The battlefield stretched before us, a vast expanse of churned earth and windswept plains, soon to be stained with the blood of gods and warriors alike. The walls of darkness I had erected around Greece flickered, the barrier beginning to wane as the final moments of uneasy silence stretched taut. A storm of war loomed on the horizon, thick with the weight of divine power and ancient rivalries.
I sat astride Alastor, my monstrous steed, his black coat gleaming beneath the dull, overcast sky. His white mane and tail flickered in the wind like ghosts of the past, his steel-clad hooves stamping against the ground with a slow, methodical rhythm. His Necro-steel armor, laced with poly-mythril gold accents, caught the dim light, a haunting reflection of the storm within me. At my hip, Caliburn rested—a black blade of adamantine and Necro-steel, thirsting for war as if it had been forged for this very moment.
Across the battlefield, a sea of warriors stirred, their banners whipping in the wind. The Norse had arrived in full force—great berserkers draped in furs and iron, their weapons crafted from star-forged metal, their faces painted in war markings of deep crimson and black. Their gods stood at the vanguard, watching, waiting.
Odin sat atop a steed as pale as bone, his single eye boring into me like a spear. The Allfather wore dark leather and iron, his ravens perched upon his shoulders, whispering secrets of fate into his ear. To his right, Thor stood like a storm given flesh, his hammer Mjölnir crackling with latent energy, his red cape billowing behind him. Tyr, the one-handed god of war, clutched his sword, his stance poised and measured, the aura of an unshakable warrior. And there was Freyja, golden-haired and clad in chainmail finer than any mortal smith could dream of, her falcon cloak shimmering, her eyes burning with battle-lust.
To their left, the Celts stood in eerie formation—warriors adorned in emerald and gold, their faces covered in blue woad, their eyes filled with ancient magic. Morrígan, the phantom queen, stood at the front, her form shifting between raven and goddess, her spectral wings stretching wide. Lugh, the many-skilled, gripped his long spear, radiating the energy of a king and warrior. Their forces were different from the Norse; they moved like whispers through the wind, spectral hounds prowling between them, druids whispering incantations as their staff glowed with emerald runes.
Behind them, towering over all, the Jötnar had come. One thousand giants, their bodies hewn from the elements themselves. Frost giants, their skin as pale as glaciers, their breath turning the air to ice. Fire giants, their flesh ember-red, their hair wreathed in smoke, their weapons searing with molten rage. Mountain giants, massive and unyielding, their bodies the very stone and earth, their eyes glowing like buried gems. Six colossal figures stood at the forefront, the generals of this monstrous force—each radiating power ancient and terrible.
A war horn sounded, deep and guttural, its reverberations shaking the earth beneath us. The Norseman who had blown it stood upon a jagged peak at the border, his call to war echoing across the land.
I exhaled sharply.
"So it begins," I murmured.
The Olympians stood at my back, their divine weapons gleaming under the dying light. Poseidon and Triton had already descended into the depths, where the Norse and Celtic sea gods awaited them—battles already raging beneath the waves. On land, the gods of Olympus stood ready. Hera, draped in regal armor, her golden spear in hand, her expression carved from steel. Aeolus, his thunderbolt crackling between his fingers, the air around him shifting with electric tension. Demeter, her scythe gleaming, her stance firm and unyielding.
Athena, her lance spear poised, her gaze sharp as a blade. Ares, the god of war, shifting his grip on his massive greatsword, his dreadlocks swaying, the red streak in his hair a symbol of his ferocity. Hephaestus, his war hammer resting heavily in his grip, his metal arm flexing with anticipation. Zagreus, twin-colored eyes blazing, his zweihander resting against his shoulder, his form humming with the power of the Underworld.
Melinoë, her twin daggers glinting with an eerie light, shadows writhing at her fingertips. Artemis and Abellona, their bows drawn, arrows knocked, divine focus sharpening their presence. Kore, her form exuding a quiet, ominous power, her expression unreadable.
I straightened in the saddle, my voice carrying across the battlefield like a phantom wind.
"Warriors of Olympus, of the Underworld—hear me. Today, we do not fight for glory. We do not fight for conquest. We fight for our land, for our people, for the very soul of Greece!" My voice thundered through the ranks, the shadows at my feet stretching outward with my power. "The Norse and Celts would see our home razed, our legacy torn asunder. The Jötnar would see our temples crumble, our history turned to dust. But I tell you this—we are Olympus! We are eternal! And we will not fall!"
A roar erupted from our ranks, weapons raised, divine light bursting into the sky like a storm of celestial fury.
I drew Caliburn from its sheath, the black blade humming with energy, eager for blood. "We march to war!"
Another war horn sounded, but this time it was ours. The battle cry of the gods of Olympus, a sound that had not been heard in millennia. It shook the heavens. It shook the earth. And then, like a tide, we surged forward.
On the other side, Odin raised his spear, and his army charged. The Norse warriors howled their battle cries, the Celts whispered their war hymns, the giants roared as they stormed forward like living mountains.
And then the clash came. Steel met steel. Fire met frost. Magic met divinity. The earth trembled, the skies cracked with fury, and war began in full.
<----------------------->
The battlefield roared with chaos, the air thick with the scent of blood, sweat, and divine power clashing in an unforgiving storm. My grip tightened on Caliburn's hilt as Alastor's hooves pounded against the earth, cutting through the tides of war like a specter of death. My blade flashed, severing an unlucky Norse warrior's head clean from his shoulders. The body crumpled before being trampled by my horse's ironclad hooves.
I barely had time to register the kill before another enemy lunged. A burly Norse god, clad in chainmail reinforced with thick pelts, came swinging a massive war axe toward me. I parried effortlessly, twisting my wrist to deflect his blow, then drove Caliburn into his chest. The blade carved through metal and flesh alike, and I wrenched it free, sending a spray of gold into the dirt.
A primal war cry erupted to my left. I turned just in time to see a behemoth of a man barreling toward me, wielding a great hammer that crackled with raw lightning. His braided red beard was slick with sweat, his eyes alight with fury. The rune-inscribed hammer came crashing down, forcing me to leap off Alastor before the strike sent a shockwave that split the ground in two.
"Finally," the Norse brute growled in his native tongue, rolling his shoulders. "A worthy opponent."
He lunged again, bringing his hammer in a wide arc. I dodged, shadows clinging to my form as I danced around his attacks. With a flick of my wrist, a pillar of dark fire erupted beneath him, the flames licking hungrily at his armor. He snarled but did not falter. Instead, he slammed his hammer to the ground, dispersing the inferno with an explosion of energy.
"You'll have to do better than that, Greek."
I smirked. "Gladly."
Caliburn clashed against his hammer, sparks flying as divine power met raw might. His swings were relentless, brutal, each carrying enough force to shatter mountains. I twisted and weaved between his blows, shadows coiling around my form like living armor. I willed my primordial flames to ignite along my blade, the blue and purple fire roaring to life.
His eyes widened. "What—?"
I didn't give him a chance to finish. My sword slashed across his chest, the flames consuming him instantly. He roared in agony as the fire ate through his armor, his flesh turning to ash before my eyes. I delivered the final strike—a downward cleave that split him in two.
Before I could catch my breath, another wave of warriors descended upon me—Norse gods and Celtic champions alike. They came at me in a frenzied assault, striking from all sides. I parried, dodged, countered—each movement precise, each kill effortless. My shadows writhed around me, tendrils of darkness impaling my enemies, while my flames reduced others to cinders.
Amidst the carnage, I caught glimpses of my family and they were doing quite well.
Ares, his great sword drenched in the blood of his foes, roared as he carved through waves of warriors. His dreadlocks whipped through the air as he clashed against a massive Jotnar, the giant's club barely missing him as Ares retaliated with a vicious slash.
Artemis and Abellona rained death from above, their arrows piercing through the thickest armor, their shots precise and unyielding.
Hera and Athena fought side by side, their spears striking like vipers, their battle cries ringing through the chaos.
Yet, for every enemy we felled, two more took their place. The Jotnar were relentless. Towering monstrosities with dragon-like feet, they moved with shocking speed and coordination. At their helm were the six generals, each more fearsome than the last.
The first was called Hrodrek. the giant known as the Monarch of Mountains– A hulking giant clad in obsidian armor, his fists alone capable of leveling cities. He had brown dragon legs and scales coated parts of his body as he
Sigvaldi was the Monarch of Frost and had ice that clung to his form, his breath a freezing mist as he wielded a colossal sword forged from eternal ice.
Gundar the Monarch of the Infernal had a mane of flaming hair that fell like lava. His dragonic legs seemed to be made of magma and stone, burning and melting the land as he walked. While Yrsa the Monarch of Beasts had a more wolf-man look to him. His dragonic legs and arms covered in fur with sharp bone claws. He ran through the battlefield like some beast.
Ragnvald and Vigdis were the last two of the Monarchs, the Giant generals. I did not know what they were the Monarchs of but from what I saw Ragnvald seemed to control blood and Vigdis controlled insects.
As I stared at the war happening around me, my gaze fell upon her.
A woman, standing amidst the madness with an eerie, almost unnatural grace. She did not wear the heavy furs or chainmail of the Norse warriors, nor the crude iron of the Jotnar. No, her armor was unlike anything else on this field—a gothic masterpiece, deep black metal etched with swirling crimson runes, curling patterns that pulsed with an ominous glow. A cloak of black feathers billowed behind her, the fabric kissed by shadows, as if the night itself clung to her form.
Her skin was pale, almost luminous under the moon's cold light, a stark contrast to the battlefield smeared in gore. Her dark hair, wild and wavy, cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face both beautiful and terrifying—sharp cheekbones, dark kohl-lined eyes that burned like embers, lips curled into a knowing smirk. In her hands, she twirled a slender, rune-carved sword with the ease of a master duelist, toying with a minor god who barely managed to hold his ground.
I pulled Ascalon to a halt, watching her as she sidestepped a clumsy swing, her blade flashing as she cut the god down in a single elegant motion. The moment he crumpled to the dirt, she flicked the inchor from her sword, her eyes finally meeting mine. A slow smile spread across her lips.
Curious.
I swung off Ascalon and landed in a smooth stride, drawing Caliburn from my side, the weight of my divine sword settling comfortably in my grip. The ground around us trembled as my flames licked at the battlefield, casting flickering shadows between us.
She tilted her head, watching me with amused interest.
"So," she mused, her voice as smooth as silk yet laced with danger, "the infamous Hades graces me with his presence. A pleasure."
"I'd say the same, but I do apologise that I do not know who you are," I replied, my tone even, watching her every movement.
She chuckled, a dark, melodic sound. "I am Morrigan, goddess of fate, war, death, and witchcraft. And you, I know well. Hades, King of the Underworld and Abyss, god of many things—though I imagine even you struggle to keep track."
I smirked. "You know me well."
"I make it a point to know my enemies."
"Then tell me, Morrigan," I said, stepping closer, Caliburn glinting in the firelight, "why do the Celts fight alongside the Norse? This war is theirs, not yours."
Her expression darkened slightly, but the smirk never left her lips. "You assume we had a choice."
Before I could press further, she moved.
Fast.
Her sword slashed through the air, and I barely had time to parry, the force of her strike sending a sharp vibration up my arm. She was strong, far stronger than her lithe frame suggested. I pushed back, twisting Caliburn to lock her blade, but she spun away like a shadow slipping through my fingers, her cloak of feathers fluttering behind her.
I followed, striking low, aiming for her ribs. She flicked her wrist, deflecting the blow with a precision that spoke of centuries of battle. Her footwork was impeccable, her movements fluid, almost like a dance. She was playing with me, testing me.
And I was more than willing to entertain her.
I surged forward, feinting a strike at her shoulder before twisting my blade downward. She evaded, barely, the tip of my sword slicing a strand of her dark hair. She retaliated instantly, summoning a wave of black mist, spectral hands clawing at me from the shadows. I countered with a pulse of my primordial flames, the blue and purple inferno consuming the wraiths as I lunged, our swords clashing in a shower of sparks.
"You fight well," I admitted, locking blades with her again.
She smirked, pushing back. "I'd hope so. War is my domain."
"And yet, you fight for another's cause."
Her eyes flickered, something unreadable passing through them. But instead of answering, she whispered something under her breath, and the ground beneath me trembled. Bones erupted from the earth, skeletal warriors clawing their way to the surface, their hollow eyes burning with green fire.
Necromancy.
I grinned. "Cute."
With a flick of my wrist, shadows coiled around my body, tendrils of abyssal darkness swallowing the undead whole. They screeched before disintegrating, their remnants scattering in the wind.
Morrigan sighed. "A shame. They were fond of you."
I exhaled, flexing my fingers. "You haven't answered my question."
She hesitated for just a moment—just enough to confirm that something was amiss.
"You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
She exhaled sharply. "Odin binds us. We are not allies by choice but by force."
A slow, burning anger coiled in my chest. Odin. The All-Father, ever the manipulator.
"You have nothing to gain from this war," I pressed, stepping forward. "Fight for me instead. I can unmake whatever chains bind you."
Her expression flickered—doubt, curiosity, something else—but then, just as quickly, it was gone. Her smirk returned, but it was hollow now, forced.
"You waste your breath, King of the Underworld." Her grip on her sword tightened. "Fate has already spoken."
And with that, she attacked once more.