ARGOS
The sea lay calm, its surface a mirror reflecting the vast expanse of the sky above, while gentle winds whispered across the waves. Perseus sat aboard the modest vessel with his newfound family—a family born not of blood but of kindness and fate.
There was Spyros, the meek and gentle fisherman who had pulled him and his mother from the godforsaken chest, cast adrift by his true father's cruel hand. Marmara, Spyros's loving wife, tended to him as if he were her own, her warmth a balm to Perseus's troubled soul. And then there was the little boy, their son, whose laughter carried over the sea, a sound that reminded Perseus of hope amid the hardships he had endured.
This fragile peace was a gift he had never thought to receive.
They paddled gently through the calm waters, casting their nets with hope yet receiving only disappointment. "The sea looks dry today, Papa," the young boy said, his eager eyes fixed on the net his father drew from the water. But as before, it came up empty, the promise of a good catch slipping further away.
"The gods do not favor us," Spyros muttered, his voice heavy with resignation. "I think it's best we go home."
"The gods do not care about us," Perseus said sharply, his frustration boiling over. He hauled his side of the net from the water and flung it onto the boat, the soaked ropes splashing against the deck. "All they care about is themselves."
"Don't speak like that, boy," Marmara chided softly, her gentle hand resting on his cheek, her voice a quiet plea for him to temper his bitterness.
Before Perseus could respond, their attention was drawn to a looming cliff that rose near the shoreline. Upon it stood a mighty statue of Zeus, carved in his divine image, towering over the sea. But the sight was anything but serene.
As they approached, Spyros and his family watched in growing disbelief. Soldiers—men of Argos—swarmed the statue, their faces twisted with rage. Chains were fastened around the great effigy as others swung massive hammers against its knees, striking blow after blow. The air was thick with curses as they proclaimed war on the gods, their voices echoing over the waves.
With a deafening crack, the statue gave way, crashing into the sea below. The waters roared as if in anger, swallowing the shattered remains of the god's likeness.
Perseus looked on in surprise, his eyes widening as the mighty statue of Zeus crumbled into the sea. The sound of splintering stone echoed in his ears, each hammer blow a defiance against the gods he had grown to resent.
The soldiers of Argos shouted curses into the wind, their voices filled with hatred. Chains rattled and hammers struck again and again, until the once-majestic likeness of his father fell with a thunderous crash, the waves swallowing the broken pieces whole.
For a moment, Perseus was silent, his breath caught in his chest. He had seen men curse the gods before, but never like this—never with such anger, such boldness. The world around him felt as if it were shifting, teetering on the edge of something far greater than rebellion.
Soon HADES the god of the underworld and darkness emerged from the depts of the sea. And with him, the Furies created to carry out the vengeance of the gods.
They were terrifying female figures with snakes for hair, blood dripping from their eyes, and wielding whips or torches.
Their appearance reflects their role as relentless avengers who inspire fear and guilt.
They appeared on Hades command and pounced on the soldiers killing them all in a swift as their cries of agony filled the Air.
Hades turns and spots the families finishing vessel with them on it the look in his eyes is one Perseus can not forget. The same his father game him when he was a baby.
He quickly tries to save his family and grab the little boy but he was too late as Hades struck the vessel apart with with black lightning tearing it in pieces. The disappears along with the Furies.
A short while later, another group of soldiers stumbled upon the wreckage of the ship. Among the splintered remains, they spotted a figure adrift—a man lying unconscious upon a board, yet still breathing. One soldier jeered, "Oh, look what fortune casts upon us!" His words, laden with mockery, were directed toward Perseus' floating form. At the captain's command, they hauled him from the waves and onto their vessel, his body limp but alive, unaware of the fate that awaited him.
Their ship soon arrived at Argos, the great city of men. Within its walls, the inner court of the king was alive with splendor. The royal arena, adorned for festivity, resounded with music, laughter, and the clinking of goblets. King Kepheus and Queen Cassiopeia hosted a grand celebration, reveling in their bold defiance of the gods. It was a feast to honor their campaign of rebellion, a proclamation of their hubris against the heavens.
Yet amidst the revelry stood Princess Andromeda, a silent figure lost in her own thoughts. A palace maid, sensing her unease, approached and asked softly, "Why so still, my lady? What troubles thee?" But Andromeda gave no reply. Her gaze wandered over the merriment, and in her heart, she bore quiet resentment toward her parents' audacious rebellion. Displeasure weighed heavily on her, though she dared not speak it aloud.
In the shadows of the arena, Perseus was brought forth by the soldiers. His weary eyes fluttered open as he beheld the sight before him—a court steeped in luxury, its people dancing, feasting, and exalting their king and queen. Hidden from view, he watched in astonishment, the spectacle a stark contrast to his recent trials.
At the height of the feast, Queen Cassiopeia rose to address the crowd. Her voice carried above the noise, commanding attention. "For how long," she began, "have we cowered in fear of the gods? How long have they trampled upon us, treating us as naught but pawns in their cruel game?" Her words sparked a roar of approval from the gathered crowd, their cheers swelling with every defiant proclamation.
Andromeda, disheartened, turned to leave the hall, but her mother's hand caught her arm and pulled her back. With a commanding gesture, Cassiopeia directed all eyes toward her daughter. "Behold Princess Andromeda!" she declared. "Our strength, our beauty, our lineage—all proof that we are more than mere mortals!" Then, turning once more to the crowd, she uttered the words that froze the hall in silence: "Are we not gods ourselves?"
The revelers, so loud before, now stood in uneasy quiet. Such words were sacrilege, a challenge to the divine order itself. Yet Cassiopeia's pride burned brighter than their fear. She stood unyielding, her gaze daring any to oppose her. Andromeda, however, lowered her eyes, her discontent veiled beneath the weight of her family's growing arrogance.
Suddenly, a suffocating darkness descended upon the grand arena, thick black smoke curling like serpents through the air. The revelry ceased, and the crowd fell deathly silent, their breaths caught in fear, for they knew what was coming. From the heart of the darkness emerged Hades, the Lord of the Underworld. Handsome yet grim, his visage bore an air of dreadful pride. An evil smile played upon his lips as he moved with slow, deliberate steps, surveying the hall as though all before him were but dust beneath his feet.
He stopped before Queen Cassiopeia, his piercing gaze locking onto hers. With an unsettling calm, he raised a hand and cradled her face, his touch as light as a whisper yet brimming with malice. She struggled to pull away, but her body betrayed her, frozen in place by his infernal power. The hall watched in horror as her youth drained from her, her flesh withering beneath his touch. In moments, she aged from woman to crone, from crone to bones, until at last, she crumbled to ash in his hands.
Chaos erupted. Panic and screams filled the air as the once-proud court scrambled for escape. Servants and nobles alike fled in terror, trampling over one another as they sought to save their lives. King Kepheus, their supposed leader, was lost in the chaos, his voice drowned out by the cacophony. Hades, unbothered by the commotion, raised a hand, and with a mere thought, the massive doors slammed shut. Windows sealed, and every airway was choked, trapping all within the hall.
In the midst of the bedlam, Perseus, though weakened, lunged for a spear. With all his might, he hurled it at the god of death. But the weapon disintegrated mid-flight, reduced to nothing before it could reach its mark. A swirling force of black smoke surged forth, slamming Perseus and the soldiers around him against the cold stone walls.
Hades strode toward Princess Andromeda, her terror evident though she stood rooted in place. Gently, he took her face in his hands, as he had her mother's, and the crowd watched, paralyzed, certain she would share the same grim fate. Yet, after a long moment, he released her untouched, stepping back with a cruel smile. Turning to the trembling masses, his voice rang clear and terrible, silencing the hall.
"Three years" he declared, his words like a death knell. "Three years, and if the princess is not offered as a sacrifice, I shall bring my child before you. Then you shall all answer to the Kraken." His pronouncement echoed in the terrified silence, sealing the doom of Argos.
At last, Hades turned his attention to Perseus, who struggled to rise despite the crushing force of the smoke. The god approached, looming over him, and with a mocking smirk, he spoke: "Son of Zeus," his voice dripped with disdain, "so you live after all." Perseus, furious yet powerless, screamed his defiance but could not move. Summoning all his will, he staggered to his feet and grasped a sword. Yet, before he could strike, Hades vanished into the darkness, leaving only his chilling promise behind...