Ares, the mighty God of War, son of Zeus, conqueror of a thousand battlefields, stood there like a boy caught smashing a sacred vase.

His divine, blood-soaked sword was still in his hand.

But he suddenly had no idea what to do with it.

The silence dragged.

Too long.

Far too long.

Someone coughed.

Ares risked a glance at Medusa’s face—nope. Bad idea. That smile of hers was still there: calm, unreadable, utterly terrifying.

He turned to Raezel instead.

Worse idea.

Raezel was looking at him like he’d just earned first place in Olympus’ Annual Idiot Competition—and considering the competition, that was an achievement.

“Uh…” Ares cleared his throat. “So… how are things?”

Even the serpents blinked.

Raezel tilted his head. “Did the God of War just try to start small talk?”

Ares shifted. “I—look, let’s all be reasonable here. Mistakes were made.”

Raezel arched his brow. “Oh? You mean you made a mistake?”

“I did not say that.”

“You just did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I did not!”

A serpent murmured from the crowd, “He totally did.”

Ares gritted his teeth. Why was this happening? He was the God of War! He was supposed to be feared! Respected! Not… mocked by snakes!

He considered lying.

That lasted half a second.

Then he considered running.

Another half second.

Then he considered just standing there until Medusa forgot this ever happened.

Yeah. No. Not happening.

Beads of sweat rolled down his neck.

“…I mean…”

CLANG.

His sword hit the ground.

“Whoops,” he said. Not even pretending to be convincing. “Didn’t mean to draw that. Complete accident. Slipped.”

The hall stared.

Medusa tilted her head.

Raezel crossed his arms.

The king blinked.

The serpents whispered.

One of them muttered, “Did he just—?”

Another replied, “He did.”

A third snake: “Pathetic.”

“Sooo… we good?” Ares offered.

Silence.

Somewhere, a single cricket chirped.

And then—

Medusa laughed.

Not cruelly. Not mockingly.

Just… laughed.

A slow, soft chuckle that chilled Ares to the bone.

“God of War,” she murmured, stepping forward, a smile deepening just a fraction. “How strange, I thought you were braver than this.”

Ares swallowed.

He wasn’t brave.

Not in front of her.

Still, he wasn’t stupid either.

He bent down, slowly, carefully, picked up his sword, and gently slid it back into its sheath.

“Right,” he muttered. “Glad we cleared that up.”

Then he turned—very carefully—to Raezel.

“And you,” he said, “what in Olympus did you just try to pull?”

Medusa placed a hand on Raezel’s shoulder, gaze still locked on Ares. “My son does as he pleases.”

Ares took a step back.

“…Noted.”

Raezel stepped forward, arms crossed, eyes ice cold. Unbothered. Unimpressed.

“You know, Ares,” he said, voice far too casual, “you’re not the first god who’s wanted me dead.”

Ares’ jaw tightened.

“In fact,” Raezel went on, gesturing lazily, “barely a god or demi-god haven't tried. Yet, the moment they stand before my mother”—he tilted his head toward Medusa—“they all suddenly forget how to look me in the eye.”

Ares clenched his fists.

“And yes, exactly,” Raezel added, voice now colder, sharper, “you think it—I say it. Your life is my one wish away, God of War.”

The words settled like a guillotine over the room.

Ares didn’t move.

For the first time in his immortal life—he felt envy.

Ares had faced kings, titans, and demigods. He had stood atop mountains of the dead.

But he had never stood before someone like this.

Raezel didn’t carry power. He is the power. A force that didn’t seek permission to exist.

He had already done the impossible—rewritten fate.

And that… that was what Olympus feared.

Ares’ fingers curled around his hilt, but he didn’t draw it.

Instead, he whispered, voice low, almost reverent:

“What a terrifying thing you are, boy.”

***

“Ohhh, look at that! The God of War hesitated.”

Ares froze.

The serpents.

Nihaga stepped forward, arms crossed. “You know,” he mused, “I always knew Olympus had fragile egos. But this is art.”

“You dare—” Ares started.

“Oh, I dare,” Nihaga grinned. “You pulled a sword like a god… now stand like a soldier who walked into the wrong war.”

The others howled with laughter.

“God of War? More like God of Oops.”

“I told you he’d regret it!”

“This is better than the Battle of Heraklion!”

Ares looked ready to smite every last one of them.

But he didn’t move.

Because Medusa was still watching.

Raezel slung an arm around Nihaga’s shoulder. “I like this one,” he said. “Observant.”

“I am quite perceptive,” Nihaga said, flipping his hair.

“I am going to bury all of you,” Ares muttered.

The laughter doubled.

A particularly large serpent tilted its head. “Why are you still here, War God?”

Ares exhaled. His sword was sheathed. His pride shattered.

And yet, he stayed.

His eyes swept across the hall—Medusa, Raezel, Nihaga.

Then, coldly, without a hint of arrogance:

“I want to see if Velmor gets ‘The Seal.’”

The room stiffened.

The mortals went pale.

King Eldors felt dread crawl up his spine.

Because at that moment, he understood.

If Medusa granted the Seal—his kingdom would be untouchable.

But if she didn’t…

Then Ares would return.

And not alone.

The king’s vision narrowed, heart pounding. His fingers trembled.

Ares saw it. And he smiled.

“You see it now, don’t you?” he said softly.

The king did.

This wasn’t a choice.

It was a noose.

Whether by Medusa’s protection… or Ares’ wrath—

This kingdom’s fate would be sealed today.

***

The torches flickered.
The air grew heavier.
The shadows stretched unnaturally across the stone floor.

And then—

Darkness.

Not the absence of light. Not the kind mortals feared when the sun dipped below the horizon. No—this was true darkness. A presence, vast and boundless, swallowing the very concept of illumination.

Then, from the abyss, a voice.

Soft. Silk woven at midnight.

“How amusing… I found war brewing, and yet no one invited me?”

Every breath in the hall ceased.

Because that voice belonged to only one being.

Nyx.

The Goddess of Night. The primordial force, older than Olympus itself. The mother of Sleep, Death, and Dreams. A being so ancient, so powerful, that even Zeus feared her.

Ares visibly stiffened.
The king’s face turned paler than a ghost.
The serpents froze mid-hiss. Even Nihaga, for the first time, showed something close to uncertainty.

And yet—
Medusa… smiled.

The darkness curled open like petals, revealing a silhouette. Nyx stepped forward, the shadows shifting around her like a living thing. Her eyes—two endless voids—swept across the room, and then, without hesitation, she walked past everyone and stopped before Medusa.

And then—
She embraced her.

The room nearly collapsed from sheer disbelief.

The mere mortal king was dying inside.
Three of the most powerful beings in existence stood in his hall. Any one of them could erase his kingdom with a flick of their hand.

And now, the Goddess of the Night and the Queen of the Cursed were exchanging what could only be described as a sisterly embrace.

But one question remained.

Why was Nyx here?
And more importantly—
Who was the child standing beside her?

The silence stretched. Thick. Suffocating.
No one spoke.
No one breathed.
It wasn’t just stillness—it was the kind of quiet that crushed the air from your lungs, that made the very walls of the hall feel too close.

And then, he spoke.

“You’re soft, Raezel.”

The voice was smooth, cold—like the whisper of the void itself. It was not an insult, not an accusation.
It was a fact.

Raezel turned, meeting the abyssal gaze of the one who had arrived with Nyx—Nythren.
A creation of Nyx—willed into existence, not by fate, but by a goddess who had never known limits.

The hall turned, every gaze locking onto the figure standing beside Nyx.

His presence was nothing like Ares—who radiated untamed power—or Medusa, whose aura carried the weight of inevitable doom.

No.

This was something else entirely.
Darkness didn’t just cling to him.
It obeyed him.

The shadows at his feet coiled and twisted unnaturally.
The torches flickered, though there was no wind.

Even the serpents—always hissing, always whispering—were silent.

Nythren’s smirk deepened, abyss-like eyes locking onto Raezel’s.

“If anyone dares to draw their sword against me—if my mother were Medusa—”
He tilted his head slightly, his smirk widening.
“That would be the last time they ever did.”

The room stopped breathing.

And then—

“You know who we are, don’t you, brother?”

Brother.
The word struck the hall like a crack of thunder.

The son of Nyx.
The son of Medusa.

Two beings whose names made even Olympus shudder.
And yet, here they stood—in a mortal hall, speaking as equals.

Nythren glanced at Ares.
His smirk didn’t fade.

“This god with a fragile ego—” he motioned lazily toward Ares, whose jaw tightened “—and this mortal king? In front of us? They are the same. Mere things, waiting to be forgotten by time.”

The king nearly choked. He wanted to leave his own hall.

Ares?
His fingers twitched. His grip tightened around his sword—but for the first time, he hesitated.

It was instinct. A warrior’s reaction to being dismissed. A spark of battle stirred in his chest, demanding that he prove his worth, that he fight back.

But before he could even consider it—
Logic struck him like a blade.

Nythren was not someone he could fight.
Not here.
Not now.

And that realization weighed heavier than any wound.

Nythren’s gaze slid back to Raezel, eyes darker than the void itself.

“But what does interest me, brother, is this—”

He stepped closer, the shadows parting for him effortlessly.

“Why do you want to live here? Among mortals?”

It wasn’t a judgment.
It wasn't a mockery.
It was genuine curiosity.