There's something oddly comforting about the smell of ink and parchment—like the world's trying to convince you it can be made sense of if you just keep writing things down. My office was buried in it. Scrolls fanned out like a paper sea across my desk, blueprints rolled half-open and curling at the edges. A pot of dark ink sat dangerously close to one of the designs, and I kept having to nudge it away before my elbow turned centuries of planning into a black smear.
Brontes sat on my left, arms folded over his barrel chest, his single eye flicking between schematics with the same expression he might use to decide whether or not to smash a boulder. Prometheus sat on my right, hunched forward, elbows on knees, fingers drumming impatiently against the wood as if his mind was already ten steps ahead.
The three of us had been at this for hours.
"This," Prometheus said finally, tapping one of the more detailed drawings of a humanoid figure, "is the foundation. But it's… limited. You want a demon race that's more than muscle, yes?" His amber eyes flicked up to me.
I leaned back in my chair, fingers steepled under my chin. "Strength is essential, but strength without discipline is a weapon pointed at yourself. I want them to be intelligent. Capable of following orders but not incapable of independent thought. Loyal… but not to the point of blind obedience."
Brontes grunted. "So you want soldiers who won't stab you in the back if someone offers them a shinier helmet."
I allowed myself a small smirk. "Something like that."
Prometheus was already flipping through the next sheet—bone structure diagrams, musculature layouts. "Then you'll need a social framework. They need more than just orders to follow. Culture. Values. Purpose. Otherwise they'll devolve into infighting the moment the war ends."
That made me pause. I had been thinking of them as a tool—a necessary one for what's coming—but Prometheus was right. A tool with a mind of its own needs something to guide it beyond the battlefield.
Brontes reached over and plucked one of the scrolls off the pile, his thick fingers somehow gentle as he unrolled it. "And for that culture, they'll need a home. You can't just drop them in the Underworld and say, 'Good luck, try not to get eaten by the Furies.'"
"They would," I muttered, "and then I'd have to listen to Alecto complain about the taste for the next decade."
Prometheus' quill scratched against parchment as he made adjustments to the demon anatomy—he made a taller body that is capable of getting stronger and putting on muscle. After some deciding, he added to hearts that would increase their endurance and physical performance, as blood could be oxygenated and circulated more efficiently. However, two hearts would also require more energy and resources so Prometheus added a new organ he called the Mana Gland that would be located near the spinal cord and that would act as the primary reservoir and generator of "mana."
"Diet?" Brontes asked, leaning over.
"Carnivorous, omnivorous, or…" I trailed off, weighing the pros and cons.
"Omnivorous," Prometheus said without hesitation. "If you make them too dependent on one food source, they become vulnerable to famine or sabotage. Give them adaptability, depending on what they eat."
We argued over finer details—their lifespan, whether they would be able to reproduce naturally or be entirely lab-born, their resistance to heat and cold, their learning speed. By the time we reached the tenth scroll, my wine had started to oxidize.
Finally, we reached the second half of the discussion—the lab.
The room I imagined was simple, functional. White cobblestone floors, smooth white stone walls, and space enough to breathe, move, and create. There would be large worktables scattered throughout, each equipped with an array of tools that would only exist millennia in the future. All designs taken from my memories. Brontes gave some pointers and after a very quick conversation the final decisions were made.
I began rolling the scrolls back up, ready to oversee both projects myself—but Prometheus stopped me, one hand firm on the table.
"No," he said simply.
I raised an eyebrow. "No?"
"You're going to let me handle the demon creation. Alone."
"I'm not—"
"You've got a war breathing down your neck," Prometheus cut in, his voice low but unyielding. "You want to help? Then prepare for it. Let me do the thing I'm best at."
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the distant, low hum of the Underworld's heart—stone shifting somewhere deep beneath us. I hated the idea of stepping aside. But he was right. My time was already stretched thin. And this was more than just flesh and bone—it was life, purpose, identity. Something he could craft better than anyone else alive.
I nodded slowly. "Alright. But if something goes wrong—"
"You'll be the first to know," he promised, taking the demon blueprints under one arm and heading for the door.
"Alright, so how long will it take to complete everything?" I asked, turning my attention to Brontes.
Brontes gathered the lab plans, rolling them up with deliberate care before tucking them into a thick leather tube. "Ten hours," he said with casual confidence. "You'll have your lab before the war starts. Might even have time to use it to add some final touches to the demons before you bring them to life."
I nodded, drumming a finger on the table. "Since it seems that you two don't actually want my help, maybe I should go out and train."
Brontes smirked, leaning one elbow on the table. "Good. I was worried you were getting lazy… or worse—turning into one of those brooding types who spends all his time working instead of getting a girlfriend."
I stared at him flatly. "Really?"
He grinned wider. "I'm just saying, all this godly power and not even hints of a girlfriend? What a waste."
I picked up the nearest book and hurled it at his head. He ducked just in time, the heavy tome slamming into the wall with a thud.
Brontes laughed, already halfway out the door. "Don't worry, I'm sure there's someone out there who's tall, moody, and terrifying."
I sat back in my chair, the room suddenly too quiet. My eyes wandered over the scattered parchments, the lingering scent of ink and metal shavings still in the air. Ten hours, Prometheus had said. Ten hours before the lab was ready. Ten hours before I had to decide whether I was going to start training like a soldier or keep playing the part of a commander chained to his desk.
I leaned forward, elbows on the table, and let the thought settle in my mind.
Maybe Brontes was right.
Maybe I was getting lazy.
But if I was… that would end tonight.
🙛🙚🙛🙚🙛🙚⯡🙘🙙🙘🙙🙘🙙
The training grounds of the Underworld are never silent. Even when they appear empty, the stone remembers every strike, every scream, every collapse onto the blackened sand. The air is thick with the scent of scorched metal and old sweat, a mixture that clings to the skin like oil. I stand barefoot at the center of the arena, the volcanic floor radiating heat up into the soles of my feet, and let the weight of my bident settle in my hands.
It is heavier today. Not in mass, but in intent. Every divine weapon is alive to some degree, but mine has grown restless—perhaps it senses my own frustrations. Perhaps it mocks them.
I roll my shoulders and begin again.
A spin, the haft sliding across my palm, the lower blade dragging a line through the sand. I pivot, drive the point forward, and feel the familiar resistance of the air giving way under my will. In my mind, each move should be precise, a clean dance of motion and power—but my body refuses to obey in full. The bident's arc stutters. My left leg tenses without command. Pain lances up the muscle and into my hip. I curse and adjust, teeth bared.
"Again," I mutter to myself. Always again.
My arms are slick with sweat, my breath harsh in my throat. I slam the weapon's haft down, channeling a ripple of shadow through the ground, watching it roll outward before curling back toward me. I try to catch it, to reabsorb it without scattering its form, but the shadow slips through my fingers like smoke. The failure stings.
I plant my stance and launch into a series of overhead strikes, each one meant to flow seamlessly into the next. Halfway through, my right hand spasms, and the bident jerks sideways, nearly tearing free. I snarl, gripping it hard enough that my knuckles ache.
Every day, my power grows stronger. And every day, my own flesh feels less mine.
I force myself into the next sequence—low sweep, rising thrust, spin, shoulder feint, reverse grip slash. My lungs burn now. The ache in my spine spreads like molten lead, my muscles locking with every transition. The movements lose their elegance; they become brute strikes, hammering at the empty air.
The bident hums in my grasp, feeding off the strain, or perhaps demanding more. I know the temptation—to give in, to unleash the divinity bubbling just beneath my skin. But that's not control. That's surrender.
And control is all I have.
I drop to one knee, slamming the weapon into the ground. The impact sends a tremor rippling across the arena. Dust falls from the high basalt walls, catching in the shimmering wards that keep the heat from becoming lethal. My pulse thunders in my ears.
The spasms hit again—first my thigh, then my arm, then my jaw locking hard enough that my teeth grind. I can feel the divinity inside me clawing to get out, coiling like a beast that has grown too large for its cage. I will fight it. I force it down.
But it doesn't want to be forced.
A crack of light splits the ground beneath me—not white, but a molten gold edged with black. The air shudders. Shadows whip around me like tattered banners. My skin prickles as the transformation edges forward, unbidden. My vision fractures—one eye sees the arena as it is, the other sees the same space in a realm of pure darkness and flame.
I hear the bident's song now, deep and resonant, harmonizing with my heartbeat. The gold-and-black energy surges upward, sheathing my arms, my chest, my throat. My muscles seize, then expand, veins etched with golden fire beneath pale skin. I grit my teeth hard enough to draw blood from my tongue.
This is what I've feared—what I've chased—what I cannot yet tame.
The divinity bursts.
A shockwave rips out from me, slamming against the arena walls, rattling the wards until they flare crimson. The floor buckles, splitting into jagged lines that glow faintly before fading. My breath tears out of me in a single exhale, smoke curling from my lips.
The power recedes, but not gently. It drags at me, ripping control from my fingers as it slithers back into its cage. My body feels hollow, wrung dry, the spasms replaced by a slow, throbbing ache in every joint.
"Hades!"
Her voice cuts through the haze. I turn my head toward the entryway.
Hecate strides in, black robes trailing behind her like living shadows. Her eyes glow faintly—no spell, just her natural light. At her feet, Cerberus's pup form trots in, three heads yipping in excited greeting before stopping at the edge of the cracked floor. Even the young one can sense the tension.
"You're early," I rasp, leaning on the bident to stand fully. My voice sounds rougher than I'd like.
Her gaze sweeps over the damage, then settles on me. "You've been pushing too hard again."
I give her a flat look. "I need control."
"You need your body to survive long enough to have control," she replies, moving closer. The air around her smells faintly of ozone and something sharper. "And right now, you don't have the luxury of collapsing when war is approaching so soon."
"Why?" The word comes out sharper than intended.
She stops a few feet from me, voice low but urgent. "Because the sea is rising."
My grip on the bident tightens. "Rising?"
"Yeah," she says, her voice clipped. "The sea has pulled back from the shores—farther than it ever should—and it's climbing into a wall. A massive wall. Neptune's not holding back this time. I'd say he's about to drown all of Greece beneath the biggest tsunami this world has ever seen."
A chill runs down my spine, though the Underworld air is warm. My mind instantly cycles through possibilities—monster swarms, Primordials waking, sabotage from rival gods—but none of them matter if the wave hits. Not when the real threat is already here.
"How long do we have?" I ask.
"Hours. If that," she replies, her tone grim. "And the wave's just the opening act. Armies of sea monsters are already on the move. So far we know that there are more of those crustaceans, these species of humanoid fish, turtle and hippo's. Zeus, Hera, Hestia, and Demeter are already out there trying to hold the first line."
The thought of them facing that alone makes my grip on the bident ache.
"You'll need to breathe underwater," she adds, eyes locking on mine. "And unless you've been hiding some miraculous little trick from me…"
"I haven't."
She doesn't hesitate. From her sleeve, she produces a small glass vial no bigger than her thumb. The liquid inside swirls as if alive, shimmering like moonlight caught in a whirlpool. "Brewed it when Poseidon last visited," she says. "One drop will let you breathe underwater for five hours. Use it sparingly—unless, of course, you plan on joining Neptune's side as a permanent sea god."
The glass is cool in my palm, almost pulsing faintly with magic. "You knew I'd go."
She gives me a look—measured, steady, neither smile nor frown. "I know you."
The weight in my chest is heavy, but not unwelcome. I nod once, then glance toward the pup. Cerberus whines softly, all three heads watching me.
"Stay," I tell him. His ears droop.
Hecate turns toward the exit and I follow her, each step jarring my still-aching muscles.