"And what have you learnt so far?"
Mount Etna towered, its jagged summit pitched high above the ordinary ground as though it existed to rival the heavens themselves—or, perhaps, to mirror the staggering heights of Victor's rising frustration.
The cold, thin air howled with a cruel wind that needled his bones and lashed across his face with a whip-like sting. For seven days, he had knelt here. Seven long, prayerful days of silence and suffering.
He was used to pain, yes. He had grown up in it. Yet this was not the kind of pain that forged warriors—it was the kind that wore them down into dust.
His knees ached beyond bruising, driven deep into stone with an unspoken defiance. The mountain offered no sympathy; the rocky ground beneath him pierced into his flesh with malicious precision, tearing silently through muscle and pride alike.
Victor Dreadmoore embraced it all.
His blackened hair tossed wildly in the stormwinds, dancing as though possessed by its own rebellion.
His skin had thinned. His lips, chapped to the point of ruin, felt as though they would soon fall away. His bones felt smaller inside his body, like they were retreating from life itself.
Somewhere high above, the sun poured golden warmth down the mountain's shoulder, barely reaching him in the biting cold.
Circling above, the vultures had resumed their ritual flight, tracing death-spirals over his kneeling form like they had taken a personal interest in his mortality.
These, at least, were the things he had learned.
"Patience. At most," he finally replied, voice coarse with thirst, his eyes still shut to the god before him.
There was a snort—an attempt to suppress laughter. Pan had always carried mischief in his throat, even when dealing with sacred things. It did not offend Victor. He had not knelt here for the god's approval. Not even for his kindness.
He had knelt for a reason far deeper than pride, and more stubborn than pain.
He had knelt for a miracle.
"Why do you still do this?" Pan asked. His voice carried a lazy sort of mockery, like the question had become a game. "I told you, boy—I can't help you. I won't."
"You're a god. You have the power to." Victor's voice did not rise, but it carried the firm authority of someone who believed himself cornered by fate.
Pan's presence drifted closer, as if drawn by Victor's steady flame. "That's the problem with you young ones," the god murmured, "Always mistaking power for permission."
Victor did not answer. He already knew what Pan meant. The god of the wild held sway over beasts, earth, and song—yet somehow, even that vast domain felt too narrow for what Victor sought.
He was a demigod, born of mortal flesh and divine seed. But he had yet to awaken. Yet to wield even a sliver of the legacy that sang in his blood.
He'd trained alone, slain monsters unaided, even survived the crucible of a demigod academy. And still, he had not been chosen. He remained ordinary.
Ordinary, in a world where he was fated to be more.
"You come to me," Pan said again, voice curling into a sneer, "A god who wanders fields and forests, asking me to open a door that was locked by someone far above me. You think I can just undo it?"
"I came because I remember you—" Victor began, his voice catching on something older than memory.
"I don't want your memory," Pan snapped, eyes flashing like a beast briefly glimpsed behind a mask. "I've had enough of being remembered."
A beat of silence passed. Then, quieter— "Go home, boy."
Victor heard the old god shift, the faint scrape of hooves masked by his walking staff as he turned away.
"Why won't you help me?" Victor called after him, dragging his cracked voice through the wind. "You've helped others before. Hercules. Perseus. Heroes. Why not me?"
Pan paused mid-step. For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Then— "Because when I helped them, the gods allowed it. They weren't… problematic."
The word lingered.
Victor opened his eyes at last. Before him stood a small, hunched figure with a beard like wild moss and hooves half-concealed beneath a weathered cloak.
He looked less divine than worn, like a remnant of a world that had lost its appetite for miracles.
"What do you mean, problematic?" Victor asked, trying to hold back the growing suspicion blooming in his chest.
"Do you think it's natural," Pan began, voice rising, "That after everything—your trials, your quests, your survival—you are still empty-handed? Your bloodline hasn't been lost, boy. It's been sealed."
Victor's throat dried beyond what thirst could explain. "Sealed? By who?"
The god hesitated. For once, something like pity crossed his ancient face. "Your father," he said. "Hades."
The name crashed through Victor's chest like a falling star. Hades. A father in blood only—distant, silent, unreachable. Victor couldn't even recall ever seeing the god with his own eyes. And yet somehow, it was he who had locked away Victor's path.
Why?
"I'll go to him," Victor said, his voice firming into resolve. "If he sealed it, then he can unseal it."
"Don't." The warning shot out of Pan's mouth with an urgency Victor had never heard before. "Don't you dare. If Hades finds out I told you this, it will be my end."
Victor's eyes narrowed. "Why doesn't he want me to know?"
Pan didn't answer immediately. He exhaled, and then said, "All I know is that the seal came with a command—written in Hades' own language. Min milás, min voithás."
Victor frowned. "What does that mean?"
"Do not speak. Do not help," Pan translated. "It's written on your forehead, boy. Invisible to mortal eyes, but glowing bright in the sight of the gods. A divine warning."
Victor said nothing. His knees finally buckled, the pressure overwhelming him, sinking into the blood-wet stone. He didn't notice the tear that slipped from his eye. What great crime had he committed to earn this silence from his own father?
What had he done to deserve being stripped of his birthright?
"You should be grateful I told you this at all," Pan continued, his voice once again growing distant. "You want truth? That's the truth. The gods are not blind. They know you could awaken something terrible. Something they fear."
Victor didn't answer. Not anymore. The pain in his knees was nothing now, compared to the rupture in his soul.
"There are gods who could help you," Pan added, slowly turning away. "But none who will. Not if they know what hangs over your head. The seal is law. Divine law. And none dare cross Hades, not even the high Olympians."
His walking stick tapped rhythmically against the mountain's teeth as he began to descend.
"Give up, boy," Pan called over his shoulder. "You have been proclaimed powerless. And powerless… you shall remain."