down near the plaza.

"Worldbearer!" A chorus of voices greeted him as he strode through the central plaza. Hands reached out—to clasp his arm, to press offerings of fresh bread or hastily inked drawings into his palms. He returned each gesture with a smile, pausing to listen to the people's news or ruffle the hair of a giggling toddler.

Walking through the streets, Phainon greeted passersby as he slowly left the bustling center. It didn't take long for him to reach the verdant fields where his household resided. Before him stretched a patchwork quilt of cultivation that fed not just this home, but countless mortal mouths beyond its borders.

His district thrived in deliberate chaos—rows of traditional Amish corn stood shoulder-to-shoulder with hydroponic towers humming with Titan-forged tech. A group of former refugees, their hands still remembering the droughts of their homeland, gently worked the arid-looking plots with his blessings. Nearby, a veteran missing three fingers guided a team of demigod teens in harvesting wheat—its golden stalks shimmering faintly even in daylight.

Phainon's lips quirked as he spotted Old Man Herro—his once injured back from decades of mortal construction work now healed—arguing with a willowy dryad over tomato stakes. The scene was as familiar as his own sword forms: the dryad wanted them not to be arranged but grow naturally; Herro insisted his "ugly but effective" method grew juicier fruits.

"Kephale!" A voice like grinding rocks—Herro had spotted him. The old man thumped Phainon's shoulder with a hand filled with calluses and scars. "Perfect timing. Your damn dirt's rejecting the quinoa again." He grinned, grunting as the spirit whacked him in the back of the head.

"Show some respect to your sire, fool." She chided him, pulling the elderly man's ear until he apologized. She sighed, giving Phainon an apologetic look.

Phainon looked around as heads perked up from under the tall stalks, a chorus of greetings rising from across the fields. He recognized every one of them, from Maria, who met him while trying to cross the Sonoran Desert with her toddler strapped to her back, now singing lullabies to her pepper plants, to Jasper, an ex-Marine who'd traded his rifle for a grafting knife, tending to apple saplings that'll bear ambrosia-sweet fruit.

"It's alright. Give me a moment." Phainon knelt where the earth pulsed rebelliously, pressing his palms to the soil. The ground shuddered—not in rejection, but recognition. "Easy now," he murmured in the old tongue of Okhema. "You've carried stranger burdens." Golden light seeped from his fingers, and the quinoa sprouts straightened with vitality.

Rising to his feet, Phainon rolled his shoulders. His clothes shimmered, shifting to the simple white robes he once wore as a village boy. "Since everybody's so hard at work, I want a piece too." He smiled, hands tracing the plants as he joined them–hauling the sacks of seeds, settling arguments between the nymphs and the mortals, laughing as children 'helped' by dropping more berries in their mouths than the baskets.

Farm work always helped him relax more than anything, and bond more with his household. The local grandmas helped most newcomers settle in, in between braiding garlic stalks for drying and cooing at the couple of babes cradled by their mothers.

"Hello, elders." Phainon greeted the gathering, keeping his distance as his gaze shifted to the infants. "I see we have two new champions."

"If it isn't old Kephale." The eldest among them chuckled, her wizened grey eyes watching him fondly as she held her cane close to her chest. "I'm very angry with you, you know. Your daughters were heartbroken by your absence after the birth." Her lips stretched into a playful smile, pointing her cane at the worldbearer. The other ladies chuckled, while the mothers averted their gazes shyly.

"I'm very sorry about that." Phainon sighed, scratching his head. The children around him joined the elders under the shade of the olive tree, leaving the worldbearer alone. "Can I approach? I'll do my best to make it up to you and them."

"How about you stand there and cook a bit more. That would teach you." The old woman spoke, her audacity drawing a few gasps from the kids around them.

"I don't think that would work, ma'am."

"Ruin an old woman's fun, why don't ya." She smirked, before gesturing to the newborns. "What are you waiting for? Your new children are waiting."

"As you command." Phainon smirked, gently approaching the mothers. He knelt beside them, cyan eyes observing them fondly. His finger gently brushed against their cheeks, a golden light glowing on their skin as he leaned in close.

"Little champions, welcome to soil that will never reject your roots.

May your hands grow calloused from harvests shared.

May your voices rise in laughter that shakes apple blossoms from their branches."

He whispered to their ears, golden lines intertwining on their foreheads to form the sigil of Kephale. Phainon closed his eyes, feeling their heartbeats in the connection they now shared.

"Little ones who are already ours, I give you three pieces of what I am:

My strength to carry what crushes others.

My patience to outlast the trials ahead.

My defiance to shape what could not be."

His eyes opened once more, their golden sheen ethereal as he pulled back. The sigil of Kephale disappeared from sight, but its power coursed through the infants' veins. He smiled as they stirred from their sleep, eyes blinking open and staring up at him.

"Oh, but if you anger the troublemaker over there, you're on your own kiddos." Phainon chuck, gesturing to the old crone watching him all along.

She laughed, shooing the Throne of Worlds now that his blessings were given. "As if these angels would pick you over me. Go, the rest of your children would be happy to see you."

"You're my daughters too, though." Phainon replied, sidestepping the cane trying to poke his side. He raised his hands in surrender, backing off with a victorious smile. "I wish you a pleasant day, ladies."

They watched the worldbearer leave, before the elderly lady turned to the children with them. "What are you doing, you brats? Don't let your divine father walk alone! Go on, shoo." She yelled at them, her stern glare straightening them up as they obediently raced to join Phainon.

"Aren't you too hard on him, high priestess?" One of the old women said, watching Phainon heading for the orchards. "He did send gifts for the children."

"I've known him since I was little." The lady said, wrinkled fingers fondly tracing the unassuming cane. Her vision wasn't what it used to be, but she could see the reluctance on her divine father's face before he left. "No divine father loves his children more than Kephale…and no father would ever wish to see his children so old." She shook her head, looking around her before leaning back against the tree. The other ladies stole glances at her, before they went back to their work.

After finishing the work around the fields and having lunch with his household, the worldbearer returned to the training yards in the afternoon. Phainon was in the main training yard, circling two panting demigods with a practice blade balanced on his shoulder.

"Again," he ordered, slowly pacing around the two. "And this time, remember—"

"—the shield is a weapon too, we know!" groaned Argo, wiping sweat from her brow. The demigod and his sister certainly adapted well to their new home, the wear and tear from a week ago replaced with vim and vigor expected of the children of Mydeimos.

He could feel the power of Nikador coursing through their veins, fueling their depleted strength even after two hours of constant sparring. Still, they remained but aspirants, years away from joining the warriors of Strife. In time they'll become a fine addition to his friend's legions.

Phainon's grin was encouraging. He took his stance, beckoning the siblings. "Then prove it."

Argo lunged first, sword flashing forward in a controlled thrust—basic, but disciplined. Phainon deflected with a flick of his wooden blade, the impact sending a dull thwack through the yard. Before he could counter, Lyra's sling whirled. A stone shot toward his ribs.

Phainon twisted, letting it whistle past—but Argo was already moving, shield raised. The boy didn't just block; he shoved, using the shield's edge like a battering ram. Phainon grinned. Good. He let the momentum carry him back a step before pivoting, his wooden sword slashing upward—

"Too slow," he chided as the blade tapped Argo's exposed side.

Lyra didn't give him time to gloat. Twin daggers flashed as she darted in, low and fast. Phainon parried the first, sidestepped the second—but she was already rolling away, sling reloaded.

Argo feinted high, then suddenly dropped, shield braced. Lyra vaulted over him, sling snapping forward. The stone grazed Phainon's shoulder as he dodged—deliberately. He wanted them to see their progress.

"Better," he admitted, twirling the wooden sword. "But predictable."

He feigned a lunge at Argo, then spun mid-step, catching Lyra's wrist as she tried to flank him. A gentle twist disarmed her dagger—but she smirked.

"Predictable?" she huffed, and kicked the falling blade back into her free hand.

'Oh? Looks like the little sister might be just as much of a handful.' Phainon laughed, stepping back from a stab aiming for his hand. "Cheeky."

Argo charged, sword and shield locked in unison. Phainon met him head-on—then shifted last second, using Argo's momentum against him. A hooked foot tripped the boy—

Only for Argo to roll, using his shield as a pivot, and sweep Phainon's legs out from under him.

The Titan caught himself mid-fall, flipping back up.

The wooden sword clattered as Phainon caught Argo's wrist mid-swing, twisting him aside—only for a sharp thwack to tickle his ribs. Lyra had dropped her sling and punched him with her dagger's pommel.

Phainon's lips quirked. "Dropping your weapons? Bold choice."

Argo hurled his shield like a discus at Phainon's head while charging low behind it. The Titan ducked—

—only for Lyra to leap onto his back, arm locked around his neck and squeezing as hard as she could. Phainon's knees buckled briefly before he rolled, pinning her in the dirt.

A shadow fell over them. Argo stood above, his discarded sword now at Phainon's throat, free hand poised to strike.

Silence stretched between the demigods and the worldbearer. Lyra didn't let go of her hold on his throat, and her brother remained vigilant for any move Phainon might make.

Then—laughter. Deep, warm, shaking Phainon's shoulders as he stood up with Lyra still hanging on. Luckily his voice overpowered the yelp the girl made. "Now that's the kind of dirty fighting Mydeimos would applaud." He flicked the blade aside, ruffling Argo's hair. "Though next time? Go for the eyes."

Lyra jumped down, dusting off her tunic. "Thought you said fighting fair was important."

"Fair fights are for tournaments," Phainon corrected, dusting off his clothes. He pointed to his neck and his eyes. "Survival favors the ruthless."

The siblings exchanged a look—future mischief guaranteed.

'Speaking of mischief...' Phainon smiled, his gaze turning to the north as a bright idea came to him. He walked back to his home, resting and preparing before he left the sanctuary at dusk. 

The whispers began the moment his shadow touched the campfire's glow.

"Think he's scouting for the next tournament?" muttered an Ares camper, knuckles whitening around his spear. "Last time Nikador's brats broke three of our shields. We almost had them."

Phainon ignored them all—the wary stares, the hushed speculation—settling cross-legged beside the sacred flames with the ease of one returning home. The firelight caught in his white hair, turning the strands molten gold.

A presence materialized beside him in a swirl of golden embers.

"You're causing a scene," murmured the only voice that ever softened his edges.

Hestia appeared as she always did for mortals—an inconspicuous child of twelve, tending the flames with solemn hands. But to Phainon's eyes, she burned in her true glory: a woman wrapped in dawn-colored chitons, the hearth's glow dancing in her amber eyes, more radiant than all Olympus' gilded halls.

"Me?" Phainon pressed a hand to his chest, the picture of wounded innocence. "I'm the model of decorum. Though I'm devastated the Goddess of Hospitality didn't bring cookies for her favorite rogue."

A log cracked in the fire like punctuation.

"My husband," Hestia said mildly, stirring the flames with an iron poker, "believes reckless titans who flirt with married goddesses should be set ablaze."

"Sounds romantic." He stole the poker from her fingers, using it to sketch her sigil in the ashes. "Tell him if he wants pyrotechnics, I know a dragon who owes me favors."

Her lips quivered. Three thousand years hadn't dulled his ability to unravel her composure.

When Priapus had cornered her in that darkened temple so long ago, it had been Phainon's blade that severed the god's grasping hands. When Poseidon came roaring for vengeance, it had been Phainon's hand that caught the trident's blow. He used to be so confrontational back then, facing down one foe after another with a smile on his face. A bane of gods and titans alike, a name spoken in whispers by the divine and demonic alike.

…Now, he had the audacity to nuzzle his head in her lap like an overgrown housecat demanding to be spoiled.

"Vesta won't tolerate this insolence," Hestia muttered, though her fingers drifted unconsciously to card through his hair. "I should let her turn you to cinders. Maybe a burn or two would make an actual gentleman out of you."

The earth trembled in agreement—or perhaps at Zeus' distant fury. Phainon didn't bother lifting his head, merely pressed his palm to the soil. The quakes stilled.

"Dinner at Chrysos?" He grinned up at her, all goofy charm and jovial edges. "I asked Tribios to make your favorite baklava. I'll even let you steal the last piece."

Thunder split the sky. The campers startled; Phainon yawned.

Hestia watched the storm clouds roil, calculating the decades of Olympian sulking this would cost her. Then—deliberately, playfully—she took his hand. Or mayhaps she could just use her other counterpart as an excuse? It would certainly be more fun.

'I demand full control for two days in exchange.' Vesta's voice whispered to her, striking a hard bargain with no intent on any compromise. Hestia promptly decided it was better to handle this herself. She didn't want to end up in awkward situations like the last few times she trusted the two of them.

"On second thought, you're incorrigible, dear." she lied, as golden fire swallowed them whole.

Behind them, the hearth blazed brighter, illuminating the camp with a warm glow.

Excerpt from "Flame and Foundation: The Sacred Union That Shook Olympus"

(A compilation of Okheman hymns, military logs, and suppressed Delphic prophecies, circa 5th century BCE)

The Donkey's Screech: First Meeting

Okheman Temple Mural (North Sanctuary, "The Deliverance")

"When the Braying One dared lay hands upon the Hearth's purity, the heavens cracked with the Worldbearer's wrath. Before the assailant could flee, Kephale's blade severed his arrogance at the root. Thus did the First Flame look upon her protector—and in that glance, embers became an unquenchable fire."

(Note: The mural deliberately obscures Priapus' form beneath Kephale's foot, focusing instead on Hestia's outstretched hand. Okheman priests taught that true love begins with defending another's dignity, not claiming it.)

Fragment from Sappho's "Untamed Hearth" (Recovered from Alexandrian furnace ashes)

"…They met where the olive groves hid them,

she in mortal guise, he without his wings.

No nectar was sweeter than the figs they shared,

no temple as holy as the space between their clasped hands…"

Titan Lelantos Spy Report (Archived in Laconia's "Forbidden" Vault)

"Confirmed: The unknown Titan visits Olympus' hearth nightly. Disguised as ember-light. If Zeus knew his sister's 'virginity' was a ruse to spare her from political marriages, he'd raze Okhema himself. Recommend blackmail—but frankly, I'd rather fight a hydra than that sword."

Delphic Oracle's Private Scroll (Charred Edges, Smells of Sea Salt)

"Poseidon and Apollo came bearing bridal gifts. Hestia set them aflame with a glance. Then he entered—not as a suitor, but as a man in farmer's garbs. 'She is mine,' Kephale said, and the Throne of Worlds's shadow swallowed the throne room whole. The Sea God roared. The Sun God faltered. And the Hearth smiled."

Athenian Playwright's Draft (Crossed-Out Title: "How to Enrage a Poseidon")

Poseidon: "You dare claim what Olympus' lords cannot?"

Kephale: "I claim nothing. She chose. Or are you so weak that a woman's 'no' terrifies you more than my blade?"

(Stage direction: The seas boil. The audience gasps. Hestia pours tea.)

Okheman War Chant (Still Sung During Harvest Festivals)

"Poseidon rose, trident high!

The Pillar struck—and split the sky!

Three waves crashed, three blows were thrown,

Yet the Unbroken stood, unmoved as stone!

Spare him? Aye, for love's own sake,

Lest the Hearth's bright heart break!"

Corinthian Admiral's Log (Water-Stained, Found in a Shipwreck)

"Witnessed the Sea God dragged ashore near Sounion. Missing two fingers. Babbling about 'golden fire.' Kephale walked past our fleet afterward, saving all of us from drowning. We pretended to see nothing. Smartest decision we ever made."

Hestia's Personal Diary (Allegedly locked in Okhema's Inner Sanctum)

"I told him I would bear no children. That my fire was for all, not one. He knelt—knelt!—and pressed my hand to his brow. 'Then let our children be those the gods forget,' he said. That night, we founded the first Household. Now even orphans know a father's name."

Modern Analysis

The Okheman notion of "Households" (chosen families with Kephale and Hestia as symbolic parents) directly challenged Olympian bloodline obsessions. This spiritual kinship infuriated Zeus, who saw it as Titan influence corrupting mortal loyalty. Yet the system endured—proof that love, not fear, builds lasting legacies.

Chapter Text

"Best me."

"I am the scar this world needs."

The deepest, driest crack in the floor of Death Valley was their playground. Here, where the sun hammered the earth into a cracked ceramic plate and the air shimmered with deceptive water that was only heat, three figures met not as allies, not as enemies, but as forces of nature in need of a pressure valve.

Mydeimos stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his bare torso gleaming with a pristine sheen under the relentless sun. To his left, Ares, God of War, cracked his neck, a feral grin splitting his face as he hefted a brutal, serrated kopis that smoked with divine malice. To his right, Pallas, the Titan of Warcraft, spun his spear, the point tracing intricate, deadly patterns in the air.

No words were exchanged. They were a luxury for beings who communicated in violence.

The stillness broke.

It was not a coordinated attack, but a simultaneous eruption. Mydeimos dropped into a low crouch and slammed his fist into the ground. The earth erupted outward in a wave of shattered rock and dust, forcing both his opponents to leap into the air.

Ares used the concussive force, riding the shockwave to descend upon Mydeimos like a crimson meteor, his kopis screaming for blood. Pallas, ever the tactician, used the obscuring dust cloud to vanish, his form blurring into the heat haze.

Mydeimos didn't block Ares's overhead strike; he welcomed it. He crossed his forearms above his head, and the divine steel ground against his skin with a sound like a mountain breaking. The ground beneath his feet cratered, the force of the blow radiating outwards and turning a hundred-foot circle of desert floor into a web of fissures. With a grunt of effort, Mydeimos shoved upward, sending Ares stumbling back.

A whisper of air was his only warning. Mydeimos twisted, Pallas's spear grazing his ribs instead of piercing his kidney. A line of golden ichor welled up, and instantly evaporated as the wound sealed shut. Mydeimos grinned, the pain a familiar, welcome sensation. He grabbed the shaft of the spear before Pallas could retract it and yanked, pulling the Titan off-balance.

His fist cracked bone and tore muscle, sending Pallas flying through the nearby cliffs. The war titan grunted, his vessel's broken spine easily putting itself back together. Pallas quickly crossed his arms, the cliff he was buried into blown to pieces as Mydeimos legs slammed on top of him. His enemy's arms pinned, Mydeimos readied the spear, only to stop when he noticed Pallas smiling.

The warhammer struck his back before he could turn around, rabid divinity shattering his ribs and rupturing his lungs as his body skidded against the jagged edges of the cliff. Mydeimos grunted, shoving his hand into the cliff and leaving a giant crater on its side as the force dispersed.

Ares was on him again, a whirlwind of brutal, efficient strikes. Mydeimos parried with his forearms, each impact ringing out across the desolate valley like a funeral bell. He ducked under a swing that would have decapitated a lesser being and drove a fist into Ares's midsection. The god of war buckled, the air blasted from his lungs, and he was sent flying backward to crater the face of a sandstone cliff, sending a rockslide tumbling down.

Pallas used the distraction, tackling Mydeimos down the cliff. They slammed into the ground with thundering force, another deep crater on the battlefield watered with their shared ichor. Mydeimos grunted as the dust slowly settled, releasing his hold on Pallas's head while the titan's crushed face began to regenerate. He jumped to his feet just as Ares came flying, smirking at the war god as his hand gripped Pallas's ankle.

"Don't you da–" Pallas's words were mixed with wet gurgles, his mouth halfway fixed as he was swung at Ares like a bat.

Ares raised his shield, grunting as his arm broke under the force, before he and Pallas were forced back. Both warriors twisted in the air, landing on their feet in spite of the horrifying wounds across their vessels. Ares didn't need to think, his core singing to the tunes of the sweet choir each clash of their wills made. Pallas hid it behind his usual composure, but all three of them could feel each other's emotions without restraint. Their cores laid bare in honorable combat.

"That's one point for me." Mydeimos smirked, raising a finger as he brushed off the dirt and stone on his cloak. His smirk faltered when he felt the sting from his belly, looking down to see Ares's serrated weapon in his stomach and Pallas's hidden dagger buried between his ribs. He looked back at the two, their smirks mimicking his own.

"Getting senile, Nikador?" Ares snickered, tilting his head to avoid the sword thrown at him. His eyes widened, sensing danger as a gauntleted hand palmed his face. A tremor shook the entire valley, a giant dust cloud erupting as the god of war was slammed deep into the earth.

For a moment, there was silence, save for the trickle of falling rocks and the heavy, panting breaths of the combatants.

Then, a roar of pure, unadulterated joy echoed from the hole. Ares erupted from his crater, covered in dust and grinning like a maniac, his eyes burning with bloody light. "Now we're getting somewhere!"

The three-way brawl resumed in earnest. They were a blur of motion, a cataclysm contained in a mile-wide arena. Ares's fury was a raw, untamed thing, all power and rage. He fought to dominate, to break and overwhelm. Pallas was a scalpel, his movements precise and calculated, each thrust and parry designed to exploit the slightest weakness, to dismantle his opponents piece by piece.

And Mydeimos…Mydeimos was the heart of the conflict itself. He would turn Ares's wild charge into a weapon against Pallas's careful defense. He would use Pallas's precise footwork to lure Ares into an overextension. He was the catalyst, the one who took their individual violence and amplified it, refined it, and turned their simple brawl into a brutal, beautiful symphony of destruction.

He caught Ares's kopis on his raised forearm again, the edge biting deep into the muscle before being stopped by the divine bone beneath. At the same moment, he kicked out, his foot connecting with Pallas's chest as the Titan tried to press his advantage. He shoved Ares back and used the recoil to spin, his elbow smashing into the side of Pallas's helmet with a deafening cry of divine steel.

Ichor flowed freely now, splotching the pale sand and sizzling on the hot rocks in hues of gold.

An hour later, it was over. Not because anyone had won, but because the energy was spent. The habitual hobby had served its purpose.

The three of them lay in a rough triangle amidst the devastation, surrounded by fresh craters, sheared-off cliff faces, and canyons that hadn't existed ninety minutes prior. Their breaths came in ragged, heaving gulps.

Ares was the first to sit up, spitting a glob of bloody sand onto the ground. "Hah! That one almost got me, Nikador. I felt that last one in my teeth."

Mydeimos pushed himself up onto his elbows, wincing as the wound on his ribs pulled. "You say that every time, Ares. Your teeth are fine. Your pride, however, has a new dent."

Pallas remained lying down, staring at the bleached-blue sky. "Your strategy is still reckless, Strife. You leave your flank open constantly to bait an attack. It is a vulnerability."

"And yet," Mydeimos said, getting to his feet and offering a hand to Pallas, his wounds gone. "you keep falling for it. That's not a vulnerability; that's a feature."

Pallas accepted the hand up with a grudging nod. "A feature I will eventually learn to bypass."

"I look forward to it. Athena wouldn't be happy when it does though."

With a series of winces and groans, the three deities cleaned themselves up. A shimmer of light, a flex of divine will, and the worst of the damage was gone. Cuts sealed, bruises faded, broken bones knitted back together. The ichor and dust vanished from their skin and clothing, leaving them looking as if they'd just stepped out of a meeting, not a catastrophic fistfight.

"The usual?" Mydeimos asked, already knowing the answer.

"The usual," Ares grunted.

"If the ambrosia ale is chilled," Pallas added.

The pub was called The Gilded Fist. It was tucked away on a forgotten side street in a Nevada town that barely qualified as a dot on the map. To mortals, it looked like a dusty, closed-down relic. To those with the sight to see, its windows glowed with warm, inviting light, and the sign above the door depicted a gleaming golden hand clutching a foaming tankard.

It was one of Mydeimos's many investments, a neutral ground where divine and semi-divine beings could unwind without starting—or, more accurately, without finishing—a war. Depending on the season, some foreign war gods would swing by to join their little workout session. Most of them don't come back after the first time, mostly after being ripped apart between the three of them. Others, like Athena, either grew bored or incensed when they didn't win.

Good times, if you ask Ares.

They settled into a heavy oak booth at the back, casually observing the mortals unwinding around them. A silent, efficient automaton—a humanoid Titankin shaped by Hephaestus in a moment of cross-faction collaboration—brought a pitcher of frigid cold ambrosia ale and three tankards without being asked.

Ares drained half his tankard in one go and slammed it down with a satisfied sigh that made the glasses on the nearby tables rattle. "Now that hits the spot. Better than nectar any day."

"You have the palate of a child." Pallas remarked, sipping his own drink with a critical air. "But I will concede its…fortifying properties."

"Means he likes it," Mydeimos translated for the empty air. He took a long drink himself, the liquid cool and potent, washing the last of the dust from his throat. "So. You both fought like children. Slow. Predictable. I'm embarrassed for you."

Ares barked a laugh, scaring a number of bikers near the bar. "Says the titan with a spear-shaped scratch on his ribs. I saw that. Looked nasty."

"A love tap from Pallas. He was feeling affectionate."

"I was testing the density of your hide," Pallas countered dryly, a glint flashing in his eyes. As close as one would get to a smile from him…unless your name is Styx. "It remains impressively thick."

They lapsed into a comfortable, teasing silence, the camaraderie of those who have tried to kill each other and found themselves respecting the effort. It was Ares who broke it, his gaze turning speculative.

"The Solstice Reckoning is in two weeks," he said, grinning excitedly as he lightly punched Mydeimos's shoulder. "You ready to get your titan ass handed to you, Nikador?"

Mydeimos swirled the ale in his tankard. "My 'titan ass,' as you put it, has won the household war division two years running. Your campers are still nursing their bruises from last year's capture-the-flag debacle."

"Debacle? That was tactical genius!" Ares argued, though a flicker of a smile betrayed his pride. "My kid, Clarisse? Led the charge that sacked your entire forward position. It was beautiful. Her siblings just needed more training."

"She was very…enthusiastic," Pallas allowed, rubbing his beard as he remembered the show. "Lacked finesse, but made up for it in sheer aggression. Your child, through and through."

"Damn right."

"And how is your champion for the divine duels this year?" Mydeimos asked, turning to Pallas. "Athena hasn't stopped boasting about her new protégé, some minor goddess of strategic insight."

Pallas's expression soured, and he sighed. "She talks too much. The pupil is adequate. She will provide a sufficient challenge, I am sure."

The conversation continued, a familiar dance of boasts, wagers, and good-natured insults. They speculated on the chariot races (Ares bet a crate of divine weapons on Apollo's sun chariot, Mydeimos bet on Poseidon's sea-horse team to unexpectedly flood the track and get disqualified again), the wrestling matches, and the grand melee.

"A hundred golden drachma on the counselor from Hermes' cabin to steal the victory laurels right off the winner's head." Ares said.

"Taken," Mydeimos said. "My household's sentries are trained by Cifera herself. The Castellan boy will find himself tied by his own shoelaces."

After another pitcher and a round of surprisingly delicious mortal-style burgers ("What? The cook's a son of Demeter. He makes the beef himself," Mydeimos explained), Pallas stood.

"I must take my leave," he announced. "Promised Metis I would review the final layouts for the tournament grounds. She has… opinions on the optimal placement of the archery range."

Mydeimos and Ares narrowed their eyes at him, sharing a glance and smirking. "Is that how you tell people your wife's screaming at you to come home?" Mydeimos quipped, the two laughing as Pallas's face paled.

"You think she'd storm in here if we tie him up? Might really take his hide this time around." Ares snickered, slapping Mydeimos's shoulder as the stoic Pallas became slightly restless.

"Not unless you're ready to give your hide too. I'd rather face him than a scorned Styx."

Pallas hid his impatience rather well, offering a nod to each of them. "Ares. Nikador. Until next time we bleed together." He left rather quickly, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft chime of a bell.

The atmosphere in the booth shifted subtly. The easy, violent camaraderie was still there, but a space had opened up. Mydeimos studied Ares. The God of War was staring into the dregs of his ale, his usual boisterous energy replaced by a quiet, brooding stillness. It was a look Mydeimos had seen before, but rarely directed inward.

"Alright," Mydeimos said, his voice losing its teasing edge. "Out with it."

Ares didn't look up. "Out with what?"

"You've been off all day. Your heart wasn't in that fight. You telegraphed that left hook in the first five minutes like you were sending a scroll. What's chewing on you?"

Ares was silent for a long moment. The automaton came to refill their pitcher, but a slight shake of Mydeimos's head sent it away. Finally, Ares let out a breath that was more growl than sigh.

"It's the Reckoning," he muttered.

"What about it? Scared we'll finally win the divine triathlon? I know Artemis got nervous about our archers last year."

"It's not the games," Ares snapped, then reined in his temper. He finally looked up, and in his eyes, Mydeimos saw a surprising depth of frustration, something that went deeper than a simple loss in a brawl or a bet. "It's…before the games. The council. Him."

Understanding dawned on Mydeimos. "Zeus."

"He's already posturing," Ares said, his voice low and grating. "Making demands about the rules, threatening to withdraw Olympus's participation if we don't concede on some pointless point of order. It's all a power play. It's always a power play with him. Can't just have a clean fight. Can't just have a contest of strength and skill. It has to be a political nightmare. It has to be about his glory, his authority."

Mydeimos listened, saying nothing. This was a rare glimpse behind the curtain of the God of War's fury.

Ares shook his head, a gesture of genuine, weary confusion. "I look at your lot. The Okheman Titans. I look at Kephale. And I just…I don't get it."

"What don't you get?"

"How does he do it?" Ares asked, and the question was stripped bare of any malice or rivalry. It was almost plaintive. "He leads. He doesn't just bark orders. He doesn't just command obedience through fear or raw power. They listen to him. They follow him. Your whole fractured, chaotic band of titans and their households…they actually function. You have a plan. You have unity. You argue, you brawl—Hades knows you brawl—but it doesn't all fall apart. How?"

He looked genuinely lost. "My father…he rules by fear. He plays us all like pawns. He fears his own children. He cares more about his throne than his people. How is Phainon any different? He's a Titan King. He has to be just as proud, just as power-hungry. So how does he make it work? How is he…better?"

The word 'better' tasted like ash in Ares's mouth, but he said it.

Mydeimos was quiet for a time, considering his answer. He couldn't reveal the full truth—the origin of their unity forged in the fires of a simulated reality, the shared purpose of the Trailblaze, the profound debt they all felt to the one who had freed them. That was for his family alone.

But he could give Ares a piece of it.

"The Deliverer doesn't see a throne…" Mydeimos said finally, his voice low and serious. "He sees a responsibility. He doesn't demand followers; he earns loyalty. He doesn't see strength as a means to dominate, but as a tool to protect. He leads because someone has to, and because he knows the weight of that duty isn't a burden to be borne alone, but a load to be shared. He trusts us to hold our part. And we do. Not because we fear him, but because we'd be letting each other down if we didn't."

He took a drink. "Your father rules from a mountain top, alone, and wonders why he's lonely. Phainon stands at the center of the forge, and we all swing the hammers with him. That's the difference."

Ares stared at him, the god's face a mask of conflicted emotion. The concept was so foreign, so antithetical to everything he knew of power. For a god born of strife and conflict, the idea of strength through unity was a paradox.

"You make him sound weak." Ares muttered, but there was no conviction in it. It was what he was supposed to say, even if all knew what the fury of the worldbearer looked like. Every Olympian remembered it every time they looked at Poseidon's left arm and leg, made out of water unlike the rest of his vessel. They felt it whenever his father scowled if one of them looked too long at the golden scars on his body.

Mydeimos smiled, a sharp, knowing thing. "Is that what you really think? After today? After every time we've fought? Strength isn't just in the arm that swings the sword, Ares. It's in the will that gives that arm a reason to swing. Kephale gives us a reason. Your father…he just gives you orders, because he fears the alternative. Betrayal is like that."

Ares fell silent again, absorbing the words. The boisterous God of War was gone, replaced by a son who, for a fleeting moment, glimpsed a different path and felt a confusing pang of something that might have been envy, or might have been grief for a father he would never have.

He drained the last of his ale and stood up, the moment of vulnerability passing as he cloaked himself once more in his familiar persona.

"Yeah, well. He'd still better be ready for a beating at the Reckoning," he grunted, slapping a handful of golden drachma on the table to cover the tab. "I'm not going easy on him just because his kids would be watching."

Mydeimos leaned back, his easy grin returning. "I'd be disappointed if you did."

Ares gave a curt nod and turned to leave, his heavy boots echoing on the wooden floor. As he reached the door, he paused, his hand on the frame. He didn't look back.

"Thanks for the drink, Nikador."

And then he was gone.

Mydeimos sat alone in the quiet pub for a long time, the Titan of Strife turning the God of War's quiet confession over in his mind. The games were coming. The Reckoning would be fierce. But for the first time, he wondered if the most important battle wasn't on the tournament field, but in the heart of a conflicted god on the other side.

The discussion aside, Mydeimos knew Ares well enough to tell there was something else he was hiding. Something he couldn't talk about with anyone, and it didn't involve Zeus. That never ended well.

Historical Excerpts: On the Cult of Nikador, the Lance of Fury

From the "Annals of the Bronze-Willed," attributed to Krios of Okhema, Chief Archivist of the Chrysos Heirs Chronicles (circa 800 BCE)

To understand the essence of Nikador, the Lance of Fury, one must first discard the Hellenic fear of the word Titan. He is not the mindless strife of an earthquake or a plague. He is the deliberate and focused strife of the heart that chooses to stand against the storm. He is the conflict honed to a single, deadly point. He is the grit that allows a soldier to hold the line, a scholar to challenge a false dogma, and a traveler to persevere through a blizzard. His fury is not a wildfire; it is a lance thrust—precise, devastating, and directed at the heart of corruption.

His worship is not for those who seek war for glory or plunder. It is for those who recognize that conflict is an inescapable thread in the tapestry of life, and who seek to wield it as a surgical tool for preservation. The legions of Okhema march under his sigil—a golden lance piercing a twisted chain—not because they love war, but because they are sworn to overcome the challenges Nikador gives us.

From "The Spartan Counter-Arguments," a series of polemical texts by Spartan elders (circa 550-500 BCE)

Let it be known that the strength of Sparta is and always will be devoted to Ares, our patron, and to the glory of Zeus. However, we acknowledge the strange, honorable rivalry we hold with the devotees of the Titan Nikador.

We have clashed with their phalanxes on three occasions. Each time, it was a contest of focused wills. Their warriors do not break. They are a wall of spearpoints, disciplined and direct.

They share our abhorrence for craven acts. Their priests decry the poisoning of wells and the murder of messengers as vehemently as our own laws do. It is said that on the eve of battle, the war-gods themselves—Ares, Athena, Pallas, and Nikador—look upon the field together. They bless the warrior who fights with honor to save his comrades and curse the one who revels in the suffering of the innocent. A Spartan who shows mercy to a surrendered Okheman soldier might find his own spearpoint miraculously sharpened the next day. An Okheman who holds a pass to allow Spartan civilians to flee might later discover his broken shield has been mysteriously restored.

This mutual respect transcends the battlefield. When the Arcadian League, envious of Okheman prosperity and calling them "Titan-loving heretics," marshaled their forces to besiege Okhema's northern territories, our Ephors debated for a day and a night. Some argued we should let the Titans be weakened by mortal hands. But the prevailing argument, put forth by the Agiad king himself, was this: "A foe you respect is a known quantity. A victor who lacks that respect is a threat. Our strife with Okhema is a contest of champions. Their destruction by lesser men would be an offense to Ares himself, and a shame Sparta would never heal from."

And so, though no treaty bound us, a Spartan mora of three hundred men marched to the Okheman border. They did not engage the Arcadians directly. They simply took up a position on a hill overlooking the invasion route, polished their shields to a brilliant gleam, and began their drills. The message was unmistakable: any army that sought to break the Okheman lines would have the full, unbridled fury of Sparta at its exposed flank.

The Arcadians lost their nerve and withdrew. No Spartan blood was shed. No Okheman life was lost. No words of thanks were exchanged, for none were needed. The debt was not between nations, but between warriors. It was an understanding that our rivalry was a thing to be preserved, a whetstone upon which both our peoples could sharpen our spirits. They are heretics, yes. Titans. But they are our honorable heretics. Our strife with them is the highest form of respect.

Personal Votive Offering found in a cave shrine near Thermopylae (circa 480 BCE) - A simple clay tablet

Nikador, Lance of Fury,

I was a potter from Thespiae. I fled when the Persians came. I hid in these rocks, cowardice strangling my heart. I saw your devotees stand with the Spartans. I saw them choose a path of thorns that would mean their end, to give others a chance to live.

Their purpose became my own. I could not take up a spear. But I guided a group of lost children through the mountain paths to safety. It was my battle.

Thank you for the sharp will to fight it.

—Lysias, who now understands.

Inscription from the base of a statue of Nikador, Okhema's War District (circ. 200 BCE)

Strife is not your enemy. It is your whetstone.

Let it sharpen you, not break you.

Let it define your purpose, not your end.

Face the strife within, and you may conquer the strife without.

—Tenet of the Lance

Chapter Text

"The whispers of a homesick soldier,

the lullabies a mother uses to soothe her child, the last letter left by a maiden to her lover...

With each funeral, I carry another memory left by those who have passed -

memories that still hold the warmth of their lives."

The screech of tires was deafening. Terrifying and unexpected. For Lila, age eight, it was the last sound that felt real. There was no impact, no pain. Just a sudden, profound silence that descended as the city's night-time hum faded into a distant, muffled buzz.

One moment, she was chasing her bright yellow ball, its cheerful bounce taking it from the safety of the sidewalk into the dimly lit street. The next, she was standing on the curb, blinking in confusion. Her ball was…fine. It rested against the opposite curb, perfectly still under the glow of a flickering streetlamp. The car that had screeched was stopped, its driver a pale, horrified statue behind the wheel, being spoken to in low, urgent tones by a bystander. People were gathered in a small, tense circle in the street, their faces drawn and sad. A woman was sobbing, the sound harsh and broken in the quiet night.

Lila frowned. Why was everyone so upset? She took a step toward her ball, but a strange, heavy lethargy held her back. The world had changed. The neon signs of the bodegas were now soft, blurred smudges of color. The headlights of passing cars were hazy orbs, their light not reaching her. The world was painted in muted shades of grey, silent and lonely.

She didn't feel sad. She didn't feel much of anything. Just a little lost. She'd been on her way home from the park. Mom was making mac and cheese for dinner, the kind with the extra crispy breadcrumbs on top. She should probably get going. She looked down, noticing her dress was dirty. That's not good either, mom will be sad.

But her feet didn't seem to want to take her home. They carried her down the sidewalk, past the concerned crowd that looked right through her. She wandered, the city a ghostly impression of itself. Then, a flicker of movement caught her eye. A shiny butterfly, its wings a stunning, deep violet, fluttered beside her. It didn't seem to be grey like everything else. The only colorful thing, actually. It circled her head once, twice, then flew ahead, as if beckoning her to follow.

Feeling a little less alone, Lila followed the butterfly. It led her to a small pocket park, where an old man sat on a bench under an oak tree, feeding pigeons that cooed softly in the moonlight. He wore a worn tweed coat and had kind, watery eyes behind thick glasses. He glanced at her, and to her surprise, his gaze focused on her. He saw her.

The purple butterfly alighted gently on the old man's shoulder.

"Hello there, little one," he said, his voice like the rustle of dry leaves. She wondered why he was wearing so much in summer. "You look a bit turned around."

Lila nodded, her lower lip trembling slightly for the first time. "I think I lost my way."

The old man smiled, a gentle, understanding thing. "It happens to the best of us on nights like these." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a single, perfect sprig of lavender. It smelled clean and calm. "Here. Take this. It'll help you find your path. You need to find the florist. The kind one. Her shop is three blocks east. You'll know it by the window boxes."

Lila took the lavender, its scent immediately easing the faint, formless anxiety in her chest. "Thank you, mister."

He ruffled her hair, smiling gently at her. "Go on now," he said, turning back to his pigeons. The purple butterfly took flight again, leading the way. "She's waiting."

Guided by the butterfly, Lila walked east. On the second block, a young woman with a guitar case was leaning against a brick wall, bathed in the soft light of a vintage streetlamp. She had sad eyes but a soft smile. The butterfly fluttered around her head.

"You're going the right way," the woman said without looking up. Her fingers plucked a soft, melancholic chord. "I can hear it in your steps. They're lighter than they were."

Lila stopped. "A man with pigeons gave me this. He said to find the florist."

The musician looked up, her gaze falling on the lavender and the butterfly now resting on Lila's outstretched hand. She nodded. "He's a good guide." She reached into her case and pulled out a single white chrysanthemum, its petals like a burst of starlight. "Take this too. For truth. Two more blocks north from her shop. You can't miss it."

Clutching both flowers, Lila continued, her ethereal guide dancing ahead. On the final corner, a little boy was drawing on the pavement with a piece of luminescent chalk. He was drawing a magnificent, lopsided sunflower. He looked up as she and the butterfly approached.

"You're almost there," he said cheerfully. "She has the best flowers. They don't ever really die with her." He held out his hand. In it was a bright yellow marigold, vibrant and warm. "For the journey. She'll know what it means."

Now with a small, growing bouquet, Lila saw it. The florist shop. It was nestled between a closed bodega and a laundromat, but it glowed with a warm, inviting light that pushed back the monochrome world around her. Its window boxes overflowed with night-blooming flowers—jasmine, moonflowers, evening primrose—that seemed to drink the moonlight. The sign above the door, in elegant, curling script, read simply: Castorice's Blooms.

The purple butterfly flew to the door and vanished. The bell chimed softly as Lila pushed it open.

The air inside was thick with the most incredible perfume—a hundred different nocturnal blooms, rich earth, and something else… something ancient and deeply peaceful.

And there, behind the counter, was the florist.

She was tall and willowy, her hair the color of lavender shot through with strands of silver like veins of amethyst. She wore a simple, green apron over a dark dress, and her hands, currently pruning a night-blooming cereus, were slender and strong. But it was her eyes that held Lila. Like the brightest lilacs, holding a kindness so profound it made her breath catch. "Pretty…" She mumbled, before she covered her mouth.

The beautiful lady looked up and smiled, and the entire shop seemed to brighten. "Hello, little one," she said, her voice a soft, melodic hum. The butterfly landed on her finger, shiny wings fluttering softly before it settled on her nose. "I see my little messenger found you. I've been waiting."

Lila approached the counter, holding out her small collection of flowers. "These…people gave these to me. They said to bring them to you."

Castorice took the flowers gently, the tenderness of her hands made them seem like the most precious gifts in the world. She inhaled their scent, her eyes closing for a moment.

"Ah, from Samuel, and Elara, and little Leo. Good guides, all of them." She placed the flowers gently in a vase of moonlit water. "They told me you've had a very strange night, haven't you?"

The conversation unfolded as it had before, Castorice's gentle words guiding Lila to the understanding of her passing…just as she had many others tonight. Her kindness was an anchor in the bewildering quiet, clearing out the static and confusion following one's passing.

"Come with me," Castorice said finally, offering her hand. "There's a place I know that makes the best mac and cheese. It might not be as good as your mom's, and I think you'll love it."

Lila took her hand, and Castorice led her out into the night. They didn't walk far, just around the corner to a diner Lila had never noticed before. Its sign glowed with a warm, golden light: Chrysos.

But it was not like any diner she had ever seen. It was bustling with a quiet, somber mood. The patrons were like Lila—translucent, flickering figures with expressions of confusion giving way to dawning peace. And the staff…they were a fascinating array of people. A man in a sharp, pinstriped suit—a lawyer, her mom told her about them—was calmly helping an elderly spirit dictate a final amendment to his will, the pen in the spirit's hand glowing with a faint light. A woman with the stern, capable bearing of a prosecutor was listening intently to a flustered young man, writing up a list of names she couldn't make out while he cried. Uniformed police officers served plates of food from one table to the next, their usual authority replaced by a solemn compassion. Chefs in whites worked the grill, therapists spoke in soft tones in corner booths, and butterflies accompanied the spirits patiently.

Everyone turned their way the moment they entered, the spirits watching awkwardly while the people helping them rose and gave Castorice a solemn bow. "Welcome, divine mother." They greeted the pretty lady with warm smiles, placing their hands on the purple pins on their chests.

This was Castorice's household. The devotees of Death, offering their lives and afterlives to administering final comforts, granting last wishes, and ensuring a peaceful transition for the departed. Those Thanatos could not reap, for lack of proper burial or other technicalities, were welcomed by her sons and daughters.

Castorice found Lila a booth, brushing back her hair. "Sit here, my dear. I'll be right back."

Lila watched, mesmerized, as the pretty lady walked behind the counter. She didn't need to cook. A chef with a kind face and tattoos running across his forearms was already preparing the mac and cheese, but he stepped aside for his Lady. Castorice took over, her hands glowing with that same faint, silvery light as she added a final, loving touch to the dish—a perfect sprinkle of crispy breadcrumbs.

She brought the steaming meal to the table. "For you," she said, sitting next to her.

As Lila took her first bite—a taste of pure, comforting love—the diner's door chimed again. A woman stood there, her form solid and real, her face a mask of utter devastation, streaked with tears. It was Lila's mom. She was looking around, her eyes wild and unseeing, guided by a grief so sharp it had momentarily pierced the veil.

A therapist from Castorice's household was at her side in an instant, a gentle hand on her arm, quietly guiding her to see what she needed to see, without breaking the world's rules.

Lila's eyes went wide. "Mommy?"

Her mother's gaze snapped to the booth. She couldn't fully see her daughter, not clearly. She saw a shimmer, a glimpse of a little girl happily eating mac and cheese, a soft golden light beginning to emanate from her. But she felt her. She felt the love and the peace.

A choked sob escaped her, but it was followed by the faintest, most broken of smiles. She couldn't speak, but she mouthed two words, pouring every ounce of her love into them. "My Lila."

Lila smiled back, a beautiful, radiant smile full of understanding and love. "I'm okay, Mommy. Please don't be sad."

She took her last bite. She felt full. Full of food, full of love, full of peace. She looked at her mother one last time, then down at her hands, which were glowing with a soft, golden light.

"Thank you. It was the best!" Lila whispered to Castorice, jumping excitedly as she ran towards her.

"You are so very welcome, Lila," She whispered back, welcoming her in a soft hug.

Lila dissolved. Not into nothing, but into a shower of light that coalesced into a single, new flower that floated gently down onto the table where her empty bowl sat. It was a lily, pure white and perfectly formed, with a faint, shimmering glow.

Lila's mother let out a gasping breath, her hands clasped over her mouth. The therapist gently squeezed her shoulder. She hadn't seen everything, but she had seen enough. She had seen her daughter at peace. The devastating sharpness of her grief was now wrapped in the soft, enduring blanket of solace.

Castorice moved through the diner, gathering the soul-blossoms into her apron. She paused by Lila's mother, and with a touch so light it was almost felt, she placed the glowing white lily in the woman's trembling hands. The mother looked down at the flower, then up at the beautiful, mysterious woman who seemed to be in charge. No words were exchanged. None were needed. Clutching the flower to her heart, she allowed the therapist to guide her out, back to the world of the living, where her grief would now have a seed of peace to nurture.

Castorice's form flickered. For a fraction of a second, she wasn't in the diner at all. She was standing in a field of impossible beauty under a soft, star-dusted sky. Then she was back, her apron full of flowers. She nodded to her household, who continued their sacred work with renewed purpose, and then she was gone.

The air in her Underworld was still and sweet, perfumed by countless blossoms. This was not a place of gloom and punishment, but of quiet rest. The fields of the Okheman dead were vast meadows of peace, where the four rivers flowed gently and the light was forever that of a gentle moonlight.

Castorice's form solidified on a path of dark, rich soil. Before her stretched the field, and at its heart, a great, gentle mound rose. Curled atop it, slumbering, was a dragon of breathtaking majesty. Pollux, her dearest companion and watchful guardian. His scales were the color of polished lavender and dark amethyst, and his size was so immense he could have curled around a small mountain. His breath, slow and deep, rustled the petals of the flowers for acres around.

She walked among her charges, the newly arrived flowers in her arms. With a touch of her finger, she made a small hole in the earth. With another, she planted the soul-blossom. As each one was placed in the soil, it took root instantly, glowing with a soft inner light before settling into its eternal rest, adding its unique beauty to the endless field.

She was planting the lily that was Lila when a deep, rumbling purr vibrated through the earth. Pollux had opened one great, pale eye, the size of a small hill. He watched his mistress work, his gaze ancient and fond. He shifted his colossal head slightly, nuzzling a hillock of bluebells with an affection that belied his terrifying form.

A moment later, a cheerful, rumbling bark echoed through the stillness. A three-headed dog the size of a van came bounding over a hill, trailing a gleaming chain leash. Each head panted happily, tongues lolling. This was Cerberus, and he was, as always, on duty.

Right behind him, walking with an easy grace, was Persephone, Queen of the Underworld. Well, Hades's underworld. It was always amusing to watch some of the dead come to terms with which of the two realms to head towards. The real estate quips some of the easygoing souls made never failed to get a laugh out of her and Persephone.

The queen of the dead was ironically a vision of vibrant life, her chiton the color of midnight, her hair a cascade of autumn leaves. She smiled watching Cerberus circled the great dragon, the dog's tails wagging furiously as he playfully yipped at the slumbering behemoth. Pollux deigned to lower his massive head, allowing one of Cerberus's heads to lick his snout with a tongue of fire before snorting, a puff of smoke curling from his nostrils.

"He never learns, does he?" Persephone said, her voice like the rustle of ripe wheat. She came to stand beside Castorice, watching her plant the last of the flowers.

"Pollux enjoys the company." Castorice said, brushing the soil from her hands. "He just would never admit it. It's good to see you, Persephone. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Must I need a reason to visit a friend?" Persephone asked, though a slight tension around her eyes betrayed her light tone.

"Of course not. But you usually send word before making the crossing." Castorice gestured to a nearby bench beautifully carved from wood and obsidian. "Sit. I'll have some nectar brought."

They sat together, a Titankin soldier serving a pitcher and two crystal glasses. The two goddesses, rulers of their respective realms of the dead, sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching their monstrous pets play. Well, if one could call Cerberus jumping all over Pollux and licking him playing.

"How is he?" Castorice asked softly, sipping her drink.

Persephone sighed, brushing back a few strands as she twirled the drink in her hand. "He is…Hades. He broods. He attends to his duties with an implacable dedication that would be commendable if it didn't break my heart." Her hair shifted dark, glancing down at the lovely flowers.

"The cold shoulder from the family?" Castorice guessed, somewhat familiar with the difficulties her neighbors had. Classic cases of Zeus tantrums, really. One day he's claiming every human with accomplishment as theirs, the next shoving tyrants and villains onto Hades in complete lack of regard for either irony or his kin's honor.

"It's more than that," Persephone said, her knuckles whitening on her glass. "It's the constant, petty slights. Zeus…he never misses an opportunity. He excluded him from taking part in the divine competition, as usual. Primordials forbid my dear gets to have some fun for a change." She frowned, rolling her eyes as her voice dropped to a furious whisper. "What really gets on my nerves is him still nagging about expanding our underworld's borders."

Castorice listened, her eyes filled with a deep empathy. She placed a calming hand over Persephone's. "Zeus was never the same after the others' betrayal. Fear consumed him for millennia, and none of his family reached out after they were slighted by his actions. Hades understands, and that's the only reason he endures in silence. He's the most steadfast of his brothers. He took the Underworld, the lot no one wanted, and he has built a kingdom of order."

"Even his endurance has limits," Persephone spat bitterly, her hand tracing the beautiful petals with practiced love. "It wears on him. He retreats further into the darkness. He thinks he is alone."

"He is not alone," Castorice retorted, smiling as Cerberus flailed in the air. Pollux held him up, huffing as the overgrown dog wagged his tail and barked at him. "He has you, and he has his children. How are Macaria and Melinoe?" She asked, fondly recalling the two princesses sneaking to her realm whenever their father wasn't looking back in their youth.

A genuine smile touched Persephone's lips. "They are well. Worried about their father. Melinoe has taken to helping him with his duties more often, wherever she could. Macaria simply sits with him in the silence. Her presence is a comfort."

"Good," Castorice nodded. "Then you just need to do the same. Hades is a rather simple man. Your love and the affection of his children is all he would need." A mischievous glint entered her eye. "You know, I knew him long before he married you. Back when he was a much younger, far more awkward god."

Persephone's interest was immediately piqued, a genuine, eager smile replacing her worried frown. "Oh? Do tell. Any story that involves my husband and 'awkward' is a story I need to hear."

"Oh, where to begin," Castorice chuckled, the sound like wind through willows. Her sight fell on Cerberus, and she snapped her fingers. "Well, we could always start with puppy Cerberus."

"Him?" Persephone questioned, looking skeptically at the upside down hound hanging stubbornly to Pollux's wing. "The good boy who wouldn't hurt a…well, he would hurt a soul trying to leave. But he's a sweetheart."

"Precisely. But he wasn't always the disciplined sentry he is today. When he was first presented to Hades—a wriggling, squirming mass of snapping jaws, and boundless, chaotic energy—your husband was…perplexed."

Persephone leaned forward, curious. "Perplexed?"

"Deeply," Castorice confirmed, her eyes twinkling. "Zeus and Poseidon saw the beast as a weapon, a symbol of authority. Hades saw a…logistical nightmare. He came to me, holding this multi-headed, panicked puppy that was trying to chew on his chariot wheels. 'How does one…house-train a primordial omen?' he asked me, in complete seriousness. 'The shades are terrified. It keeps trying to herd them into corners and it's shedding all over my floors.'"

Persephone let out a surprised, delighted laugh. "He did not!"

"He was utterly earnest," Castorice said. "I told him that even monsters of the abyss respond better to patience than to power. I suggested he stop trying to command it to be 'fearsome' and instead teach it a purpose. So, for weeks, he'd come to the edge of my fields—'for the open space,' he claimed—and practice. He'd have one head 'Sit' while another was trying to dig a hole, and the third was chasing its own tail. Pollux found it utterly hilarious; he'd blow little puffs of smoke to get the puppy's attention, which usually just made it sneeze flames. Hades was so frustrated he almost sent it back to its mother."

"I cannot picture him being so… flustered," Persephone said, grinning.

"Oh, it was a sight," Castorice assured her. "But he persisted. He discovered that the puppy, for all its fearsome heritage, was incredibly food-motivated. He started using ambrosia biscuits as rewards. The breakthrough came when he taught it the command 'Watch.' He'd point to a group of shades, and the puppy would sit and focus all its heads on them. Hades was so proud he nearly smiled. He told me, 'It's not about ferocity. It's about focus. A controlled gatekeeper is better than a wild one.' He'd finally seen the guardian within the beast."

Tears of mirth were streaming down Persephone's face. "The great Lord of the Dead, bribing the Hound of Hell with dog treats!"

"He still keeps a pouch of them on his belt," Castorice confided. "Don't tell him I told you. Cerberus will still do anything for a 'good boy' and a biscuit. All that fearsome reputation, and he's utterly devoted to the one who took the time to teach him his job instead of force."

"That…actually sounds exactly like him," Persephone said, her laughter softening into a fond smile.

"And that's not all," Castorice said. " Once his realm and its guardian were somewhat in order, he decided he needed a throne. Not just any throne. It had to be imposing. Intimidating. He spent a century refining and enchanting the darkest obsidian and sharpest onyx. He built it, this monstrous, spiky, jagged thing. He sat on it once, winced, and immediately stood back up. It was appallingly uncomfortable. He refused to admit it."

She leaned in conspiratorially. "He came to me, trying to be casual, and asked what I thought of the 'aesthetic' of my flower fields. I told him they were soft. He looked so disappointed. Finally, he mumbled something about 'ergonomic support' and 'posture for eternal judgment.' I took pity on him. I had Pollux breathe a very, very gentle flame—more like warm air, really—on a huge pile of the richest black soil. We packed it into a giant cushion and wove Stygian silk over it. He tried to act like it was beneath him, but I caught him, late one night, transferring the cushion onto that terrible throne. He's been using it ever since. He still claims it's the 'sheer authority of the throne' that makes it comfortable."

Persephone was giggling again. "Stop, please, my sides hurt!"

"But my favorite," Castorice said, her voice softening, "is when he first saw you. This was before the pomegranate, before any of it. He'd caught a glimpse of you in a meadow on the surface, and he was utterly smitten. And utterly hopeless. He showed up here, looking more flustered than I'd ever seen him. Pollux was asleep, but his ears were twitching. Hades paced around this very field for an hour, complaining about the 'inefficiency of sunlight' and the 'illogical nature of floral arrangements.' Finally, he just blurted out, 'How does one…begin? With a goddess of spring? I have a helm that makes me invisible and a three-headed dog that drools magma. Neither seems…appropriate.'"

She laughed. "I told him to start with a gift. Something that showed he saw her for who she was, not just as a spring goddess. He looked horrified. 'A gift? Like a jewel? A crown?' I said no, something more personal. The next day, he came back, looking proud. He said, 'I have it. I shall gift her a perfectly sorted and catalogued collection of the most unique seeds from the deepest, most light-deprived plants in my realm. 'No other nymph would have them but her!'"

Persephone gasped, clutching her chest in delight. "He didn't!"

"He was utterly serious!" Castorice confirmed. "I had to gently steer him toward something a little less…administrative. I suggested a single flower, giving him a bright rose from my fields. He practiced presenting it for a week with me. He was so nervous he kept dematerializing through the floor."

The Queen of the Underworld was beaming, her earlier sadness completely forgotten. "I remember that one! He was so stiff and formal when he gave it to me, I thought it was a diplomatic offering! Oh, I have to go and tease him mercilessly about the seed catalogs right now. Thank you for these."

"Think nothing of it." Castorice sipped her nectar. "The Solstice Reckoning is soon. The air is already crackling with the others' excitement."

Persephone rolled her eyes. "Don't remind me. Ares is insufferable for months beforehand."

"I was thinking," Castorice said casually. "The tournament grounds have those lovely shaded groves by the chariot track. Perfect for a picnic. Hades always enjoys the chariot races. Why don't the three of you join me? We can make a day of it. Watch the games, enjoy some food away from the rest of them."

Persephone's face lit up. "He would love that. Truly. The company of someone who doesn't look at him with either fear or disdain…." Then a mock look of horror crossed her features. "But my mother! If she sees me picnicking with Hades in the middle of the day, during her precious summer solstice, she'll start chasing after him all day."

Castorice's smile was sly. "Then we'll have to be discreet. Or, maybe we could try to get a peace treaty between them? Hades can't run away from her forever."

They shared a laugh, the sound echoing softly through the fields of soul-flowers. Finally, Persephone stood, smoothing her chiton. "I should get back. He'll be wondering where I've gone."

"Of course." Castorice stood as well. "Wait here a moment."

She walked into her fields, her hands moving with surety as she selected specific blossoms—a deep blue iris for message and hope, a white rose for reverence, a sprig of rosemary for remembrance, and a cluster of asphodel, the traditional flower of the underworld, but these were a unique sapphire variety that grew only in her realm. She wove them into a beautiful bouquet and handed it to Persephone.

"For you," Castorice said. "And for him. Plant them in your garden. They'll grow there. A little piece of my peace, in your home."

Persephone took the bouquet, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She leaned forward and kissed Castorice on the cheek. "You're a blessing, Castorice. We're grateful for your friendship."

"And you are a wonderful queen. Now go. Your husband must be waiting. Tell him I expect to see him at the races."

Persephone nodded, whistling for Cerberus. With a final wave, she and her three-headed guardian vanished into a shadow, returning to their own realm.

Castorice stood alone for a moment, watching the space where they had been. She then turned and walked back to where Pollux had laid his head back down. She leaned against his warm, scaly cheek, and the great dragon let out a contented rumble that shook the very roots of the flowers, a lullaby for the countless souls resting in her care.

Historical Excerpts: On the Cult of Castorice, the Hand of Thanatos

From "On the Naming of Shades: An Okheman Theological Treatise" (circa 700 BCE)

In the earliest days, the name for our Lady and the Hellenic god were one and the same: Thanatos, meaning Death. This was not seen as a conflict, for they represented two faces of the same inevitable truth. The god was the act of dying, the final severing of the soul from the body. Our Titan was the state of death itself—the journey, the rest, the transformation that follows.

Yet, as time passed and the pantheons grew more distinct, confusion arose amongst mortals. To clarify her unique domain, our priests began to use the name Castorice, meaning "She Who Separates and Purifies." This distinguished her gentle, transformative embrace from the god's singular, final touch. The Hellenes kept Thanatos for their god; we reserved it as a title of utmost respect for our goddess, she who is the very Hand of Thanatos, the instrument through which his work is completed and given meaning.

Description of murals from the Temple of Castorice in Okhema, by the historian Kallias (circa 200 BCE)

The temple walls tell the story of our Lady's grace and her strength. In the central nave, she is depicted in her simple robes, tending to a field of soul-blossoms, her dragon Polux curled sleepily at her feet, his size evoking not terror but protection.

But another mural speaks of her martial might. It depicts the Heavenly Clash, when the rogue smith Hephaestus stole the cherished Chalice of Phagousa. There, our Lady Castorice is shown not as a gardener, but as a warrior within the battlefield. She rides upon Pollux, whose unleashed fury almost made Atlas buckle. They are shown locked in combat with the hundred-headed dragon Ladon within the gardens of Hera, where the stolen treasure was kept. Her scythe left unhealable decay within the queen's holy land, and Pollux's flames had poisoned her cherished golden apples for generations.

The mural teaches us that while her purpose is peace, she will unleash terrible power to protect the balance of the world, and that even the most peaceful dragon remains a dragon.

The "Cypress Scrolls," foundational texts of Castorice's priesthood (circa 750 BCE)

The soul does not simply descend to her realm. It undertakes a journey of purification. The memories of life, both bitter and sweet, are gently unraveled and examined. Virtue nourishes the soul, allowing it to coalesce into a vibrant, lasting bloom in her eternal gardens—a lily for purity, a rose for love, an oak flower for strength. Wickedness, however, provides no sustenance. Those souls, devoid of the virtue needed to bloom, wilt. They return to the soil, their essence becoming the nourishment from which the flowers of the virtuous may grow. Thus, even in failure, a soul contributes to the beauty and balance of the whole. This is the ultimate mercy of the Hand.

To worship Castorice in life is to strive to live in such a way that your soul will become a flower of stunning beauty in her care. To worship her in death is to devote your afterlife to her service—to become one of the guides who shepherds lost souls, one of the healers who offer solace, one of the gardeners who tends the endless, blooming fields. It is the highest honor for those who serve in death.

Account by Herodotus, from his travels in Okhema (circa 440 BCE)

The Okhemans hold a most peculiar view of the afterlife. They believe their dead are not judged and sentenced to torment or bliss, but are instead…gardened. Their Titan of Death, whom they call Castorice, is less a fearsome ruler and more a divine horticulturist. They speak of her realm not as a gloomy pit, but as the "Sapphire Meadows," a vast, beautiful underworld where souls transform into flowers under her tender care.

They insist their system exists alongside the Hellenic Hades, not in opposition to it. They believe the two deities have a cordial relationship, organizing the dead between them in a manner they describe as "efficient and mutually beneficial." It is a strangely clinical and yet poetic view of eternity.

An Athenian Satyr Play, "The Abduction Plot" (circa 500 BCE, widely denounced as slanderous propaganda)

[Enter Hades, disguised as a wounded mortal, and Castorice, disguised as a kindly old woman]

HADES: Oh, woe! My chariot is broken! How shall I ever return to my dark domain?

CASTORICE: [Wringing her hands] Fear not, poor soul! I know of a maiden, a flower-loving child of Demeter, who often plays in yonder meadow. She is naive and kind-hearted. We shall lure her with a rare blossom, and when she draws near…

HADES: …I shall seize her! And you, wicked Titan, will use your power over the paths of the dead to conceal our retreat from her mother's sight!

CASTORICE: [Cackling] Exactly! For too long has Demeter's springtime glory overshadowed my own peaceful meadows! With her daughter as queen in your gloomy hall, the world will know a permanent winter, and all will finally appreciate my quiet, deathly beauty!

[The chorus of Okheman ambassadors enters, furious]

CHORUS LEADER: Treachery! You slander our Lady of the Gentle Hand! This lie will not stand! Let Athens beware the wrath of Okhema!

(Historical Note: This play is credited with igniting a bitter cultural and trade feud between Athens and Okhema that lasted for nearly two centuries.)

Fragment of an Okheman Funerary Hymn, inscribed on burial shrouds (circa 600 BCE)

Do not fear the silent path,

For the butterflies will guide you.

Their purple wings beat a gentle rhythm,

A melody for the newly departed.

They will lead you to the gentle Hand,

To Castorice, who waits in her twilight fields.

She will wash the weariness from your spirit,

The pain, the fear, the regrets of life.

As the river cleanses the stone,

She will cleanse you, until all that remains

Is the pure essence of who you were.

And from that essence, a flower will bloom—

A perfect, eternal testament to your soul.

Chapter Text

Look, there in the distance, Mother is greeting us! She's waving, smiling at us!

Shall we go?
Hmm, one day we will come!
But our journey isn't over yet!
So, see you tomorrow?
We will meet 'tomorrow'!
Yes, see you tomorrow."

The air in the "Little Sprouts" kindergarten was a mixture of controlled chaos, carefully tuned by the warm, steady presence of Tribios. To the mortal parents of this corner of New York, she was Ms. Tri, the impossibly patient and kind owner of the most sought-after daycare in the borough.

Today, as with every day, the sanctuary hummed with life. In one corner, a group of toddlers were building a precarious tower of blocks under the watchful eye of Trianne, the most serious of her three precious daughters. The little bright-eyed girl of twelve with her hair in meticulous braids, was gently suggesting a wider base with the patience of a seasoned architect, proudly showcasing her own giant construct. Tribios gently counted the seconds, watching as one of the kids curiously pulled one of the blocks and sent two hours of focus and planning tumbling down.

Ten seconds. The little rascals were getting bold now. Tribios chuckled, watching her little angel quickly placate the saddened children. Soon enough she was back at it again, working with the little ones to build an even bigger castle.

Across the room, the sound of giggles erupted as Tribbie led a game of tag, her own laughter the loudest of all. She moved with a kinetic energy that the children adored, always ensuring the shyest child was included and the fastest didn't dominate. It also helped the kids get in the mood for exercise, if only for the sole purpose of catching Tribbie one day.

Near the reading nook, Trinnon sat surrounded by enraptured listeners. She was reading a story one of her household members wrote, her fingers tracing pictures in the sand and helping the younger kids pronounce the words they couldn't follow. Most of the loners flocked to her tales, always eager to get the words and their meanings right so they could take over the narration.

The three little big sisters, they called them. A title they didn't exactly appreciate, but eventually accepted after getting swarmed by overeager mothers cooing at them whenever they dropped by. It was endearing to see them getting so spoiled by the adults, even if they remained older than all of them combined. The children were equally inseparable, hanging on their every move and word like precious little ducklings. It lent itself to some very memorable moments.

Trinnon was still recovering from the last time she was hugged by a child and their mother, pleading with Tribios to let her join the sleepover at their house. The poor dear was blushing for the rest of the week.

In the center of it all, seated at a low, sturdy table with three elderly ladies, was Tribios herself. She radiated a calm that was the eye of the ongoing toddler hurricane. A motherly woman in her prime, with a kind, open face and eyes that held the gentle wisdom of an experienced matron who had her fair share of run-ins with turbulent youth. She poured four cups of steaming chamomile tea from a seemingly bottomless pot, before continuing with her sudoku.

The three ladies with her were…memorable. They were old, their faces a roadmap of wrinkles, their backs slightly stooped. Dressed in simple, grey woolens, and their milky, sightless eyes gazing at nothing in particular. Yet their hands moved with an impossible precision and ease, their needles flashing as they wove not yarn, but threads of shimmering, intangible light into tiny sweaters, socks, and little knitted animals for the children.

The children called them friendly grannies. Tribios called them Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. While others called them the Moirai. Regardless, they remained a distinct part of the establishment. Better than having them wander about on their lonesome. The Titan of Passage already chastised them for the eye gimmick they scared demigods with, cowing them into submission when they pranked one of the children in her care with a glare.

"The small one with the curls," Clotho said, her voice like the spinning of a wheel. Her fingers drew a bright, strong thread from the air itself. "He will be an honest builder. Strong back, reliable shoulders. His hard work will be a fresh welcome to sweep the old, dusty remnants of time long past." She deftly wove the thread into a tiny yellow sweater.

"The fierce little girl defending the crayons," Lachesis murmured, her fingers measuring a thread that shimmered with a soft hum. She nodded, approving its length. "A commander of men. Or women. She will have a long thread, full of difficult, necessary choices." She began weaving it into a pair of socks with tiny star patterns.

Atropos, her scissors tucked into her belt, snorted. "The boy by the window, dreaming of the pigeons. His thread is…creative. And delightfully messy. He'll write stories, but passion will be crushed by the needs of livelihood." She held a shorter, brilliantly colorful thread between her fingers, a fond, almost sad smile on her lips.

Tribios smiled, sipping her tea. She began solving the page-wide puzzle, red hair swaying in the breeze. "You three are worse than the mortal gossip magazines." Her teasing words made the three crones slowly turn to stare at her. It was funny to see them display a level of synchrony only her daughters could match, even if she didn't want to admit it.

Not again, at least. One time she let it slip, the three hags kept nagging at her for a millennia.

"We are the original gossip, darling." Lachesis said primly, taking a sip from her tea. "We don't speculate. We know."

"Speaking of knowing," Clotho chuckled, a dry, rustling sound. She pointed at Tribbie's section, her sisters easily following her line of sight all while they kept knitting their threads. "Watch the little one in the red overalls. Tripping over his own feet. His thread has a snag…right…about…now."

As if on cue, the toddler in question, chasing after a rolling ball, stumbled. Tribios didn't move, her smile serene and peaceful as she put in another number. Tribbie instantly swept in right on time, seamlessly altering her lunge into a diving catch, scooping the child up and spinning him around before setting him down, posing as a hero much to the admiration of the other kids.

The sisters of fate turned to stare at her again, and Tribios didn't need to look up to sense their twitching brows. Tribios hid her smile, twirling her pen playfully as a touch of golden particles surged from her figure to form a thread between her and the child.

"Tch. Ruined a perfectly good snag," Atropos grumbled, though there was no real malice in it. She held up the tiny sock she was making. A single thread, darker than the others, was woven into the heel. "See? A reinforcement for the inevitable scraped knee. Now it's wasted."

Tribios's smile turned sly, her sudoku solved. She reached into her own knitting basket—a little gift from Aglaea—and pulled out a tiny, completed hat. Woven into its brim were threads of pure, sparkling gold, its light soft and soothing. "Agy's latest batch of threads are lovely. This should make up for the near fall, don't you think?"

The three sisters leaned in, their blind eyes seeming to see the golden threads perfectly. They let out simultaneous, grudging sighs of appreciation.

"Show-off," Clotho muttered, her finger tracing the golden threads. She seemed to appreciate the contours, delicately reading through the fate woven within.

"It's not fair," Lachesis added, chugging down her tea in one gulp. "Our job was difficult enough measuring the threads of gods and men. Then your lot arrived. All you Okheman Titans, fateless and untethered." She gestured vaguely around the daycare. "You create so many new threads. So many possibilities. It's exhausting to manage."

Tribios's laughter was a warm, chiming sound. "Admit it, Lachesis. You find it more interesting now. It's not just the same old tapestry of fate, the same tragic cycles. It's a living, changing thing. You enjoy the flow."

There was a long silence. The three sisters exchanged a look that spoke volumes.

"...It is less monotonous," Clotho admitted reluctantly.

"A little," Atropos conceded.

Lachesis pointed her needle at Tribios. "But don't think we don't notice you, Janus. Sitting there, looking all youthful and…buxom. While we're stuck as these old crones. It's undignified."

"And those daughters of yours," Clotho joined in, a teasing glint in her milky eyes. "Perpetual children. Don't you think it's time they grew up? Found a nice partner to settle down with? You should set an example. Find a husband. Give them a father figure. It might finally get them to act their age."

Tribios's serene expression soured instantly, lip twitching. It was an old, familiar jab. "Oh, yes, because my love life is the pressing matter of the cosmos. And might I remind you, oh Sisters of Spinsterhood, that you three are the absolute last entities in this or any other world who should be giving romantic advice. When was the last time you went on a date? With anyone other than a measuring tape and a pair of shears?"

The three sisters drew themselves up, affronted.

"We are wedded to our duty!" Lachesis declared.

"Our shears are our only partners!" Atropos sniffed, patting the instrument at her belt.

"Fine," Tribios said, taking a long sip of tea. "Since you're such experts on destiny, tell me. Who's my great love? Who does the mighty Moirai have woven into my future? Enlighten me."

The three sisters went still. Their heads tilted in unison, as if listening to a silent symphony only they could hear. They consulted the loom of fate that existed in their minds.

Clotho spoke first, a frown on her face. "There's…no one. The threads around yours are…familial. Platonic. There is no romantic partner woven into your tapestry."

"It's a blank space," Lachesis said, sounding surprised…and very amused. "A void. Highly irregular."

"Perhaps you're destined to be alone," Atropos concluded, not unkindly, but with finality. "Maybe you'll just have an imaginary friend. It happens."

Tribios rolled her eyes, though a tiny, almost imperceptible flicker of something—annoyance? disbelief?—crossed her features. "Thank you for that glowing prognosis." She decided to ignore them, selecting a soft, sky-blue thread from her basket. With swift, sure movements, she began to weave a pair of small gloves, her focus absolute.

As she tied off the last stitch, a little boy approached the table. It was Mikey, a quiet, observant boy who had been drawing with chalk while following Trinnon's story. In his hands was a small, slightly crumpled bouquet of dandelions and clover he had picked from the small patch of grass in the play yard.

"For you, grannies." he said shyly, offering the flowers to the three old ladies.

The Fates, the most feared and revered weavers of destiny, froze. Their stern, ancient faces softened. Milky eyes seemed to grow damp. They reached out with trembling, wrinkled hands and accepted the humble gift as if it were the most exquisite treasure.

"Oh, child…" Clotho whispered, bringing the flowers to her nose.

"Such a kind heart," Lachesis murmured, her fingers gently tracing a dandelion puff.

"A good thread," Atropos said, her voice thick with an emotion she rarely displayed. "A strong, kind thread for you."

Tribios watched, her heart full. She knew how rare such gestures were for them. Most mortals cursed their names, blamed them for heartbreak and misfortune. They were seen as cold, unfeeling arbiters. But here, they were just three grannies, receiving a gift from a child who saw only kindness in their worn faces.

"Here, little guy," Tribios said, her voice gentle. She held out the sky-blue gloves she had just finished. "For you. To keep your hands warm."

His face lit up. "Thank you, Ms. Tri!" He pulled them on immediately, beaming.

"Alright, everyone!" Tribios called out, clapping her hands. "Time to clean up for lunch!"

The controlled chaos shifted into the organized chaos of tidying. As the children scurried to put away toys, Tribios's sharp eyes, and the unfocused yet all-seeing gazes of the Fates, fell upon Mikey again. He was helping a smaller girl, a new, shy demigod child named Chloe, stack books. They were near the front gate, which was, of course, securely locked.

A man appeared on the sidewalk outside, walking a large, muscular dog that strained against its leash. The man looked ordinary, but he reeked of malice and cheap mist concealment. The dog was a hellhound, its form barely contained by a glamour of a Rottweiler.

The man's eyes scanned the playground, lingering on Chloe. A monster, a scout, drawn by the faint, leaking scent of her divine blood.

As he moved closer to the fence, Mikey noticed his intense stare. Without a second thought, the small boy stepped directly in front of Chloe, putting himself between her and the stranger. His chin was raised, his expression defiant despite the fear in his eyes.

Tribios was moving before the sisters could even speak. She didn't run; she simply appeared at the gate, her form seeming to grow, not in size, but in presence. Her hands softly clasped in front of her, her gaze cowing the unruly hound to a whimpering mess hiding between its master's legs.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice pleasant but layered with an undeniable, divine authority. Her gaze locked with the man's, and he fell on his knees before he could blink. The Mist twisted and contorted around them, straining against what little divinity Tribios's anger invoked.

The monster's illusion flickered, his fear so absolute his innate instincts devolved to disarray. For a split second, his true, grotesque form was visible. He shook uncontrollably, his hellhound whining and desperately trying to pull away. This was no mere mortal to be preyed upon. This was a Titan, and this ground was hers.

"N-no," the man stammered, his voice grating. "Wrong address. I beg your pardon." He yanked on the hellhound's leash and practically fled down the street.

Tribios watched him go, her expression cold, ensuring he was truly gone before her demeanor softened back into Ms. Tri's. She turned and beckoned to Mikey and Chloe. "Come along, you two. Lunch is ready."

As the children ran inside, Tribios returned to the table. The mood had shifted dramatically. The three Fates were no longer soft and touched. They looked somber, even sad. Lachesis was holding a single thread—Mikey's thread. It was strong and colorful, but it was…shorter than it should have been. Atropos had her scissors in her hand, her face a mask of grim resignation.

"He interceded," Clotho said quietly, her lightless eyes watering for a second. "He made a choice. A brave, selfless choice." She rubbed her eyes, voice unsteady as she turned to where the kids ran off to.

"But that choice put him directly in the path of that creature's notice," Lachesis measured the thread's new, abruptly shortened length. "His fate is now tied to it. A price for the life he gave to the girl."

Atropos sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of countless tragedies. "The beast will not forget the defiance. It will seek him out. It will wait. The boy's thread ends…tonight. A brave, but tragic, little snip." Her shears loomed close, its sharp edge slowly closing on its sturdy length. "And with this crime, the monster too shall be snapped in twain."

Mikey, coming back to grab his dropped crayon, saw their sad faces. He trotted over, cheeks puffy and eyes wide. "Don't be sad, grandmas," he said, patting Atropos's hand. "The scary man is gone. Ms. Tri scared him away."

The three sisters forced warm, brittle smiles onto their faces. "Of course, child," Clotho said, offering the boy a chaste kiss on his forehead. "You're a very brave boy."

"Go on, now. Stay by the girl's side." Lachesis urged gently, hand gently ruffling his hair.

Only when the boy was out of earshot, guiding Chloe to the lunch table, did their smiles vanish. They watched as the blades bit into the thread, before the grief on their face shifted to shock. Atropos's grip tightened, and her shears ground against the stubborn thread, a golden sheen keeping it safe. The fabric of the world around them twisted from the short grind, before they noticed the three daughters staring at them.

Tribios placed her hand over Atropos's, stopping the scissors. "Leave it. The boy's life is in my care." She didn't squeeze or force the fate weaver back, but the divinity cradling the thread would not relent.

The three sisters looked at her, surprised.

"His thread is measured," Lachesis insisted. "The pattern is set."

"The pattern is a suggestion," Tribios countered, her voice firm. "A path. Not a prison. Leave his thread to me."

The Fates looked at each other, a silent conversation passing between them. Finally, with a reluctant nod from Clotho, Atropos put her scissors away. Lachesis let Mikey's thread fall back into the intangible tapestry, its end still hanging, unresolved.

"This is what we meant about you making our job harder," Atropos grumbled, but there was a hint of curiosity in her voice. "Yours too, for that matter." She met Tribios's gaze, watching the weight of causality shift take its toll on her. She felt the Titan frown, her divinity flaring up into strings of gold and kaleidoscopic fissures. With a deep breath, Tribios stabilized and lightly rubbed her head.

Yeah, it sucked a lot every time they tried it too. The plausibility cost over countless eons was one of the reasons their forms deteriorated so much, gradually hollowing them out as they helped guide the world away from complete anarchy.

The three sisters hurriedly surrounded her, steadying her as the aftermath settled. "You're too rash! Just because we told you you're youthful doesn't mean you should fast forward to an elderly!" Lachesis chastised her, hands on her waist as she sat Tribios down. Her sisters were equally incensed, and they glared at the Titan of Passage with a burning wrath.

"It'll be alright, grannies." Tribios giggled, smirking at the worried trio victoriously. It was fun to tease the sisters, especially when they get all surprised and confused by the things she and her peers did. "You just need to trust in your reliable Janus."

The sisters shared a look, before they nodded. Their shadows loomed over the smug Tribios, and by the time she opened her eyes and saw their grins, it was too late.

"Someone needs to remind you to respect your elders, brat. I'm sure the kids wouldn't mind some extra time to fool around."

It was at that moment that Tribios realized she took it three steps too far…especially when she felt the Mist cover the area around them and soundproof their surroundings.

Mistakes were made...

The sun was setting, painting the sky in oranges and purples. Most of the children had been picked up, and most of the parents had pinched the three girls' cheeks. Only Mikey remained, his parents having called to say they were held up at work. Tribios walked him home herself, her three daughters having already vanished to tend to their own duties within the household. The roads of the sanctum aren't going to build themselves.

Mikey chattered the whole way, recounting the games they played, the story Trinnon told, and how Tribbie saved that kid from falling. "And you were so cool, Ms. Tri! You scared that mean man away!"

"It's my job to keep you safe," she said, smiling down at him. They reached his apartment building. She waited until his older sister, Maria, opened the door.

"Thanks, Ms. Tri!" Mikey called, waving with his gloved hands before disappearing inside.

Tribios waited a moment, then turned and walked away, melting into the shadows of the evening.

Not five minutes later, the doorbell rang. Maria was in the kitchen preparing a meal for him. Mikey, thinking maybe Ms. Tri had forgotten something, ran to the door and opened it.

It was not Ms. Tri.

The large man from the playground stood there, his scary dog beside him. Its eyes seemed to glow like embers, and drool sizzled on the welcome mat.

Mikey's blood ran cold, but he stood his ground, remembering the defiance that felt like only an hour ago. "You go away! My mom and dad will be home soon! And the three grannies, and Miss Tribios, and my three big sisters…they'll all punish mean people like you!"

The man's lips peeled back in a gruesome smile. "They're not here now, little hero."

He let go of the leash.

The hellhound lunged, a monstrous blur of teeth and spittle, aiming straight for Mikey. Maria screamed from the kitchen, running into the hallway, but she was too far away.

But Mikey, acting on pure instinct, threw his hands up in front of his face.

The sky-blue gloves Tribios had woven for him shone. A simple glint, really. Easily mistaken for a trick of the light, or even a result of panic. Only Mikey caught it, closing his eyes when it got too bright. He braced himself for the impact, legs trembling when the dog's hot breath brushed against his skin.

However, nothing struck him. Nothing even hit Mikey, and the boy hesitantly opened his eyes slowly.

They weren't there anymore.

They…vanished. One second they were there, the next, there was only an empty hallway and the faint smell of ozone. Mikey and Maria stood frozen, hearts pounding as they shared a glance. Cautiously, Mikey peered out the open door.

Down on the sidewalk, standing under a streetlamp, were the three elderly ladies from the daycare. They were smiling warmly at him.

Mikey didn't hesitate. He jumped down the steps and ran to them excitedly. "Grandmas! Was that you? Did you do that? Was it magic?"

Clotho chuckled, wrinkled hand wiping away the tear stains on the boy's face. "That was the magic of your dear Ms Tri, child. The magic she wove into your gift."

"But it's a secret magic," Lachesis said, putting a finger to her lips. "It only works if you don't tell anyone where it came from. Can you keep a secret?"

Mikey nodded vigorously, his eyes wide.

Atropos leaned down. "And here's another secret. Always listen to your teachers. And always share your crayons. When you grow up, always pay attention to counting." It was the oddest, most specific piece of advice he ever heard, but it was given with such gravity that Mikey knew it was important.

"Thank you," he whispered, hugging each of them one by one. The sisters chuckled, their embrace warm and comforting as they ruffled his hair.

"Go inside, child," Clotho said softly, fixing his messy clothes. "Lock the door. Your parents will be home soon."

As Mikey ran back inside, full of wonder and relief, the three Fates were left on the sidewalk. Lachesis held up a single thread—his thread. It was no longer short. It was long, and strong, and bright, stretching far into a future that was now full of possibility.

Atropos tucked her scissors away with a definitive click, gently tracing the golden outlines and the sigil pulsing in its center.

"Well," Clotho sighed, a long-suffering sound that was undercut by a tiny smile. "I suppose we owe Janus a favor."

"Meddlesome Titan," Lachesis grumbled half-heartedly, but she too was smiling as she watched the thread glow in the lamplight. "We should've told her she'd marry that defense attorney."

"Hmph," Atropos added. But she didn't disagree. "It doesn't matter now. Let's watch the show she left for us."

The sisters smiled, their sights peering into the Okheman sanctum where the Janus pathway just closed.

The transition was instantaneous and nauseating. One moment, the monster and his hellhound were lunging through a mortal doorway, teeth bared for a soft, easy prey. The next, they were sprawled on cold, hard stone, the air ripped from their lungs.

The smell hit them first. Not the familiar stench of the city, but the potent, overwhelming aroma of fire, blood, sweat, and raw, disciplined martial prowess. It was the smell of an army. Of hardened heroes.

The man—a minor cyclops masquerading as a human—pushed himself up, his hellhound whining and cowering beside him. They were in the center of a colossal, torch-lit training yard, carved into the heart of a mountain. Obstacle courses stretched into the shadows all around, covered in all kinds of deadly machinery and hazardous material. Practice dummies made of enchanted stone stood scarred and battered. And surrounding them, in a perfect, silent circle, were warriors.

Dozens of them, their blood rich with a very distinct divinity. One every monster tasted more than once in their wretched existence. After all, every monster was felled at least once by the strife seekers of Nikador. Memories of prior deaths came back to the two, of blades digging through their bodies and carving scars into their essence, marking them, bringing them a bit closer to oblivion each time.

Legionnaires in polished armor etched with the sigil of a golden lance, its material unlike the bronze the demigods wore. Unlike any mortal metal really. Hulking Titan-kin with muscles of marble and corded steel stood beside them, their eyes glowing with faint divine light. Their training had frozen mid-motion. Every single head was turned toward the two intruders.

There was no shouting. No alarm was raised. There was only a deafening, predatory silence. It was the silence of a wolf pack that had just seen a rabbit stumble into its midst.

The cyclops's single eye widened in sheer, unadulterated terror. He knew this place. Every monster in the Tartarus spoke of it through whispered warnings and the tales of those who were captured and brought here. This was the heart of the Nikador Household. The Lance of Fury's personal forge of war.

Any poor wretch of their kin who ended up here was sentenced to torment that went on for centuries at a time, many left broken in body and in spirit. Impotent and dull, as if their brains were smoothed out with grindstones. Inevitably, all they could mutter was Nikador's name as they hurled themselves into chaos.

A legionnaire took a single step forward, her helmet under her arm. The click of her war boots on the stone echoed like a thunderclap in the silence. She didn't even look at the cyclops. She looked at her comrades.

"Dibs on the hellhound," she said, her voice calm, conversational. Golden lines trailed across her skin, akin to tribal tattoos until they coalesced in the back of her neck to form a lance. Her words struck the hound like a physical blow, its whimpers echoing in the facility.

The silence shattered.

"Like hell you do, Lydia! I called the hellhound!" One of the Titan-kin shouted, hefting a giant greatsword that looked like it could level a building.

"The cyclops is mine! I need practice for my left hook!" Another bellowed.

"Form an orderly line, you morons! Pops rules! First come, first pummel!" An instructor pushed through the ranks, though he was already rolling up his sleeves. "If we're quick enough, we'll get our fill before the commander shows up."

The cyclops scrambled backward, his hellhound trying to hide behind his legs, its fiery whimpers extinguished by sheer fright. This wasn't a fight. It was a feeding frenzy.

The first soldier, Lydia, ignored the arguments and moved. She was a blur of metal and motion. Her fist, clad in a spiked cestus, connected with the hellhound's jaw with a sickening crunch of bone and a sizzle of corrupted flesh. The beast yelped, flying backward into the waiting crowd.

The strife seekers descended. It was not a battle; it was a coordinated, enthusiastic dismantling. Blunt training weapons rose and fell. Armored fists and boots struck with brutal, practiced efficiency. The air filled with the sounds of impact—thuds, cracks, and the satisfying grunts of warriors enjoying their stress relief. The two monsters were passed through the crowd like ragdolls in a whirlwind of controlled violence.

Within minutes, they were beaten into a pulpy, groaning mess on the ground, barely recognizable.

A sharp whistle cut through the noise. The warriors instantly stepped back, forming their circle again. A priestess of Nikador, her robes crimson and her eyes sharp, stepped forward. She held a staff topped with a glowing blood red gem.

"Alright, that's round one. Medic!" she called out.

A burly Titan-kin with a red lance on his shoulder plate pushed through the crowd. He cracked his knuckles, then placed his hands on the broken cyclops. A warm, golden light flowed from his hands. Bones snapped back into place. Bruises faded. The cyclops's eye fluttered open, consciousness and agony returning in a horrifying wave.

The medic moved to the hellhound, performing the same mercifully brutal act of healing.

As soon the hellhound could stand on its shattered legs, the priestess smiled. "Round two! Fresh troops, front and center! This guy was sent by lady Janus, so we're making this fun last!"

A new wave of eager warriors surged forward.

The cyclops had just enough time to let out a pathetic, despairing moan before the world dissolved into pain once more. This was not death. This was a quota. This was Nikador's household working out its aggression, and they had just been delivered as the perfect practice dummies.

The beating and healing continued for what felt like an eternity, until finally, their monstrous forms could no longer hold together. With a final, pitiful cry from the cyclops and a whimper from the hellhound, their bodies dissolved into twin piles of foul-smelling, black ash.

The training yard fell silent again for a moment. Then, one of the soldiers clapped another on the shoulder.

"Good session today."

"Yeah. Felt good. What's for dinner?"

The warriors dispersed, chatting amiably as if they'd just finished a brisk workout, leaving the ashes of the monsters to be swept away by the evening wind. Order had been restored. The threshold had been defended. And the Lance of Fury's household had enjoyed a thoroughly productive evening.

Historical Excerpts: On the Cult of Janus, the Titan of Passage

From the "Annals of the Bronze-Willed," Okhema (circa 800 BCE)

Before the first city was built, before the first story was told, there was the Path. And the keeper of the Path was Janus, whom we also call Tribios, the First Titan. It is said they were the first consciousness to wake from the formless chaos, and their first act was to take a step, creating the very concept of direction.

They are the guardian of all that lies between—between places, between choices, between life and death, between one moment and the next. They do not merely see the roads that are; they perceive all roads that could be, and with a thought, can forge a new one from the void itself. To invoke Janus is to seek not just a way forward, but the right way forward.

Fragment of a Hymn to Janus, carved on a milestone on the Okheman Royal Road (circa 600 BCE)

Hail, Janus, Opener of the Ways!

Firstborn of Titans, who shaped our days.

You who look both forward and back,

Upon whose wisdom we never lack.

You bridge the chasm, you span the gorge,

You are the guide, we are the charge.

You show the path through storm and strife,

The turning point of every life.

Not just of stone, but of the soul,

You make the fractured fragment whole.

At every crossroad, we feel your gaze,

And offer thanks for all our ways.

Account by a Roman Ambassador to Okhema, in a letter to the Senate (circa 200 BCE)

The Okhemans worship a Titan of roads they call Janus, a figure of immense import to their civilization. Their reverence for this deity far surpasses our own for our god of beginnings. To them, Janus is not merely a guardian of doorways, but the living embodiment of connection itself. They believe that every road built, every journey taken, every trade route established, is an act of devotion that strengthens their Titan and, in turn, strengthens their realm.

Most fascinating is their belief in Janus's connection to destiny. They believe the Fates weave the threads of life, but it is Janus who lays out the loom and provides the paths those threads may follow. They see prophecy not as an immutable decree, but as a map drawn by Janus, revealing the most favorable route through the challenges yet to come. They are a pragmatic people; they do not seek to avoid fate, but to navigate it by the best possible path.

The "Cypress Scrolls," Okheman Theological Texts (circa 750 BCE)

The most sacred vow is that which exists between Janus, the Opener of Ways, and Castorice, the Hand of Shadow. It is the foundation of the natural order. Janus ensures that at the end of all mortal paths, there is a final, sacred threshold. Castorice ensures that every soul finds its way to it.

This pact ensures that no soul is ever truly lost, that the journey of existence always has a destination. It is why our priests say that to be lost is to be temporarily unseen by Janus's gaze, and why the kindest thing one can do for a wandering spirit is to point it in any direction—for in doing so, you act as a humble instrument of the Titan of Passage.

From the "Scroll of Unspoken Lineages," a text kept by the High Priesthood of Janus, Okhema (circa 550 BCE)

To speak of the Lady of Ways is to speak of her threefold hand: the Daughters. Trianne, Tribbie, and Trinnon. They are as fundamental to her domain as the crossroads is to the road. They are her will made manifest, the executors of her grace upon the myriad paths of the world.

Their origin is a sacred mystery. They are not born of a union, as mortals understand it. There is no consort named, no father recorded in any lineage. The texts state simply that they are, as the Path itself is. Some theologians posit they are emanations of Janus's own power, facets of her consciousness given independent form to better manage the vastness of her duty. Trianne, the Planner, who charts the course. Tribbie, the Action, who propels the journey. Trinnon, the Story, who gives the journey meaning.

They are the First Guides, the eternal children who never age, forever embodying the youthful energy of a journey just begun. To see them is to see the perpetual potential of the next step, the next turn, the next door. They are a testament to the belief that one does not need a known past to have a profound purpose; their existence itself is a promise that every path, no matter how it started, leads forward.

Description of murals from the Temple of Janus in Okhema, by the historian Kallias (circa 200 BCE)

The temple is a nexus of beautifully illustrated passages. One mural depicts Janus as a towering, androgynous figure with two faces—one gazing upon a vibrant city, the other upon a serene, moonlit underworld. Their hands are outstretched, and from their fingertips spring the great roads of the empire, each teeming with travelers, traders, and messengers.

Another shows Janus standing between the three Moirai and a crowd of mortals. The Fates hold their threads, while Janus points to a series of branching paths on a great scroll, interpreting their weave into a prophecy that offers choice amidst the certainty of the thread. Her three daughters could be seen jumping between the threads.

The most poignant mural shows the Titan kneeling, clasping the hand of a shrouded figure recognizable as Castorice. Between them, a path of light stretches, upon which countless translucent souls walk peacefully towards a field of glowing flowers. The inscription beneath reads: "For Every End, A Beginning. For Every Goodbye, A Welcome."

Chapter Text

Hello, everyone. Got an important announcement to make.

Unfortunately, I won't be writing any further updates for any of my stories anymore. Due to personal reasons, as well as my own lacking ability, there won't be any continuation for the ongoing projects on my end.

The stories are up for adoption, if anyone wishes to take over. This announcement will be posted on all my ongoing fics. (Anybody who wants to adopt any of the projects can DM me and I will share the notes I've made as well as the resources I've used.)

My sincerest apologies for leaving things like this, and thank you for your support all this time.

Have a nice day and stay safe!