Persephone took Hades' hand and sealed her fate. She was no longer just the daughter of Demeter, the goddess of spring and renewal. She was now the Queen of the Underworld, ruler of a realm that had only ever known death.
In that moment, the Underworld changed.
The dark, lifeless halls of Hades trembled as her divinity sank into the very bones of the realm. For the first time, life took root in the land of the dead.
The River Styx, once a dark and cursed current, now shimmered with silver light, reflecting the first stirrings of vitality in this forsaken world.
Where there had once been barren fields, twisted trees of ghostly white sprouted, their leaves whispering in voices only the dead could hear.
The air, once cold and still, carried a presence unlike before—a breath of renewal in a place that had never known it.
The dead no longer wandered in endless despair. They felt the change. The Underworld had not rejected them, nor had it cast them into eternal suffering. It had embraced them.
Hades looked upon his new queen with something more than admiration—awe.
The Underworld was no longer merely a place of endings. It had become a place of transition.
Far above, in the lands of the living, Demeter felt it.
A cold emptiness filled her soul the moment Persephone bound herself to the Underworld.
Her daughter was gone.
She searched desperately, calling out to the winds, to the trees, to the rivers. But no answer came. Persephone was nowhere.
Then, Demeter felt something far worse—she felt the unraveling of Spring.
Her power, once tied to the renewal of life, began to fade. The vibrant flowers she had once blessed wilted, their colors drained. The golden fields of wheat, which had always flourished under her care, turned to dust.
The cycle of the world was breaking.
Demeter's grief twisted into something new—rage.
If the world would not return her daughter, then let it suffer her pain.
And so, with her sorrow and fury, she created something that had never existed before.
Winter.
The land froze beneath her anger. The once-warm winds turned sharp and merciless. Snow fell for the first time in history, blanketing the earth in a silent, white shroud. Rivers froze, trees stood bare, and the warmth of life faded into memory.
This was her punishment upon the world—a world that had stolen her daughter.
And so, Winter was born, and for the first time, mortals trembled before the power of the gods.
But nature could not remain in an eternal freeze.
There had to be balance.
And so, from the blazing will of Apollo, Summer was born.
With the loss of Helios, the world's light had become unstable. The sun burned too dim in the presence of Winter's fury. The earth would perish if nothing was done.
Apollo stepped forward.
He sacrificed his own divine concept of light, binding it into the very heart of the sun. No longer was the sun merely a celestial body—it became a source of divine power.
Now Apolo use the the sun and make it burned hotter than before, stronger, brighter. The ice that gripped the world melted, and the days grew longer and warmer.
Thus, Summer came into being, a time of intense heat, passion, and power.
Where Winter had been cruel and merciless, Summer was bold and unrelenting. It was the counterbalance, the force that ensured life would never be fully lost to the cold.
But still, something was missing.
There needed to be a time of rest, a period where the world prepared for the cycle to begin again.
Long before these events, Atlas had been cursed to carry the heavens upon his shoulders. It was more than just a physical burden—it was the weight of the cosmos itself.
His suffering, his struggle, his eternal labor—it all shaped something unseen, something inevitable.
From his burden, Autumn was born.
For just as Atlas must bear the skies, so too must the world prepare for the trials to come.
Autumn was neither cruel nor kind. It was the time of change, of preparation. The trees shed their leaves, returning their strength to the earth. The world slowed, readying itself for the hardships of Winter and the renewal of Spring.
Where Summer burned with passion, Autumn was patience. Where Winter brought death, Autumn was acceptance.
And so, the final piece of the cycle fell into place.
From the choices of gods and titans, the world's natural order was set.
Spring, once ruled by Persephone, now lost.
Summer, born from Apollo's command to melt winter.
Autumn, shaped by Atlas' burden.
Winter, forged from Demeter's sorrow.
These four forces would now dictate the passage of time. No single god, no single will, could control the world alone.
Even the Olympians had to abide by the cycle.
The seasons would rise and fall, just as the gods did.
And deep in the Underworld, Persephone stood beside Hades, no longer just the goddess of spring
She was the queen of the Underworld.