I never imagined a mountain could make me feel something close to reverence.
Not in the sacred sense—gods weren't exactly the type to kneel. But as I stood atop the jagged ridge of what Phoebe insisted we name Mount Olympus, watching clouds coil around the peak like silver serpents, I couldn't help but feel a strange sort of… gravity. Not just physical. Something older. Deeper.
A place worthy of gods.
The air was sharp up here—thin, cold, but rich with Divinity. I could taste it like charged metal on my tongue. And far below, the world unfurled in all directions: endless forests, rivers like veins across the earth, thunderheads drifting lazily in the east.
"It'll work," I muttered to myself.
"Damn right it will," Brontes said beside me, his massive arms folded, his single eye squinting against the sun. "Hardest rock I've ever touched. The mountain's practically begging to be carved."
Behind us, the others had already begun.
Phoebe and her scouting party—Helios, Selene, Eurybia, Astraeus, and that odd clutch of younger Titans—had done their job. They'd brought us to a fortress waiting to happen. All that was left now… was everything.
The six of us—my siblings and I—stood on a high ledge as the first slabs of black stone were hauled up the slopes. We weren't lording over the work like kings. No. This was war. And war demanded preparation. Foundations. Structure. Strength.
We had a castle to build. A home. A symbol.
Olympus.
Poseidon dragged a boulder half his size to the edge of the future courtyard and slammed it down with a grunt. "Where's this one going?"
"To the southeast wall," I called back. "We're fortifying it first."
He groaned but obeyed.
Hestia knelt beside a hearth pit she'd drawn into the dirt with divine fire, sketching designs for the great hall's central flame chamber. Hera and Demeter were working with the Hecatoncheires to raise the columns of what would become the Hall of Counsel—a circular open-air chamber ringed with statues and sigil-etched pillars.
And the Hecatoncheires… gods above, they were something else entirely.
Watching Briareus sprout four arms like budding branches while holding an entire slab of obsidian above his head? Terrifying. And beautiful. Gyges had already grown twelve arms and was carrying support beams like they were driftwood. Cottus swung from scaffolding like a spider, shouting orders in a surprisingly elegant accent.
"Hey Hades," Brontes said, elbowing me lightly. "You should sprout extra arms like that. Might finally make you useful."
I rolled my eyes. "Please. I command shadows, not grow spare limbs."
"That's so?" he said, smirking. "Then maybe command one of your shadows to bring me another water cask, eh?"
I raised a brow. "Do I look like a servant?"
He just laughed, deep and rumbling, and trudged off to help Steropes level the foundation stones for the western tower.
Cerberus trotted up beside me, three heads panting happily. He had a habit of picking up tools and rocks and dropping them in random places, assuming he was helping. I let him believe it. He needed purpose. So did I.
I called the others. "Zeus! Are you actually planning on working today?"
He was standing near the cliff's edge, gazing down the mountainside, arms folded. He turned, his face neutral. "I'm overseeing."
"Overseeing," I echoed, deadpan.
"I am literally the only one here who understands battlefield formations and wind arc dynamics," he said. "I'm choosing the angles of approach and defense."
"You're standing on a rock."
He gave me a glare. I returned it with a smirk.
Hera walked past between us. "Boys," she said coolly. "Either fight, kiss, or move a wall. We have a fortress to build."
Zeus and I blinked at each other.
"I'm helping Hestia," I said, grabbing a stone chisel and heading toward the heart chamber. I did not need that conversation to continue.
As I knelt beside Hestia, she handed me a glowing core of smoldering embers. "Do me a favor," she said, "place this in the center, right where I marked. It'll be the seed of the eternal flame."
"Why me?" I asked, taking the ember. It was warm, but didn't burn—just pulsed with life.
"You need something permanent," she said gently. "This place needs something from you. You're the one who's going to stay here the longest."
I looked at her. The truth in her voice made my chest tighten a little. She was right.
I placed the ember.
Flame sparked, red and gold, and flared up into a small twisting wisp that danced in the pit. The others around us looked up as warmth radiated out in waves.
A beginning.
Demeter came over, wiping sweat from her brow. "The garden terraces are mapped. Eventually, we'll have orchards here, and a greenhouse. I think we can make it bloom."
"Mountains don't bloom," I said, skeptical.
"They do when I say so," she replied with a wink.
Poseidon shouted from the tower base. "A little help here?! Hera dropped a wall on my foot!"
"You dropped it yourself!" she shouted back.
"No one saw anything!" he yelled. "It was sabotage!"
"Gods help me," I muttered.
By dusk, the base of Olympus had transformed.
The main courtyard was cleared, stone walkways set. Four towers stood like jagged teeth: North, East, West, and South. The central hall—still incomplete—had its columns raised, roofless but proud. The forge chamber was next, with Brontes and Arges already fusing Adamantine into heavy plating.
We rested around the fire pit that night. The flame still burned.
Phoebe returned with her scouts, nodding in approval at the work. She didn't say much, but I caught the faintest smile on her face.
"This will do," she said. "This will do nicely."
Zeus sat across from me, arms on his knees, eyes on the horizon. "You think this will be enough?"
"No," I said truthfully. "But it's a start."
He looked at me, tired. "You hate me right now, don't you?"
I didn't answer right away. Then: "I don't hate you. I just wish that you took my advice once in a while."
"That is actually fair, I have been a huge arse lately."
"I'll still fight beside you."
He nodded. "Same."
We sat in silence.
Cerberus curled beside me, all three heads snoring as I stroked his back.
The first rays of morning light crept over Olympus like the hand of a waking god, brushing the white peaks in golden fire. It was quiet—eerily so. No hammering. No shouting. No echoing voices carried by wind through hollow halls or half-finished corridors.
Olympus was finished.
And the silence sang with promise.
I stood at the edge of the courtyard, staring at our new stronghold. The towers now reached high, proud like spears piercing the heavens. The walls were smooth, fitted from black stone and polished obsidian. Glyphs ran through the structure like veins—wards, enchantments, defenses. We were ready.
And that was what frightened me.
No one builds a castle unless they're expecting war.
"Oi! Shadows-for-blood!" Brontes' voice boomed across the courtyard.
I turned, lips quivering. "I have a name, you know."
"Yeah, but yours is a mouthful," he grinned, waving me over. "Gather your lot. Time for the fun part."
It didn't take long. Word spread fast when the phrase "divine weapons" was uttered. Within minutes, all six of us had assembled near the main hall, sitting along a long obsidian bench beneath the arched atrium. Even Cerberus padded up behind me, laying down with a huff and three heads watching intently.
Brontes stood tall at the center, flanked by Arges and Steropes, with several long wooden crates behind them—each as tall as a man and sealed with molten wax. He looked proud. His soot-covered beard gleamed like burnished bronze.
"You lot built Olympus," he began, "fought monsters, freed us from Tartarus. Time you had weapons worthy of the gods you're becoming."
He gestured dramatically to the crates. "Crafted from the finest materials in existence. Adamantine. Polymythril alloys. Necro-steel. Bound in divine flame and forged in the Crucible of Hephaestus himself—back before he fell."
"Sounds expensive," Poseidon muttered beside me.
Brontes barked a laugh. "Oh, it was. Worth every drop."
He clapped his hands. "Ladies first."
The first crate opened with a hiss. Golden light spilled out like the sunrise. Within, nestled in black silk, was a torch—tall, elegant, the head shaped like blooming fire. Runes shimmered across its stem.
"Hestia," Brontes said reverently, lifting it and offering it to her. "The Torch of Olympus. Forged of Adamantine, Polymythril gold, and silver."
Hestia took it with trembling hands. The flame surged, dancing in time with her breath.
"I will keep it burning," she said softly, her voice steady. "Always."
The next box opened. A long spear, its shaft polished bronze, its head gleaming with a three-pronged tip of silver and steel, crackled faintly with latent energy.
"Hera," Brontes called. "The Spear. Adamantine, polymythril steel, and bronze. A beautiful weapon for the most beautiful goddess."
Hera smirked as she accepted it. "Good. I've been meaning to test something sharp on my brothers."
"Join the queue," I muttered.
Next came a curved weapon, elegant in its brutal simplicity. A scythe—sleek, blackened steel with veins of silver running through the blade. It hummed softly, like distant wind through wheat fields.
"Demeter," Brontes said. "The Scythe. Cut crops, or cut your enemies. Either way, it's a very sharp weapon."
Demeter smiled warmly and gave it a few test swings, the blade whispering through the air. "It feels right," she said.
Then Brontes turned to us.
He opened the fourth box slowly, reverently. Inside lay something darker than night, gleaming in slashes of silver: a bident. Its twin prongs curved slightly inward, etched with thin streaks of glowing glyphs. The haft was dark silver with inlaid runes, the metal unlike anything I'd ever seen.
"Hades," Brontes said, lifting it with two hands and turning it toward me. "The Bident. Crafted from Adamantine, Polymythril silver, and Necro-steel—steel forged from the black rivers of the Underworld. It's made for you. May it never leave your side."
I reached for it, my hand closing around the haft. The moment I touched it, the bident pulsed—once, deep in the core, and the shadows around my feet flared like a living flame.
It was cold. And perfect.
"I love it," I said quietly. "Truly."
The fifth box revealed a spear-shaped rod with jagged edges, humming with thunder. Sparks leapt from it like children at play. Every crackle lit up Zeus's greedy face like a child on Solstice morning.
"Zeus," Brontes intoned. "The Lightning Bolt. Adamantine, polymythril gold, and bronze."
Zeus caught it and spun it once in his palm, lightning curling across his knuckles. "It's beautiful," he breathed.
"Try not to marry it," I said as the others laughed.
The last box opened. A trident gleamed within, long and gleaming, the times curved into barbs, the weapon itself looked almost sea green having wave designs on pole.
"Poseidon," Brontes said. "The Trident. Adamantine and polymythril steel. With it, the oceans are yours."
Poseidon hefted it and grinned. "Finally," he said. "Something sharp enough for a sea monster."
We all stood with our weapons in hand, each of us taking a moment to feel them—to let them bond to us. There was something intimate in it, as though the weapons weren't just tools but pieces of ourselves.
"Go on then," Brontes said, clapping. "Go try them out. Split a tree. Cut a mountain. Get it out of your system before you accidentally destroy the dining hall."
They all began to filter out, heading to the lower cliffs where the training grounds had been carved into the stone.
I was turning to follow when Brontes's hand fell on my shoulder.
"Wait," he said. "One more thing."
He reached behind the crates and dragged out a final wooden box. Smaller. Simpler. He placed it before me and lifted the lid.
Inside was a helmet.
Not just any helmet—a Corinthian helm of exquisite craftsmanship. Smooth black metal, with silver trimming and shadow-threaded etchings. The inside shimmered was black and cushioned for comfort.
I stepped closer, stunned. "Brontes…"
"I made it for you," he said. "For everything you did. Getting my brothers out. Fighting Kampe. Holding the line. Being you."
"What's it called?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"I nicknamed it the Helm of Darkness," he said with a grin. "Thought it sounded cool."
I picked it up. It was surprisingly light in my hands. And yet I could feel the weight of it—the power thrumming through the edges, whispering secrets from beyond the veil.
"It's got tricks," Brontes said. "Some you'll figure out. Some you'll stumble into. I will only say that I forged it with your abilities in mind."
"Thank you," I said, sincerely. "For this. And everything."
Brontes shrugged. "You earned it. And don't go getting all sentimental now, death god."
I grinned and focused for a moment. The helm dissolved into shadow in my hands, vanishing into the folds of my soul.
Brontes whistled. "You're getting better at that."
"I know," I said smugly. "I'm terrifying."
He barked a laugh. "Damn right."
☼
The training fields of Olympus rang with the rhythm of war. Stone cracked underfoot, divine steel shrieked against rock, and the air shimmered with power as my siblings put their weapons to the test. Hera carved grooves into the ground with every thrust of her spear. Zeus hurled bolts into the sky like he was challenging the heavens themselves. Poseidon kept launching tridents at a boulder that refused to split in half, and I suspected the boulder was winning.
I stood off to the side, bident in hand, twirling it through practiced movements. It hummed with dark energy, a silent pulse that beat in time with my thoughts. Shadows responded like eager wolves, spiraling around the tips of the weapon and dancing with every swing.
I exhaled. The bident was powerful. Too powerful, almost. It responded to my every command, my every emotion. It wasn't just a weapon—it was an extension of my will.
And it felt… right.
I was about to test its piercing strength against the training post when a blur of movement caught my eye.
Prometheus.
He was rushing across the courtyard, arms full of what looked like bundles of cloth and slabs of wet clay. His robes were hiked up past his knees, one sandal missing, and he was muttering to himself with a wild gleam in his eyes.
That alone was cause for concern.
"Prometheus!" I called out, stepping away from the post.
He didn't stop. "No time!"
"Too bad," I said, vanishing into shadow and reappearing beside him. He stumbled and nearly dropped a tablet. "What in Tartarus are you doing?"
His eyes widened. "Ah! Hades, good timing. You have to see this—come on, come on!" He didn't even wait for me to agree, just bolted again toward the west wing of Olympus, where we'd given him a small, secluded space to work in peace.
I followed, bemused. "Is this another one of your 'harmless' experiments like the time you tried to teach fire to a goat?"
"That goat was a visionary!" he snapped back without turning.
We reached his workshop—a cluttered chamber filled with cracked pots, scrolls, glass tubes, and dozens of unfinished statuettes. The air smelled like warm earth and smoke. Clay was smeared on nearly every surface. Scribbles covered the walls—formulas, theories, arcane diagrams of the soul and body.
Prometheus rushed to a stone table in the center and carefully set down the materials. "Look! Look!"
At first, I saw nothing unusual. Just a small figure sitting upright on the table. Then it moved.
My breath caught.
It was a man—small, no larger than a mortal doll. But he was alive. Clay skin, soft and dark with grooves that looked like fingerprints, moved and flexed as the figure turned his head toward us. His eyes were wide, golden like fresh light, and filled with something I hadn't seen in any being before.
Awe.
Reverence.
And… fear.
He looked up at me like I was some celestial force he couldn't comprehend. I knelt slightly, stunned, meeting those wide, wandering eyes.
"You didn't…" I whispered.
Prometheus beamed like a madman. "I did. I finally did."
I looked at him, heart hammering. "You made a mortal."
He nodded quickly. "The first. The prototype. The beginning of a new kind of life. I call him Adam."
I turned back to the little figure. Adam's mouth trembled. He looked between Prometheus and me like he didn't understand what he was or why he was here. I could see him breathing—slow, shallow, frightened.
And yet, he wasn't crying or screaming.
He was… observing.
Thinking.
"I used clay from the River Lethe," Prometheus said quickly, bouncing on his heels.
I didn't respond right away. I knelt lower, bringing my face closer to Adam. The little man flinched, but didn't run. "Can he speak?"
"Not yet. But he will," Prometheus said. "He's learning. His mind is… growing. Forming. I didn't give him knowledge—I gave him curiosity."
"He's not just clay," I said slowly, wonder creeping into my voice. "He has a soul."
Prometheus nodded solemnly. "I shaped it by hand. Giving it a little of my blood and breath."
Adam tilted his head at me, fascinated by my voice. His tiny chest rose and fell as though breathing was a new discovery.
"What does this mean?" I asked, still watching the little man. "What is he for?"
Prometheus exhaled, his tone more serious now. "He's not for anything, Hades. He just is. A new life. A new kind of being. We're gods. Titans. Primordials. We were born of chaos and war and stars. But him?"
He pointed gently. "He's born of clay. Humble. Fragile. And yet… he could be something greater. Maybe not now. But one day."
I leaned back slowly. "This could change everything."
"It will," Prometheus said. "Not today. Not tomorrow. But one day, there will be millions of them. Maybe more. This world won't just be for gods and monsters."
"Mortals," I said, letting the word settle on my tongue. "They'll need protection. And guidance."
"They'll make mistakes," Prometheus said. "They'll fall. Hurt. Die. But they'll also build. Love. Dream. They'll find meaning in places we've forgotten to look."
I stared at the tiny man again. "He's so small."
Prometheus grinned. "So were we once."
Adam stood—his little legs shaky, uncertain—and looked up at us with eyes full of stars.
I didn't know it then, but in that moment, I understood something vital:
This creature—this fragile, clay-made man—wasn't just the first of his kind.
He was the future.
And we, the so-called gods, were no longer alone.
"Welcome to the world, Adam," I said softly.
He blinked, and for the first time… smiled.