Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Uranus and Gaea had many children: the mighty Titans, the one-eyed Cyclopes, and the monstrous Hecatoncheires. The eldest among them were the Titans. Unlike their graceful siblings, the Cyclopes and Hecatoncheires were born as terrible, misshapen creatures. Horrified by their appearance, Uranus declared that such beings had no right to see the light of day.

To him, their very existence was a blemish upon creation. And so, in his cruelty, Uranus forced all of them deep into Gaea’s womb, burying them in darkness. He showed no love for his children; the purity of his sky, he believed, must never be tainted by the ugliness of the creatures he and Gaea had brought into the world.

Gaea, furious and in pain, turned to her other children for aid—the Titans. There were twelve in all: Oceanus, Coeus, Crius, Hyperion, Iapetus, Theia, Rhea, Themis, Mnemosyne, Phoebe, Tethys, and the youngest, Kronos. Each of them possessed immense strength, a power Gaea had sensed even while they still lay within her womb.

But the Titans were afraid of their father, and none dared to rise against him. Gaea pleaded with them, begging for them to rise against their father, until at last her youngest and most ruthless son, Kronos, agreed. Before he acted, however, Kronos made his mother swear that, should he succeed, he alone would rule over his siblings and their domains. Weary with pain and desperation, Gaea consented.

Clever and cunning, Kronos knew he could not defeat Uranus by himself. He turned to his brothers and offered them a share of power—the four corners of the earth. Tempted by this promise, they agreed to aid him. When the time came, the four brothers took their places at the edges of the world, ready to seize their father as he descended to lie with the Gaea. At the center stood Kronos, armed with the adamantine sickle his mother had forged for him.

And when Uranus came down, Kronos struck. With one swift blow, he castrated his father, which caused the birth of Aphrodite, and killed his physical form leaving him powerless, and the reign of Uranus ended. But not before Uranus told his youngest son of the prophecy that he too would be dethroned by his children like he had.

"Your throne will be taken from you as it was taken from me. Your children will be your downfall."

As Gaea had promised, Kronos came to rule over his siblings, forced to bow before him by her will. Among them was his sister Rhea, whom he had long desired and soon took as his wife. It was not long before Rhea became pregnant, and as the months passed, Kronos found himself haunted by the echo of Uranus’ final words.

When his daughter Hestia was born, Kronos immediately sensed the immense power radiating from her. She possesses such strength even as a newborn, he thought. How powerful will she become once fully grown? Fearing the loss of his own dominion, Kronos tore Hestia from Rhea’s gentle arms and swallowed her whole. One by one, he repeated this cruel act with each of his children—Demeter, Hera, Hades, and Poseidon.

Their mother had tried to stop Kronos when she bore Hera and Hades. She looked at them and wept, knowing the fate that awaited them. But then resolve filled her. She wiped her tears and held them close, draining their power until they were left weak and frail. When Kronos came, they were barely alive.

Rhea clung to them, still crying as Kronos stretched out his hands for the children. She shielded them protectively, begging, pleading, and sobbing for him to let her raise them. "They are fragile children", she said, "too powerless to ever threaten you". In the end her pleas swayed him.

Kronos had allowed it. Hera and Hades were weak, shadows of the sisters who had brimmed with dangerous power. "They can hardly stir a finger, my husband", Rhea whispered through her tears. She begged him to let them live, clinging to the fragile warmth of their bodies as though her arms alone could shield them.

Kronos had loomed above her, suspicion in his eyes, yet when he looked upon the children and felt no threat stirring within them, his cruelty turned to cold disdain. With a dismissive wave, he relented, sparing them from their cruel delayed fate—not out of mercy, but because their weakness made them worthless in his sight.

In the years that followed, Hera and Hades grew, and their power began to reveal itself. Rhea could no longer conceal it as she once had—any attempt to drain their strength further would truly harm them. All she could do was give them as much love as possible before Kronos noticed and deemed them a threat. But he noticed soon after she did. With fear and desperation in her heart, Rhea urged her children to flee as far as they could.

Hera and Hades ran, but Atlas intercepted them as they stepped out of Mount Othrys. They were too young to resist, too weak to put up a significant fight, and he easily subdued them. Loyal to Kronos, Atlas delivered them to their father.

In the throne room, Kronos and Rhea sat upon their thrones. Kronos’s eyes, narrowed and cold, flicked toward Rhea, perhaps searching for some excuse to strike her. Yet she met his gaze with the same calm, indifferent expression she always wore in his presence.

When Kronos rose and approached the children, they sensed the danger and fled for the door—but it was too late. They screamed, cried, and struggled, but nothing could stop him. Kronos beat them brutally, leaving deep scars across their bodies, before swallowing them whole. Rhea gripped her throne, summoning every ounce of self-control to resist rushing to their defense.

Their faces pleaded with her to save them, but she could not. If she could, she would have; she would never have let any of her children suffer such torment. Rhea did not close her eyes—she needed to see them, even as they were imprisoned within their father. She was powerless as Kronos swallowed them, one by one, and she felt each loss like a wound to her own soul. She had tried the same with Poseidon, hoping to shield him from the same fate, but even her desperate efforts failed.

Her children remained trapped inside Kronos’ stomach, caught in a cruel limbo—neither allowed to die, nor free to live. Rhea clung to the small comfort of hearing their voices when he slept. In those quiet hours, she would sing to them, her lullabies carrying hope and love through the darkness that surrounded them. She imagined their hands reaching for her, their cries softening as her songs filled their ears, and for a moment, she could almost believe they were safe.

By the time she discovered her last pregnancy, the weight of her children’s suffering had become unbearable. The grief, fear, and helplessness pressed upon her like an unending storm, and she realized that she could no longer endure watching the ones she loved most live in such torment.

Rhea ran to her parents, pleading desperately for their help. Gaea, wearied by Kronos’ tyrannical rule and moved by the sight of her daughter in such anguish, agreed to aid her. Uranus, seeing his beloved daughter in torment, devised a plan—but it would require Gaea’s immense power to succeed.

Uranus himself had little strength left, barely able to hold the sky in place, which now threatened to collapse. Gaea, too, was weakened, her power nearly spent from forging the sickle capable of draining all of Uranus’ might and from sustaining her children in her womb for centuries so they would not perish. Her energy was nearly exhausted, yet she knew she had no choice but to act.

Gaea instructed her daughter to flee to the land of Lyctus in Crete, where she was to remain hidden for the rest of her pregnancy and bring her child into the world in secret. There, Rhea gave birth to her last son, Zeus, and entrusted him to Gaea’s care for protection. With a heavy heart, she returned to Kronos, carrying not her child but a stone wrapped in swaddling clothes. Enchanted by Gaea to appear as a newborn, the stone deceived Kronos, and without suspicion, he seized it and swallowed it whole, believing he had once again imprisoned his offspring.

Zeus was entrusted to the care of gentle nymphs and the divine goat Amaltheia, hidden deep within the wilderness under the watchful guard of the Kouretes—fierce warriors appointed by Gaea herself. In that secret refuge, far beyond the reach of Kronos and his loyal servants, the young god was nurtured and protected. There he grew strong, learning wisdom, justice, and restraint—everything his father was not.

The Nymphs tended to him with a mother’s devotion, feeding him, soothing him, and teaching him the values of fairness and justice—so that when his time came, he would not rule as a tyrant like the father he had been hidden from. The Kouretes trained him in the arts of war and strategy. So that one day he would be able to stand against his father.

Once Zeus had come of age, his strength grown to rival that of the Titans, he set forth to confront his father and free his imprisoned siblings. Before departing, he swore an oath to the Nymphs and the Kouretes who had raised and guarded him. He promised that he would return in triumph, with Kronos defeated and his reign of terror ended. Then, at last, they would be free—able to live without fear, no longer fearing the threat of the tyrant’s wrath.

On his journey, he encountered Metis, the daughter of Oceanus and Tethys. Her heart burned with the same desire for freedom, for her parents had long been imprisoned beneath the ocean’s depths, chained by Kronos to secure his control over the seas. Seeing in Zeus the promise of freeing her parents, Metis pledged herself to his cause without hesitation.

Metis held domain over wisdom, so naturally Metis became Zeus’ counselor, guiding him on many decisions. Together, as they traveled the long and sublime path toward Mount Othrys, they created a plan to free the rest of Rhea's and Kronos' children.

After Zeus arrived at Mount Othrys disguised as a cupbearer. He began serving the Titans, bidding his time until the perfect opportunity came. One day he was appointed to serve Kronos. When serving his father he gave him an emetic drink. Kronos, arrogant and unsuspecting, drank it all. The Tyrant Titan had even asked for more, as it tasted better than the ones the other cupbearers had served him. Zeus complied with delight. By the time Selene's moon was high in the sky the emetic drink's effect had begun. Zeus watched as Kronos In front of his court fell to his knees and threw up his swallowed children.

The newly freed gods were brought by Zeus and Metis to Lyctus. Though divine they were, they were all weakened, robbed of the strength they should have been able to draw from their domains as their rights as gods. Their physical forms had been affected all in different degrees but affected nonetheless.

Hestia’s body was almost completely destroyed, the acid of her father's stomach had badly burnt her from her feet all the way to her breast. The bottom part of her body barely had flesh. As the eldest, she had endured the longest imprisonment, and she had borne the worst of the torment—shielding her younger siblings as best she could from the burning acid that had left her in such a state.

Demeter could not control her age, shifting unpredictably from a young woman to an elderly one in moments.

Hera could barely move, needing assistance even for the simplest of tasks, like eating.

Hades could not hold a stable form, flickering between solid presence and ghostly absence as if he were a lost soul.

Poseidon was perpetually exhausted, able to stay awake for only a few hours at a time, even when pushing himself to his limits.

Only once they recovered enough to at least control these side effects from being in their father’s stomach did they declare war on their father and everyone who sided with him.

The war raged for ten long years. During this time, Zeus ventured into Tartarus and freed the brothers of Kronos, bolstering the ranks of the gods. In gratitude, the Cyclopes crafted powerful weapons for the Kronides: the Thunderbolt for Zeus, the Trident for Poseidon, the Helm of Invisibility for Hades, the Scythe for Demeter, and the Xiphos for Hera.

Hestia, unlike her siblings, did not request a weapon. Her body remained too weak to wield one, still recovering from years of being burned. Instead, the Cyclopes forged for her a ring, a ring that allowed her to claim a domain, one not suited for war.

During the war, Hestia only took part when absolutely necessary or when victory was assured. Most of the time, she remained behind, staying close to the Nymphs who had cared for her since her liberation.

Metis and Zeus had fallen in love and were married, which brought hope. In the final year of the war, Metis became pregnant. Zeus, determined that their child should not be born into the chaos and bloodshed of battle, pushed himself harder than ever. His efforts were rewarded, for the war finally ended that year, ensuring that their child would enter a world free from the horrors that had consumed the past decade.

Kronos’ supporters fell one by one, until the last of them was defeated. In the aftermath, Hestia, Demeter, Hera, Hades, and Poseidon swore to make Zeus their King, while also pledging their loyalty to him, recognizing that it was through his courage and leadership that their freedom—and the end of their suffering—had become possible.

The Kronides had stormed Mount Othrys after defeating all of Kronos’ supporters. Kronos met them in his throne room, still in his throne, he had been expecting them. Kronos stood up and summoned his sickle, pointing it at his children.

"You wretched, unfaithful and unfilial children shall pay for this. I shall lock you and everyone who sided with traitors as yourselves into Tartaros."

Kronos proclaimed before moving to attack the Kronides.

What followed was a brutal battle that left Mount Othrys in ruins. After Kronos had been defeated and chained with Demeter's and Hades’ power did they call for Rhea and Metis.

Rhea and Metis were asked what should be done with Kronos, for killing him was impossible. They debated quietly, nearly reaching a decision, when Kronos suddenly laughed. The sound echoed through the ruined throne room, and everyone tensed, turning toward him. Zeus stepped forward, placing himself between Kronos and everyone else in the throne room, while Kronos’ eyes glinted with cruel amusement.

"It seems your wife is with child" Kronos said, his gaze shifting from Zeus to Metis, who instinctively placed a protective hand over her belly. Zeus’ eyes narrowed, and he stepped forward, shielding Metis with his body. His siblings mirrored his resolve, narrowing their eyes and gripping their weapons, ready to attack if necessary.

Kronos paid them no mind and laughed once again, the laughter echoed. Demeter and Poseidon had begun to pull their weapons out. Hera and Hades shrank back, eyes fixed on the ground, still haunted by fear of their father—even after his defeat—especially in the place where they had first fallen before him. Rhea placed a comforting hand on each of their shoulders. Slowly, her reassurance took hold. They exchanged a brief, steadying glance, nodded to each other, and lifted their heads, meeting their father’s gaze with the same confidence they had shown before.

"You shall be cut to pieces and thrown in Tartaros. Your body shall never be complete again. You will never be able to rise again."

Zeus declared, Rhea nodded still besides her children.

Kronos said nothing at first, and there was no trace of fear in his eyes—Hades would later tell this to the others. Then, his lips curled into a sneer, the echo of his laughter vanishing like smoke.

"What else should I have expected from my unfaithful wife? Faithful? Obedient? Loyal children? No… I cannot expect any of that, not when I chose to lay with a whore. Yet you will all bask in the glory that should have been mine. Your children will grow to honor you, to serve you with devotion. But I will not permit you to have that."

His gaze swept over them with a venomous hatred, so potent it even seared the one woman he had once looked upon as though he were utterly bewitched.

But Rhea had never looked back at him with the same gaze. Rhea's love was never his, no it only belonged to her children. This realization hurt Kronos’ pride even more. His anger grew even more as he looked at his traitorous kin.

"I curse you all" Kronos thundered, his voice echoing like the grinding of stone against stone. "None of you shall produce offspring. Your wombs will remain barren, and your seed shall find no fertile ground to take root. And if, by some cruel twist of fate, a child is born, they will drain you—bleed you of strength and peace—until they rise as gods themselves. But know this: they shall carry your doom as much as your legacy. For in their birth, your immortality will waver, and theirs will hang by a thread. Death shall be able to take them, and immortality will mean nothing beneath this curse I lay upon you."

"It shall be a miracle if any child survives, and even then, their arrival will be steeped in agony. This curse will not stop at you—it will infect your lineages, choke your mortal offspring before they draw their first breath. And should one live, they will be born as a monster, an abomination, destined to fall only by the hands of their own kin. This curse shall linger through the veins of your descendants, plague your allies, and taint all who watched my fall in silence."

Enraged by his father’s venom, Zeus hurled his thunderbolt, cleaving his father’s limbs as the words still echoed.

And so the curse began. Over time, the gods forgot the words their father had spoken. Their triumph blinded them, their glory deafened them. They let the curse linger, forgotten, until it was far too late. As the celebrations grew, they finally were able to claim their domains. Rhea happily gave Zeus what belonged to him. After all she never truly wanted to be a queen, it was a position that was forced upon her.

But the curse still came, even during their triumph. Though the Titan who said such a curse had fallen and the new order reigned, it still came. As Metis’s pregnancy advanced, her strength began to wither. The gods watched with growing unease, but they comforted themselves with the thought that she was immortal—unlike mortals, she could not truly die.

Yet the unease deepened with each passing day. Metis, once radiant and full of vitality, became pale, her movements unsteady, her form trembling as though some unseen weight pressed upon her. One day, she approached Zeus, her hands clutching her swollen belly, her breaths ragged and shallow. The moment her trembling fingers brushed against him, her form dissolved—her body transformed to mist, which was absorbed by Zeus, but the Gods did not notice this, too shocked by the events that had transpired.

The chamber fell silent. Every god present felt their ichor run cold as the truth dawned. They reached out with their divine senses, searching for her, but there was nothing—only the hollow absence where she had been. Metis was gone, faded from existence as if she had never been. Horror gripped them, and grief followed. Zeus mourned his beloved wife and the unborn child she had carried, a grief that hollowed him, though he did not yet understand the cause. None of them realized the truth: the curse their father placed on them had already begun to claim its price.

During those years of mourning, Zeus himself felt strangely weakened—not grievously so, but enough for him to notice, as if a faint thread of his power had been quietly cut. Still as king he still continued to do what was demanded of him.

Demeter, longing for a child, turned to Zeus for aid in conceiving. Not long after, Zeus took Hera as his wife. Their bond grew strong, forged in the shared mourning of Metis’s loss, and in time, love bloomed between them. Hera conceived quickly. After some time Zeus married Hera. But a few months into such pregnancy Athena was born from Zeus’ head fully armored and a spear by her side.

The god-king was plagued by a relentless, splitting headache that tormented him with unbearable pain. Desperate, Zeus turned to his kin and pleaded for their help, begging them to ease his suffering. But each one refused, unwilling to risk harming their brother. Days dragged on, the agony unending, until at last Zeus could endure no more. Seizing the weapons of his brothers and sisters, he struck his own head in a desperate attempt to free himself from the torment.

His kin could do nothing but watch in horror as their brother battered himself in desperation. Hours passed with Zeus striking his own head, until at last, wielding Poseidon’s trident, he split his skull open. From the wound, fully formed and radiant, Athena emerged into the world.

The gods looked upon her in shock and awe, and realization struck them like a thunderbolt, she was the unborn child of Metis and Zeus.

After her grand entrance, Athena began to tremble, her form shrinking until she was no larger than Zeus’ hand. Her father immediately gathered her into his arms, gently cradling her as he removed the armor she had been born with. Those first months of her life were harsh and unforgiving, a difficult beginning for the goddess.

A few months later, Persephone was born—a fragile child like her sister, her breath shallow, her strength faint. Her weakness stirred a fierce protectiveness in Demeter, who hovered over her daughter, unwilling to let those fragile breaths stop for even a minute.

Not long after came the births of Ares and Hephaestus, twin boys. Yet their coming was not without cost. Ares was born first, his arrival leaving Hera pale and trembling, her body unsteady from the strain. Hephaestus lingered in the womb, his birth delayed for reasons unknown to Hera.

When at last he came forth, Hera’s strength was nearly spent. Her hands, still weak from the ordeal, shook as she tried to cradle the infant. Without meaning to—without even realizing—her fingers slipped. The newborn tumbled from her grasp and fell from the heights of Mount Olympus, the newborn cries still ringing in Hera's ears. Hera had tried going down Olympus but could not even afford to stand up as pain shot through her entire body.

Ares, attuned to his mother’s anguish and his brother’s suffering, began to wail. His cry was so piercing it echoed across the world, heard by mortals and gods alike, even beneath the sea. Soon after, Zeus returned carrying his son Hephaestus. The child’s small body was twisted and broken from the fall—his leg shattered beyond repair, leaving him crippled from the moment of his birth.

The gods had remained unaware of the curse until Gaea revealed it to Rhea. She had sensed its presence in her slumber but, deeming it insignificant, paid it little mind. Yet when she noticed her kin’s mounting distress, she awakened fully. Only then did Uranus confess to her what was truly happening.

Rhea was horrified when she learned that the curse her former husband had spat upon them had come true. Without delay, she rushed to Mount Olympus to warn her children. Like their mother, they were stricken with dread—and in response, they grew fiercely protective of their own offspring.

Poseidon had married Amphitrite, and together they had Triton. Yet even after being granted several domains, Triton possessed little strength, far weaker than his cousins. Despite this, he managed to father a child—Pallas.

Pallas, a radiant and gentle goddess, survived where many others had not. In time, she grew close to Athena, forging a close bond with the goddess of wisdom.

Zeus and Hera once again tried for more children and they were successful. Hebe and Eileithyia were both born even weaker than Persephone but in the end they survived. But it brought them pain, a pain so great they caused chaos in the mortal world. Even after the pain Zeus and Hera still wished for more children. Hera recognized that their children would bring them more pain.

So she then urged Zeus to try with others. Perhaps children with immortals that had not sided with them in the war, as the other parent would not carry the curse as strongly as they did, it could perhaps cause less pain. So Zeus laid with Eurynome and was successful in having children with the oceanid. The Charities were like all the other children weak but they had survived, not for long though.

Zeus, still longing for more children, lay with both Leto and Maia. From these unions were born Artemis, Apollo, and Hermes. Zeus felt great pain once again during the birth of his desired children, Hera had tried to soothe his pain but was unable to do much to help.

Leto found herself unable to give birth on any land touched by the light of Helios. No place under the sunlight would offer her refuge for the curse would just cause her even more pain. Her children were unable to come out of her womb.

Her cries of anguish reached her sister, Asteria—she, too, had known the pain of childbirth. Moved by her sister’s pain, Asteria chose to transform herself into a floating island, untethered to land or sea, that no sunbeam had yet graced. In this act of sacrifice, she became what would later be known as Delos. Poseidon, the Earth-Shaker, helped the Titaness who bore his brother's children even knowing the risks, he summoned great waves to shield the island from the gaze of Helios, granting Leto a place where she could give birth in peace.

There, on this wandering isle, Leto gave birth to her twin children, Artemis first and then Apollo, after nine long days of labor.

The twins, like all other godly children, were born weak. Fortunately, the Titan Helios and the Titaness Selene granted them domains to keep them from fading. They bestowed upon the twins the domains of sunlight and moonlight, while also sharing with them the greater domains of the sun and the moon.

This, however, did not come without a price. The twins were bound to take up the duties of guiding the sun and moon across the sky whenever Helios and Selene wished to be free of their duties.

To the gods that was a small price to pay.

With Maia, though she too would have suffered like Leto because of who she bore her son too, did not suffer. The curse did not harm Maia because of the Ichor that she carried. Maia was the daughter of the Titan Atlas—who had once stood beside Kronos in the war against Olympus, who was the most loyal to Kronos—was not harmed; the only pain she experienced was that of childbirth. Her pregnancy lasted but a single day, and then Hermes came into the world. The curse had less hold on her.

Hermes, unlike many of his siblings, was not born without strength. While Maia rested after his birth, the newborn god slipped away, already clever and restless, eager to cause mischief.

Hades had fallen deeply in love with Persephone, and they had married shortly before the birth of their children, Melinoe and Zagreus. But after their births, Persephone’s strength waned, and despite fighting for six long months, she ultimately succumbed to the curse. During that time, Demeter abandoned her duties, tending solely to her daughter and refusing to be parted from her, which caused the earth to wither and the first winter to descend. Winter might have lasted even longer had Hades not returned from the Underworld with Persephone—but for Demeter, mourning her daughter would never end, and so, in a sense, winter continues forever.

Persephone was still alive, but her fate was sealed: she would spend half of each year in the Underworld, forever bound to her husband’s realm. She was fortunate that Hades had protected her soul, shielding it from the curse that would have caused it to fade, as it had with Metis. Many others were not so lucky as she was.

Many gods bore children, yet countless of those offspring never survived, their lives snuffed out before a soul could even take shape.

After decades of witnessing the curse, the gods finally turned their attention to mortals. Previously, they had avoided mortal children, knowing they would be born human and inevitably perish. Now, with a solution, they attempted to have offspring with mortals. Their efforts failed, however, and they were forced to watch in horror as the bodies of the dead infants twisted into monsters—creatures that could die only at the hands of their own kin.

In the end, they did not succeed—every child was stillborn, their bodies twisting into monsters. The only demigod to be born alive was Dionysus, but his arrival was too overwhelming for his mother, who was burned alive from his mere presence. To save him, Zeus was forced to sew the infant into a part of his own thigh until he was fully formed. Once born, Dionysus was transformed completely into a god.

After two thousand years, Gods stop being born. The Gods did not have any more children for they would not even take.

The second generation of gods, unlike the first, had at most four children each—but many longed for more. Apollo and Dionysus had none. Ares fathered three children with Aphrodite: Eros, Phobos, and Deimos. Hermes had only one surviving child, Pan.

Many gods eventually stopped trying altogether. Occasionally they would attempt again, but hope for their children’s survival had long since died.

Luke slammed the book shut.

What kind of bullshit was this? The gods, unable to have children? As if. It had to be some kind of joke—there was no other explanation. He bit his lower lip.

And yet… it would explain a lot. The strange way those bastards had been acting. Especially his deadbeat father, Hermes.

With a heavy sigh, Luke slid the thick volume back onto the shelf. He rubbed at his temple, already feeling the beginnings of a headache—something that should have been impossible. Gods didn’t get things like that, or so Chiron had always taught him.

But apparently, he was a god now. Ironic laughable even, considering how much he despised them. Crossing his—now small, childlike—arms, Luke sank deeper into thought, reflecting on his life as he had so many times before.

Reflecting—or perhaps brooding—on the choices that had brought him to this point. He suddenly thought of something unpleasant—the thought that always resurfaced whenever he slipped into reflectioning on his life.

Luke knew he was going to die.

It was something he had perhaps always known, even as a child. He would watch his mother cry out for him, watch her weep over his fate, and call for his father—who never answered. Her screams are something he could never forget. He will forever resent and love his mother. He understood her as best as he could, and on some level he wanted to say he could understand her pain.

He often found himself wondering what his fate could be. What end could be so dreadful that it drove his mother to madness, forcing her to watch it over and over until it hollowed her out? Her once soft, golden hair had faded into a pale shade, nearly white. Her warm, sun-kissed skin had drained to a lifeless pallor. The woman who had once been radiant, full of life, now seemed more ghost than mortal. He remembered fragments of how his mother used to be—sane enough, at least, until he turned five. After that, she truly went off the deep end and never came back. She never came back no matter how much he screamed or cried for her.

Yet he understood—somewhere ahead, a terrible, perhaps even cruel death awaited him. He knew it from the echoes of her screams, the desperate cries begging her son not to leave her, and from the way she raged at Hermes, pleading for him to change the destiny already written for their beloved child. Beloved child huh? What a joke.

He tried to feign ignorance out of fear. He tried to ignore the inevitability.

But deep down, he was already coming to terms with his death. He was always prepared to die.

By the time he was fourteen, running from the monster that had caught up to them after a wrong turn, he was ready to sacrifice himself for Thalia, Annabeth, and Grover. As he ran, clutching Annabeth, all he could think of was his mother.

Sometimes he wished he could forget that night—but he never would.

Was this the moment his mother had seen, over and over, until her mind shattered? And does she still see it trapped in that house where he had left her, even now—his death, torn apart by monsters in the very place where the god she often screamed for had sent him?

But in the end, it wasn’t him who sacrificed himself—it was Thalia.

He remembered how she looked at him before placing Annabeth in his arms and rushing off to face the horde of monsters from the Underworld. He remembered her eyes, heavy with sadness yet burning with determination, even as rain poured down around them. Her mouth twisted into that familiar, reckless smile—the one she always gave him after he warned her not to do something dangerous, only for her to ignore him anyway. It always ended with him stealing bandages and alcohol from a store, and her getting patched up while teasing him about it.

“The sacrifice is always worth the results,” she had once told him after taking a deep stab wound.

That night, they had broken into a supermarket that was closed because of a storm. Normally, they would never have risked such a large place, but the rain was relentless, the temperature was dropping, and Annabeth was burning with fever. He was starting to get sick too—it was a miracle Thalia was still holding up. The supermarket was their only chance to find medicine.

Unexpectedly, a few monsters caught up to them.

He realized their mistake too late, after sending Thalia to check the back entrance. He felt the Minotaur’s presence just seconds before it struck. With Annabeth in his arms, he ran as fast as he could toward where Thalia had gone. Annabeth, in her fevered state, began screaming. Thalia heard the scream and came running.

He had thought she would grab Annabeth and flee, but instead, she ran at the monster, tackling it. As she fought it, two more appeared.

“There are two more!” he yelled, ready to set Annabeth down and help.

“Get in the store!” she shouted.

“Wha—no!”

“Just get in! I can handle this—you’d only slow me down!”

He wanted to argue, but deep down, she was right. He was getting weaker, and letting the monster catch him would only endanger Annabeth further. So he obeyed, found the back entrance, and picked the lock easily.

He was just about to put Annabeth down when Thalia stumbled in, a deep stab wound near her navel. He set Annabeth aside and hurried to find stitches, alcohol, and bandages.

As he stitched her up, she told him what had happened. While she fought the three Minotaurs, one—probably the one pursuing them—had broken away to go after him and Annabeth. She had tried to finish her fight quickly, but her distraction had given one of them an opening.

Had she been a second slower, it would have struck something vital. He scolded her for it—told her she should have focused on her fight. Even if the Minotaur had reached them, he could have handled it, at least long enough for her to finish the others and come help.

“I’m a little sick, but I can still fight,” he said. “Not as well as you, but I can protect Annabeth and myself.”

Thalia only looked at him, then at Annabeth, her expression softening.

“I didn’t want to risk it… and taking this stab was worth it. Keeping both of you safe is something I’d gladly be stabbed for.”

Back then, he didn’t understand. To him, if anyone had to make the sacrifice, it should have been him.

He only huffed angrily and went to check on Annabeth.

They stayed in that supermarket for three days.

Annabeth had been happy during those three days, even while sick. She ate whatever she wanted, and hoarded sweets for the road.

For three days, despite the fever, despite the wounds—they were happy. Each for their own reasons, but one reason was always the same: they were together.

Now he understood. For Thalia, if it meant Annabeth and he were safe, it was always worth it.

So he tightened his grip on Annabeth and ran toward Camp Half-Blood. Even as he heard Thalia’s scream, even as the hellhounds ripped her apart, even as the harpies carried her up into the sky and cast her down—he didn’t look back until she was struck by lightning and became a pine tree.

The only way her so-powerful father could save her was to turn her into a tree. The so-called King of the Gods—her great, all-powerful father—could only turn his daughter into a fucking tree. How ironic.

Perhaps that was when his hatred began to spread. What began as hatred for his father alone became hatred for them all. It grew again as he watched the children he had cared for march to their deaths on quests, just for the chance of being claimed. He himself was like those children even if he denied it. He also wanted his father to look at him with pride and love. The pride and love his mother used to tell him his father looked at him when he was a baby.

He had wanted it so badly that he accepted a nearly impossible quest. Now, he regretted it—Damian’s and Leila’s screams still echoed in his mind, their faces contorted with pain, dread, and fear as they begged him to run. But he hadn’t. He stayed and fought, even as the pain became unbearable. It was only when the Ladon tore off Leila’s left arm and crushed one of Damian’s legs that he finally chose to run—but not without his friends.

He had grabbed Damian by the hand, then rushed to Leila—who had been flung against the mountainside by Ladon—and gathered them both. With his friends secured, he transported himself to the mountain’s entrance. It was too late to save them though.

Their last words hunt him even now years after their death.

“Live and die how you want Luke… don't die with regrets.”

“I love all of you… I really love you. I love my mother, my friends… Luke I truly… love…”

So when he heard those words.

Those words that were cried out by his little sister.

“Family, Luke. You promised.”

He knew what he had to do. He knew this was the death his mother had seen. A death that would save the gods—not that he cared for them—but it would save Annabeth, Connor, Travis, and the rest of his siblings who hadn’t joined him. The people he loved more than he could ever love himself. The people he started this war for.

He always knew he would not win this war. Not for lack of will, but because Kronos would never be a fair ruler—perhaps kind for a few years, as repayment, but nothing more.

So he closed his eyes, after making Percy promise he would make life better for the demigods, who had suffered in the war he started, those who were still young, and the ones who come after his death.

Expecting to open his eyes already in the Underworld.

Luke opened his eyes.

But instead of the gloomy, dark, and mist-shrouded entrance to the Underworld, he was met with a sky painted deep orange by the setting sun.

Am I in the underworld?

But this didn’t look like the Underworld.

He tried to move, and only then did he realize he was floating in water. His body felt strange—smaller, almost as if he had shrunk.

He blinked rapidly and tried to move again, but it was useless. All he managed to do was dunk himself beneath the water. With a weary sigh, he closed his eyes. Was this his punishment?

Suddenly, gentle hands lifted him, and his eyes flew open. Before him was the last person he ever wanted to see again—Hermes. The god cradled him carefully, his face alight with astonishment, ecstasy, and… adoration.

Frustrated and disgusted at the bastard holding him, and eager to voice it, he opened his mouth—but no words came out. Instead of shouting, “Let me go, you disgust me,” only babbles and baby-like gurgles escaped. He quickly shut his mouth, shocked, and tried to push Hermes away—only to catch sight of his tiny hand. His hand: baby-sized, helpless, and utterly unfamiliar.

He flexed his fingers, trying desperately to make sense of what was happening. Then, abruptly, he whipped his head toward Hermes—who had begun speaking to him in a language he recognized as Ancient Greek.

“Θεῖον... ἐκ τοῦ ἐμοῦ... μόνον ἐγώ.” The words were filled with disbelief.

Luke narrowed his eyes, his brain automatically translating the words thanks to his heritage as a son of Hermes. Godling? From me only? What was that supposed to mean? Why was Hermes calling him that?

Hermes began to walk with nowhere as a destination, yet his eyes never strayed from the miracle in his arms, as though the child might vanish if he looked away even for a heartbeat. The infant gazed up at him with wide, curious eyes—eyes that reflected Hermes’ own, the same carried by his father and by his great grandfather, Uranus, before them. His hair was golden blond, unlike Hermes’ dark brown hair. His skin was pale, in contrast to Hermes, whose complexion bore the warm touch of Apollo’s sunlight.

The child was beautiful. Perfect.

The child’s birth, born of Hermes alone, was itself a miracle. His very existence was extraordinary—no godly children had been born in thousands of years, not since Dionysus. Yet as Hermes marveled, the infant’s eyes began to well with tears. Alarmed, Hermes immediately began to rock and soothe him.

What was wrong with the babe? Did he do something wrong? Had he hurt th—

Ah.

Ah.

The curse.

That damn curse.

His child was likely in unfathomable pain. Hermes cursed himself for being a fool—too enamored, too blinded by wonder to think clearly. He needed Apollo. His brother could at least ease his child’s suffering, as he had once done for Pan. With that thought, Hermes transported himself and the infant to Olympus, where Apollo was most likely to be—and where, in all likelihood, the rest of his family awaited as well.

Luke looked around and realized they were in Olympus. It looked different—very different. Instead of gold covering nearly every surface, the palace was mostly marble. Gold was still present, but it no longer dominated the walls. The place was beautiful. Statues of many gods lined the halls, though several were noticeably absent.

Hermes began making his way toward the Great Hall. Where he was sure his family was.

“Apollo, brother, I need your help!”

The atmosphere was calm, Apollo’s soft singing drifting through the hall, soothing the gods further.

Zeus and Hera sat upon their thrones, hands intertwined, gazing down at their children and siblings. They were happy—not fully satisfied, but happy—aware that many more children should have been in the Hall had their father’s curse not taken them.

Demeter fussed over Persephone, who was animatedly telling her mother about her own children. Hearing about her grandchildren brought genuine joy to Demeter’s face. Hades stood beside his wife, adding comments occasionally, content simply to listen to her ramble.

Dionysus and Pan leaned close, discussing something eagerly, nodding in agreement with each other.

“It’s annoying.”

Pan nodded. “Very. Did I tell you about the time they kidnapped me in my sleep?”

“No, but do tell.”

Apollo performed for Hestia, Artemis, and Aphrodite. His new song was already known by all of priestess. Aphrodite interjected occasionally, sharing her opinions, while Hestia and Artemis simply followed along, absorbed in the music.

Poseidon stood apart, watching his granddaughter Pallas with concern. She, however, seemed perfectly content perched on the stairs near her grandfather’s throne, her gaze fixed on Athena.

Hephaestus and Athena were deep in discussion over plans for a new palace.

“Perhaps the entrance hall should be longer.”

“That would make the Hearth Room smaller,” Athena countered.

Suddenly, a shout rang out.

“Apollo, brother, I need your help!”

Before anyone could react further, Hermes appeared, slamming the doors open with a forceful entrance.

Almost every god rose at once, except for Hestia, who stayed seated, and Pan, who was already standing. All of them were gripped by the same worry—that something terrible had happened.

Apollo rushed toward his brother but stopped short after only a few steps. He gasped, stumbling back, his face etched with shock and disbelief.

Then they heard it: the soft sniffles and whimpers of a baby. The gods began to move closer, their eyes widening as they realized Hermes was cradling something against his chest. A child. A babe.

Gasps rippled through the hall.

“Apollo, my son—he’s in pain. Ease his pain, soothe his pain, I beg of you.”

Hermes’ desperate plea snapped Apollo from his shock. “Yes! Of course.”

Luke’s tiny body felt as though it were being slashed by shards of broken glass and set ablaze all at once. The agony was unbearable. He had known pain all his life, but this was different—raw, unrelenting, and only growing worse as time passed. And as Apollo drew nearer, the torment intensified, shifting into something new. His head throbbed violently, a searing headache unlike anything he had ever felt before, he felt as if his head was about to explode.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pain faded away. The relief that washed over him was immense. The agony hadn’t vanished completely—something still lingered—but now it was no more than a faint, nagging prick, a tiny bit of discomfort compared to the torment before.

Luke’s eyelids grew unbearably heavy. Drowsiness pulled at him. He didn’t feel safe here—not with so many gods towering around him, their voices low, their eyes wide—but exhaustion left him too powerless to care. He let the weight of sleep take him, surrendering without a fight to his need for sleep.

“Thank you, Apollo,” Hermes murmured, still gazing at the now-sleeping infant in his arms.

“There’s no need for that,” Apollo replied softly, though his eyes lingered on the babe with lingering disbelief.

“Father…”

Pan leaned closer to his father, voice hesitant. He wanted to ask, his heart full of questions, yet his throat tightened with nerves. A new godling—he could see it clearly. The first in thousands of years. The weight of the question pressed heavily upon the room, but he could not bring himself to speak.

It was Hera who finally broke the silence, her voice sharp but tinged with awe. “Hermes, my son, how was this miracle born? Which immortal woman was able to birth such a wonder? She shall be greatly honored for this feat.”

A miracle—for centuries had passed since the birth of Pan, the last godling. His birth had claimed his mother’s life and left Hermes so weakened that his parents feared he might fade away, just as Metis once had.

Hermes looked up, his face resolute though exhaustion lined his features. “No woman birthed this child, Mother. He was born from me, and me alone.”

Gasps rippled through the hall.

“What!?” Aphrodite exclaimed, her wide eyes with shock. “How could that be?”

Hermes took in a slow breath before speaking, voice steady though quiet. “I was bathing myself in the Trikrena, not realizing I was spilling ichor from a wound I had not noticed. When I finished, I found my ichor glowing, shaping itself into a child. This babe was not nurtured in any womb, no mother carried him. He was born of me alone, with no other parent.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than any silence before, and the gods looked between each other with awe and disbelief.

“Take him to rest, Hermes, the babe must be tired.” Hestia gently told Hermes, patting his shoulder. 

Luke had woken up with three creeps staring at him.

The one with vibrant purple eyes, black hair streaked with purple at medium length, with green laurels and grapes woven into the side. His chiton was layered in shades of purple with gold accents, and his tan skin bore panther markings that ran from his neck to his arms, the marks growing more distinct as they stretched from his head to his hands. Dionysus, he assumed, stood on the left side of the crib.

The one on the right side of the crib had long horns wrapped in vines, short dark brown hair, and eyes caught between green and blue. Silver bracelets circled his wrists, and he wore no clothes. His lower body was that of a goat’s. This, he guessed, was Pan.

The one between Pan and Dionysus had tan skin and flowing blond hair, with a braid along the side—brighter than Luke’s—that glowed at the ends. Like Dionysus, he wore laurels in his hair, though his were golden. Behind his head gleamed a semi-circular sun, and his soft golden eyes—unlike Kronos’, which were bright and shone with hate—shone warmly. His chiton was mostly gold and teal, patterned with white markings, and he was adorned with many golden accessories at his neck, ears, wrists, and arms. Apollo, he guessed easily.

All three of them froze when his eyes opened. Pan was the first to move—his right hand slipped from the side of the crib and reached toward him, his hand began trembling halfway. Gently, Pan tapped his nose, then his left cheek.

Luke, irritated, made a move to bite him—and succeeded. Pan froze again but quickly pulled back when Luke slapped his hand away from his face.

After a few moments of the three simply staring at him, Luke grew tired of it and tried to move.

It was easier now than it had been before he’d fallen asleep. He tried to push himself up into a sitting position.

“He’s trying to get up,” Pan murmured, casting a quick glance at the other two.

“Should we help him?” Dionysus whispered.

“We should,” Apollo said softly, already moving forward to help Luke.

“But what if we hurt him…?” Pan asked, fear flickering in his voice at the thought of harming his brother.

Apollo hesitated, then drew his arms back to his sides, suddenly unsure and uneasy.

Luke huffed from his spot—useless, these idiots were no help but even if they tried helping him he would have refused their help—then tried again to sit up. This time he managed it, finally upright, he gripped the crib’s bars to steady himself. He heard the three murmuring once more but ignored them. Placing both hands firmly on the bars, he pushed himself up and, at last, stood successfully.

It seemed he was still trapped in a baby's body—and here in general. He truly wished all of this had been a dream, or nightmare which fit all of this better.

How disappointing.

“Hissssssss!” a snake hissed, interrupting his thoughts. More specifically, his father’s snakes—Martha and George, if he remembered correctly. Both slithered until they were no longer on the floor in front of him, but inside the crib with him.

Luke narrowed his eyes. They had been here since the start—he would have sensed them entering the room if they hadn’t.

The larger snake began to circle him, while the smaller one stretched until it was bigger than him—which wasn’t difficult, given his current baby-sized body. Luke tensed. What were they doing? The circling snake suddenly stopped, then began to slither up his body, nearly covering him entirely. The stretching snake followed suit, doing the same.

What were these reptiles doing? Luke tried to pull the snakes off him, but his tiny hands—lacking any real strength—were useless. It felt strange having their scaly bodies pressed against his skin. He wanted them gone, but he knew he couldn’t make it happen. He huffed and clenched his fists, wishing he at least had a body old enough to protect itself—not this helpless one.

He wanted his body to be older.

Suddenly, he began to grow. Apollo, Dionysus, and Pan gasped—he had forgotten they were even in the room. When he finally stopped, he looked over his body and realized he was in his nine-year-old self, which, at least, was far better than being a baby.

Luke jumped out of the crib, which now was far too small for his older body, and ran toward the giant door. He didn’t get far—Apollo caught him, grabbing his hand and lifting him up by the armpits.

“Child, how do you feel? Where were you going?”

“Let me go!” Luke growled at him but what came out his mouth was weird babbles.

Pan glanced at his younger—wow, he never thought he’d get to say that; he had always assumed he’d be an only child—brother. Seeing Luke’s frown, he stepped forward.

“Perhaps he wanted Father. I remember always wanting to be near Father when I was young. My brother probably feels the same,” Pan said to his uncles.

Apollo and Dionysus considered this for a moment, then nodded in agreement. Together, they began walking toward the great hall, where the rest of their family was discussing the boy’s birth. Every so often, Luke tried to wrench himself free from Apollo’s grip, but it was useless—the difference in their strength was obvious.

“Don’t worry, godling, your father will be by your side soon enough.”

That was the last thing he wanted. He tried once more to wrench himself free—but, as before, it was useless. After several failed attempts, he finally gave up, only because he realized they had reached the giant doors once again.

Dionysus glanced at Pan and Apollo, then leaned in to whisper something to them. Luke couldn’t catch the words—he was too focused on the door ahead. From behind it, he could hear several muffled voices, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Dionysus pushed the door open and stepped inside. A moment later, the muffled voices fell silent.

Hearing something, Apollo opened the door and stepped inside, Luke still in his arms. Pan followed close behind. The moment they entered, Hermes hurried over, his expression filled with worry as his eyes fixed on Luke. He held out his arms, and Apollo, understanding what he wanted, carefully placed Luke into Hermes’ embrace.

“I’m sorry, my son,” Hermes murmured, rubbing his head gently against Luke’s.

“Hermes, sit down,” Hera said softly to her son. Zeus, seated beside her, gave a firm nod of agreement. Obediently, Hermes went to his throne and sat, still cradling Luke close in his arms.

Luke wanted to resist his supposed father, but instead of tension, his body felt unnervingly relaxed. He couldn’t fight against Hermes; all he could do was remain still as the god held him close, protective and possessive. He was calm—far too calm for his liking, especially with so many gods gathered in the same room—as though he weren’t in the arms of a god at all.

A god he hated. A god who had abandoned him. A god who claimed to love him, yet sent him to his death. A god who had done nothing while his siblings perished. A god who hadn’t even acknowledged his siblings after they died, desperate for him to recognize or claim them.

“Oh, Hermes, the child is truly beautiful,” Aphrodite exclaimed, her voice like a soft melody. Luke hadn’t even noticed several gods standing close to him—something he normally would have sensed, even an immortal approaching. Something was wrong—they were close enough to touch him.

Aphrodite, unlike Dionysus, Hestia, Artemis, and Pan, looked ready to leap at him—though, fortunately, she did not. The other ones were just looking at him with different expressions, but none of them were malicious, as he expected.

Luke looked at the—admittedly beautiful, truly beautiful—goddess before him. Her long, thick hair shimmered in a coppery-rose hue with golden highlights, adorned with flowers and a few pearls. Her eyes were a soft, pale pink, and she wore a flowing white chiton trimmed with golden Greek patterns, draped over her right shoulder while leaving her left shoulder bare. Golden jewelry decorated her arms, wrists, and fingers—bangles, armbands, and rings alike—and strands of pearls were draped gracefully across her body.

Aphrodite moved closer, standing directly in front of Hermes and Luke, cooing softly each time Luke blinked. After a moment, she stepped back, though she continued cooing and watching him as if she’d never moved at all.

Then Luke noticed more gods approaching—Ares, Athena, and Hera this time. So that was why Aphrodite had shifted back, to give the others space to stand. She had been practically crowding him.

Ares was in heavy armor, a dark, jagged suit of armor accented with red and bronze, decorated with intimidating motifs like a silver vulture's skull, a bronze serpent, and a Colchian dragon. His helmet has a plume of red and engravings of a vulture, it covered his face only showing his blood red eyes. He also had a black cape that faded to dark red at the bottom. As he walked he took off his helmet to reveal black curly hair.

Athena had more light armor, she had grey eyes and short, light-colored hair styled beneath a golden helmet, in a ponytail, with bangs showing beneath the helmet. Her armor is gold and white with blue accents, including a flowing cape that fades from deep blue to light yellow. Her armor covering her chest and limbs

Hera, unlike her children, wore a floor-length gown. The fabric shifted from soft blues into a deep, star-speckled navy at the hem, where the train was fashioned like layered feathers in teal and green hues, adorned with golden motifs resembling peacock feathers. Her waist was decorated with a wide jeweled belt set with red and green stones. Pearled chains draped elegantly across her body, complemented by earrings and a gleaming arm cuff. Her long black hair was crowned with an intricate headpiece of jewels resembling peacock eyes, with delicate rods extending outward, and a sheer veil cascaded over part of her hair. Her skin glowed with a warm tone.

Ares and Hera looked far more alike than they ever had in his time. As they approached, he noticed their pace—slow and deliberate. Hera moved with particular care, and it seemed Ares and Athena were matching her steps, as if slowing themselves for her sake.

They stopped where Aphrodite had been standing only moments before. All three gazes fixed on him—Athena’s face alight with curiosity, Hera’s tenderness with something he didn’t know how to name, and Ares’ expression was a mix of the two.

“May I hold him?” Hera asked.

Hermes looked up from his son to his mother, and, catching something in her expression, nodded. Gently, he passed Luke into Hera’s arms, her touch tender and careful. Ares and Athena, standing at their mother’s sides, leaned in to finally take a proper look at Luke—they hadn’t been able to before, with all the confusion, shock, and delight overwhelming the room.

Hera brushed a strand of hair from Luke’s face and gasped.

“Oh! He has some of Maia’s and Mother’s features. He has Maia’s skin, sparkling like the night stars. And Mother’s hair—it looks just like hers.”

“He truly does,” Hermes replied, finally noticing the similarities between his son, his mother, and grandmother.

After that, Luke was passed from god to god, each taking a turn to hold him. He didn’t remember much beyond that—by the time he was in Hestia’s arms, he had already drifted off to sleep.

Luke huffed, the memory only adding to his irritation. A few months—by his rough estimate, though he could be off—had passed since he woke up here in ancient Greece, where gods couldn’t have as many children as they wished, where they mourned their dead children. He didn’t know how to feel. He already felt conflicted, and the gods only made it worse. Hermes made him feel strange—his father, who was usually all over him, showering him with love and adoration. Were he younger, he would have cherished it, maybe even sought it out. But he wasn’t his younger self, even if his body appeared so—especially not with Hermes.

“Godling!” That shrill, grating voice. Luke immediately ducked for cover—he had no intention of getting caught by that lunatic.

“Godling, where are you? We wanna play! Come play with your uncles and big brother!” The drunkard bastard joined in the shouting. The bright one was probably searching somewhere else. Luke rolled his eyes. Those three had been pestering him ever since Hermes had started leaving him in their care—which, by his estimate, had been about nine months. He escaped them whenever he could, though they always acted as if he were playing hide-and-seek.

Luke crawled between the shelves, fitting perfectly. When he saw that neither Dionysus nor Pan was blocking the door, he stood and ran until he reached a random bedroom. Finally, he relaxed—not having to worry about being caught by any of those three. He didn’t want to be cradled like a baby or dressed up by a goddess. He sighed in relief.

Suddenly, his body trembled under the weight of an intense presence. He gasped, clutching his chest as if the air itself were trying to suffocate him. Threads appeared everywhere in the room, stretching like countless spiderwebs. Some glowed brightly, others dimly, and many were unlit but meticulously measured and cut, while some remained untouched, measured but not cut.

“Luke Castellan.”

“Son of Hermes.”

“Hero of the Great Prophecy.”

Three voices, chillingly in sync, spoke one after another without pause, each word resonating as if from a single being though—they were not. Luke slowly turned, dread pooling in his stomach -and there they were.

The Fates.

The Moirai.