Darkness clung to my senses, thick and suffocating, like a shroud of death. My body felt heavy, weighed down by fatigue I had never known before. My mind drifted in an ocean of silence, yet deep in the recesses of my consciousness, there was a hollow, gnawing ache.
Then, breath. A slow, ragged inhale. My lungs burned as if I had been holding it all in for centuries.
I opened my eyes.
Familiar shadows stretched across the obsidian walls of my bedchambers. The Underworld. I was home.
Pain laced through me as I pushed myself up, my limbs sluggish, my body protesting every movement. My fingers flexed, curling into the black silk sheets, feeling the cool fabric against my skin. Power, faint but returning, pulsed through my veins. My divinity had not abandoned me. Not yet.
A dull ache coiled in my chest, and when I looked down, I saw the bandages wrapped tightly across my torso. Tearing them away, I summoned a mirror. The moment I saw my reflection, I wished I hadn't.
Four jagged, raw scars marred my back—ghostly reminders of what I had lost. My wings… ripped from me, torn as if I were nothing but prey. I reached out, fingertips grazing the ruined flesh. The memory of Odin's grip, the sickening tear, the agony—it all crashed down upon me in a violent wave.
And then, the deeper pain struck.
Hecate was gone.
I swallowed hard, forcing down the grief that threatened to consume me. There was no time to mourn. Not yet.
A sudden crash snapped me out of my trance. My head whipped toward the sound, muscles tensing despite the soreness.
Hestia stood in the doorway, her eyes wide, hands trembling over a shattered goblet on the marble floor.
"You're awake," she whispered, her voice breaking. Then, before I could utter a word, she rushed forward and threw her arms around me.
Warmth. Comfort. The scent of burning hearths and home clung to her, wrapping around me like a distant memory.
"I thought—" Her breath hitched as she buried her face into my shoulder. "I thought we lost you."
I let out a slow exhale, pressing a hand against her back. "It'll take more than that to kill me."
She pulled back slightly, her tear-streaked face searching mine, as if reassuring herself that I was truly here. But then her gaze fell to my back, to the scars, and fresh sorrow filled her eyes.
"Oh, Hades…" she whispered.
I clenched my jaw and turned away, unwilling to acknowledge it. Instead, I asked the question clawing at my mind.
"How long?"
Hestia hesitated. Then, finally, she answered. "Twenty years."
I went still. My grip tightened against the sheets. Twenty years.
"What of the war?" I asked, my voice colder than I intended.
Hestia lowered her gaze. "We are still fighting," she admitted. "Half our lands have fallen to the Norse."
A slow, simmering rage coiled within me, burning beneath my skin. "And Odin?"
She hesitated again. Then, reluctantly, she said, "He is still in battle with Zeus."
I turned sharply to her, eyes narrowing. "Zeus?"
Hestia nodded. "Yes, he had came and saved you. He and his army of Angels has been keeping the Norse back. He said that when you wake up to tell you to get your ass back into the battle. He has slaughtered over five hundred Jotnar.. Oh I think that he is going by the name Yaweh now? Says that he is not Zeus anymore, didn't understand what he meant by that."
I couldn't help but snort at that message. "Yeah, that sounds like Zeus all right. And my armor?"
Hestia's expression darkened. "Destroyed."
I clenched my fist. "Caliburn?"
She hesitated before shaking her head. "Taken. Odin has it as a trophy."
A growl rumbled deep in my throat. That bastard had taken my sword. My fingers twitched, my power humming as it began to stir, responding to the anger curling within me.
Hestia saw it. "Hades—"
"I need to go back."
Her eyes widened in alarm. "You're not ready—"
"I don't care."
"Hades." Her voice turned sharp, a rare forcefulness breaking through her usually gentle demeanor. "You were nearly killed. Your body—"
"I said I don't care."
Silence stretched between us, thick with tension. Then, softer, I added, "I cannot stay here while our people fight. While Odin sits on his stolen throne with my blade in his hands."
Hestia's shoulders slumped, defeat flickering in her eyes. She knew there was no stopping me.
"…At least let me heal you more," she muttered.
I gave her a small, rare smile. "I heal fast enough."
She scoffed but said nothing more.
I pushed myself to my feet, ignoring the stiffness that lingered. With a flick of my hand, a robe materialized over my shoulders, the familiar weight grounding me. I tied my hair back, pushing past the ache in my limbs.
Hestia watched me, worry evident in her eyes. "Please… be careful."
I turned to her, my expression unreadable. "Thank you… for watching over me."
Her lips trembled, and she nodded.
Then, with one final glance at my shattered reflection in the mirror, I vanished into the shadows, returning to the battlefield that had stolen twenty years of my life.
I stepped from the veil of shadows, the weight of my divinity settling onto my shoulders once more. The air was thick with the stench of inchor and ozone, remnants of lightning strikes searing through the shattered earth. Corpses of Jotnar and angels alike lay strewn across the ruined land, their weapons discarded, their souls either fleeing or being devoured by the abyss that battle always left in its wake.
My gaze swept across the chaos. The war had not ended in my absence. If anything, it had grown worse.
In the distance, my family fought on. Hera and Demeter wielded divine fire and earth, splitting through enemy ranks like scythes through wheat. Zagreus and Melinoë danced between the fallen, reaping souls and commanding the dead to rise again. Artemis loosed arrows that shimmered like moonlight, each shot finding its mark as she cut down waves of Norse warriors. And Abellona, flew through the norse ranks
Above them, the heavens howled and split with divine fury as I gazed upward, witnessing the clash between Zeus and Odin
Zeus descended like divine wrath incarnate, cloaked in robes of radiant white, gilded with armor forged from starlight and adorned with countless eyes and golden wings. His halo blazed with unquenchable fire, and from his hands surged holy lightning—pure, searing, absolute. His long golden hair lashed in the stormwinds, and behind it, small seraphic wings shielded his eyes, trembling with every judgment unleashed. He was power made manifest, a god not of mercy but of mandates—unyielding, omnipotent, terrible.
And then there was Odin.
The All-Father, the one-eyed seer-king, moved through the chaos like shadow and flame. He vanished in bursts of runes and reappeared with thunder in his wake, twisting his form into beasts of legend and horrors long forgotten. Each movement was a prophecy fulfilled, each incantation a curse inscribed into the bones of the world. Storms danced to his will, and his spear—Gungnir—struck with the cold finality of destiny. He was not merely fighting; he was unraveling the cosmos with each word and swing, a symphony of ancient magic and savage cunning.
Despite it all, my brother held his ground.
I stepped forward, shadows curling like smoke at my feet, the air thick with inchor and fire. Around me, the cries of the dying mingled with the clash of steel and the rumble of distant thunder. My gaze landed on a blade half-buried beneath the corpse of a slain giant. Black steel, chipped and worn, with faint red cracks running through it.
With a grunt, I pulled the sword from the earth—half-buried beneath a charred corpse, forgotten in the chaos. Black steel, chipped along the edge, red fissures glowing faintly like dying embers. Mourngrip thing. Heavy. I gave it a lazy swing.
"Guess you'll do, Mourngrip."
No divine call. No soul-bound radiance. Just a worn weapon—borrowed strength. I couldn't reach Caliburn. Couldn't feel it. Like someone had thrown a damn wall over it. And right now? I didn't have the energy to care.
So I took Mourngrip, and I kept moving.
The battlefield was madness—flames crackled along the broken earth, corpses littered the ground, and the screams of dying gods echoed like bad memories. I barely flinched as a blade slashed toward me from the left. The attacker fell in pieces before I even registered the swing. Shadows still clung to me like an old cloak, swallowing what they pleased. And the dead... well, they followed me without being asked.
A war like this was never supposed to happen. But then again, nothing ever really goes to plan.
I stepped through fire and silence, just trying to make it through the noise—and that's when I saw him.
Thor.
The storm himself.
He dropped from the sky like a meteor, lightning trailing behind him in jagged streaks. Mjölnir smashed into the ground, sending shockwaves in every direction. The sky split open with thunder, and the clouds bled light. Every god still standing turned to look—because when Thor arrives, it's not subtle.
He rose from the crater, steam curling off his armor. Red cape shredded. Beard stained with soot and inchor. His hammer crackled with rage, arcs of lightning dancing up his arm and into the sky above like it was feeding off the very heavens.
"Hades," he called, voice low, hoarse, but louder than the storm.
I exhaled slowly, knuckles white around Mourngrip's hilt. "...Thor."
"You still breathe," he said, tilting his head. "Good. I was hoping for a real fight."
I gave a halfhearted shrug. "I was hoping to avoid one."
Thor's laugh was like rolling thunder. "That's not how this ends."
And then he vanished.
He moved with lightning—one moment standing across the field, the next, he was in front of me, Mjölnir crashing down from the heavens. I barely managed to raise Mourngrip in time. The impact rattled my bones, cracked the earth beneath us, sent a tidal wave of dirt and fire flying.
I stumbled, but I didn't fall. Thor didn't let up.
Mjölnir blurred through the air—every swing an explosion. Pillars of lightning rained down with each strike, each step. His body pulsed with divine energy, muscles flexing like mountains shifting. When he roared, it wasn't rage—it was power given form.
I ducked a blow that would've cracked a mountain and rolled to the side, shadows erupting around me, trying to strangle the storm. He burst through them, eyes glowing white with fury, hammer spinning—teleporting again—he reappeared behind me, electricity crawling across my back as he struck.
I screamed, shadows flaring, and retaliated. Mourngrip wasn't divine, but I was. And I still had tricks.
The dead rose at my command, twisted spirits of fallen gods dragging themselves from the muck. They hurled themselves at Thor—dozens at once. He swatted them aside like smoke. Mjölnir lit up like a sun and unleashed a wave of pure lightning, vaporizing the front line of the dead with a single spin.
Still, I pressed forward.
I called to the depths—the wealth of the underworld—and the earth answered. Spires of black crystal erupted beneath him, slicing through the storm. He dodged, but I caught him in the ribs with a blast of primordial flame, blue and purple fire licking at his skin.
He growled, not in pain—but annoyance. He slammed Mjölnir into the ground, and from that point, a storm quake erupted—lightning and shockwaves rolling outward in concentric rings.
My legs gave out. I dropped to a knee, breath ragged.
"Getting tired?" he asked, stepping through the smoke.
I wiped the inchor from my mouth and forced myself up. "You have no idea."
He lunged again.
This time I moved with him, blade flashing. We traded blows—one god with the storm in his veins, the other dragging death at his heels. Every swing of Mjölnir felt like a thunderclap tearing reality. Every slash of Mourngrip came with a quiet finality, cutting through time itself.
He knocked me back with a punch that shattered ribs. I hit the ground and didn't move.
Just laid there. Staring at the gray sky. Rain starting to fall.
"…You done?" I asked.
He stood over me, hammer raised. But he didn't strike.
The rain turned to a downpour.
"I'm tired, Thor," I muttered, forcing myself up, slowly. "Tired of gods who think war's the only language worth speaking. Tired of fighting battles that should've ended centuries ago."
Thor stared at me, breathing hard. He lowered Mjölnir, if only slightly.
I didn't lift Mourngrip.
"Come on," I said. "Let's end it. One final swing. You win—you get to keep playing king of the ashes. I win... I get some damn quiet."
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he exhaled.
"…No."
I blinked. "What?"
Thor let Mjölnir fall to his side. The lightning stopped.
"I surrender."
The words didn't register.
"You what?"
"I said—I yield." His eyes met mine, stormlight dimming. "This war isn't worth it. Not anymore."
I didn't speak. Couldn't.
"I won't be the hammer that buries the world," Thor said. "You want peace, Hades? Then take it. Just… leave the rest of them out of this."
The rain soaked us both. The battlefield was quiet now.
Even the dead seemed confused.
"…Fine."