Hades plunged downward through the pitch-black void, his frail body tossed and battered as it struck the slick, mucus-covered flesh of Cronus's insides. The walls around him pulsed with sickening heat and the suffocating stench of decay.
Each impact against the Titan's inner body left searing pain across his skin, but worse was yet to come.
After what felt like an eternity of falling, he crashed into a churning lake of acidic fire—an otherworldly river that burned like molten lava, designed to erase anything that dared survive within the god-devouring prison.
The moment his body touched the surface, agony consumed him. Hades let out a raw, piercing scream as his skin blistered and his flesh melted, layer by layer. But death did not come.
Gods were not like mortals. They possessed immense strength, unfathomable healing, sharp memory, and unnatural growth.
His godly essence pulsed in defiance, forcing regeneration again and again. With every cycle of torment, his flesh melted and reformed.
Time passed, each moment carved into his soul by pain. Over the course of two years, he began to touch the unknown power of a god.
His divine energy, wild and unstable, slowly began to obey him. At first, it flickered like a dying flame. Then, driven by instinct, it surged outward, forming a protective layer around his body.
The acid still burned, but with less fury. It no longer melted him to the bone, only scorched him. The pain became bearable.
Within Cronus's living prison, Hades's body adapted at a supernatural pace. His form, once that of a helpless infant, now resembled a boy of twelve—tall, lean, and shaped by struggle. His black wings, though charred, had grown larger and stronger, and his eyes now burned with a fierce violet glow.
He began to explore the grotesque prison that had become his world. The acidic river hissed beneath him as he dove in, his body protected by a faint layer of divine energy.
He swam for what felt like hours, perhaps even a full day, the darkness thick and oppressive.
He found nothing—only the sound of his own movements and the constant throb of Cronus's living flesh.
He searched for something, anything, that hinted at an edge, a boundary, a way out.
Then—
A faint glimmer of light.
His eyes widened.
Light in this cursed place?
He pushed forward, swimming harder, driven by hope.
The glow grew stronger, warmer, until finally he emerged from the acidic river and pulled himself onto a ledge of fleshy rock, slick but solid.
There, nestled within a small, unnatural cave carved into the wall of Cronus's stomach, stood a girl.
She looked no older than a high schooler—beautiful, almost ethereal—with long, flowing blonde hair and eyes the color of new spring leaves.
A simple white cloth wrapped around her body, glowing faintly in the dark. In her delicate hands, she held a small lamp, its golden flame radiating not just light, but warmth. True warmth—the kind that made Hades feel safe, as if he were home.
She stood calmly, the only steady presence in a world of chaos, and as Hades approached, soaked and silent, the lamp's flame flickered as if in welcome.
Who was this girl?
And why, in the very pit of a Titan's monstrous body, did her light feel so familiar?
———————— Hestia POV ——————————
Hestia still remembered the warmth of that morning—the soft breeze brushing through the sacred garden of the temple, and the way sunlight danced across the blossoms. She had been playing there, carefree and smiling, when her father, Cronus, entered with Prometheus trailing behind him. Their faces had been dark and solemn, burdened by something heavy and unspoken.
As custom demanded, she had knelt and greeted them with reverence.
"Father. Uncle."
But before she could even rise, without a word, without warning, he seized her.
His hand had closed around her like an iron trap, and before she could scream or plead, his mouth opened wide and swallowed her whole. Just like that, the world turned dark and twisted, and she fell—fell endlessly—until she crashed into a lake of burning acid that seared her skin and tore her clothes apart. The pain was immediate and unbearable. She screamed, her voice lost in the churning roar.
She called upon her divine flame, forming a protective shell around her body to shield herself from the acid. Still, it was not strong enough to stop it completely.
With every pulse of agony, she forced herself to move, swimming blindly through the molten filth, searching for a surface, a wall—anything.
When she finally reached the inner flesh, she realized how steep and smooth it was, impossible to climb. With no other choice, she summoned her power again and carved a small cave into the wall with divine fire, creating a fragile shelter amid the horrors.
There, she remained—resting, healing, and questioning. Why? What crime had she committed to deserve this? She was his daughter. She had done no wrong. In that lonely place, she wept for her mother, for the warmth of their home, and for the skies she feared she would never see again.
Years passed in that haunting silence.
Then, one day, a splash echoed through the darkness.
A scream followed—raw, alive, and filled with suffering she recognized all too well. Her heart pounded. In that cruel place, where no other soul had stirred for so long, who could it be?
Then she saw him emerge from the acid like a wounded bird—a boy. Wings of black metal shimmered behind him, and a dark haze clung to his body like a curse. She trembled… but then she felt something else.
Something deeper than fear. Something familiar.
She was Hestia, goddess of home and bonds. She knew kin when she sensed it. And this child—this boy—she recognized him not by face, but by the bond they shared.
Her brother.
His eyes met hers, wide with confusion, as if asking everything without a single word.
Who are you?
Why are you here?
What is this place?
And she, holding the small lamp of divine warmth in her hands, smiled for the first time in years.
Finally, she was not alone anymore in that grotesque place.