The cold silence of the Underworld wrapped around me the moment I stepped through the veil of shadow.
It welcomed me like a cloak around my shoulders—familiar, weightless, constant. The world above still echoed faintly in my bones: the roaring of Titans, the cracking of bones, Zeus's thunder still rumbling behind my ribs like an aftershock. But down here, there was none of that. Just the deep hum of my kingdom and the pulse of something ancient—something resolute.
I walked the length of the obsidian causeway that cut through the cavernous chamber outside the great hall. My boots echoed across the polished stone, the silence so profound it felt sacred.
The gates ahead were already open.
A wave of warmth and torchlight greeted me as I stepped into the Great Hall—and stopped.
They were waiting.
All of them.
My chosen.
The children of Nyx stood at attention, arrayed across the great black-stone chamber like sentinels. The air rippled with anticipation, with tension so thick it felt like standing in the stillness before a storm. Flames from massive braziers licked up toward the vaulted ceiling, casting flickering gold and red shadows across the polished floor.
They had prepared without my command. That alone said everything.
My eyes were first drawn to the Reapers.
Thanatos stood tall and silent at the center. His necro-steel armor clung to his form like molded shadow, polished bone ridges running down his pauldrons and chest in the shape of overlapping feathers—like the wings of a silent hawk mid-dive. A black robe swirled beneath the armor, trimmed in silver thread. His mask was pristine, shaped like a clean-cut skull with narrowed, emotionless eye slits and swept-back horns carved from ivory. He held his double-edged scythe across his back, its shaft inscribed with runes of stillness.
To his left stood Kerethys, practically vibrating with wild energy. Her armor was the same necro-steel, but less refined—jagged, asymmetrical plates that looked like they'd been hammered into place mid-battle. Her robe was tattered at the edges, some of it burned away, stained with old ichor. Her skull mask was cracked down one cheek, one eye glowing faintly red behind the bone. A barbed chain coiled around one gauntlet, hanging loose like a snake eager to strike.
And Moros—gods, Moros was a grim sight. His armor was half-covered in the tattered linen wrappings that marked his body even without armor. Polished bone emerged from beneath them like skeletal growths, almost like a mummy entombed in steel. His helm was fused to his bandaged face, the skull design almost featureless—blank, faceless doom. He held no weapon, but I knew better than to think he needed one. Moros was the weapon.
I stepped forward, and the others came into view.
Nemesis stood with one hand on her sword pommel, clad in heavy armor of interlocked necro-steel and adamantine plates. Chainmail glittered beneath her pauldrons, and tight leather armor formed the base beneath her breastplate, offering flexibility and strength. Her red cape was fastened with a skull-shaped clasp, and her black-and-gold helm was under one arm. Her crimson eyes met mine briefly—and narrowed with focus. No teasing this time. Just purpose.
Beside her lounged the Furies.
Alecto, Tisiphone, and Megaera were dressed in more modest versions of Nemesis's armor. Streamlined, built for movement. Their wings were folded against their backs, glinting like bat leather edged with obsidian. Each carried a coiled whip of different design—bone, barbed chain, and jagged wire—and each wore a smirk that promised violence.
And then… there was Charon.
Leaning silently on his oar near the back wall.
He looked more specter than man, tall and gaunt beneath his long black robes. The adamantine and polymythril steel of his oar gleamed faintly with river-light—fluid yet firm. His face was obscured beneath a long hood, and only a pair of glimmering silver eyes showed through the shadow. He said nothing.
He never needed to.
I walked slowly past them all, taking in every detail. Every face.
These weren't gods.
They were inevitabilities.
I reached the dais at the front of the hall and turned.
They were still watching me, waiting for my word.
The silence hung like a held breath.
"The full moon rises in three nights," I said. My voice echoed through the chamber, deep and steady. "When it crests above Olympus… we march."
Kerethys gave a sharp grin.
"Cronus will not yield," I continued, my voice harder now. "He will not stop. Not unless we break him. So we'll break him. We'll bring down his bastions, his legions, his false order."
My gaze passed over each of them.
"You were not born into this war. You chose it. You chose me."
A quiet hiss of approval came from Moros.
"You owe the world nothing," I said, raising my voice. "But you have given yourselves to a cause. Not for glory. Not for thrones. But for justice. For order. For a future that cannot be shaped by tyrants."
I let my shadows gather around me, rising like smoke.
"I ask only one thing," I said. "When you fight… fight for each other. Fight for those who cannot. Fight like the world itself depends on your victory—because it does."
I turned fully, shadows pulsing like wings behind me.
"Give everything," I said, voice low. "Give your wrath, your mercy, your power, your blood. For the Underworld. For Olympus."
I raised my hand.
"For the House of Aidoneus."
A beat.
Then they responded—loud and in unison.
"For the House of Aidoneus!"
Their voices thundered through the Great Hall like a war cry, shaking the walls. Kerethys swung her chain in a gleeful spiral. Thanatos lowered his head. Nemesis pounded a fist into her chest plate. Even Charon gave a single, silent nod.
My chest swelled with something quiet, cold, and profound.
Pride.
I turned, the sound of their chant still ringing behind me.
☼
The forge was blisteringly hot, but oddly comforting.
The air shimmered with heat, pulsing with the rhythmic clang of hammer against steel. Each strike sent a cascade of sparks through the darkened chamber, painting the walls in bursts of orange light that flickered like the heartbeat of a god. It was a place where things were made—not just weapons or armor, but declarations. Promises. Wills made tangible through fire.
Brontes stood at the heart of it all, his massive shoulders hunched over an anvil the size of a temple altar, his hammer dancing with calculated fury. Sweat streamed down his one-eyed brow, the intensity on his face focused like a prayer.
I stood nearby, quiet and still, watching the Elder Cyclops work. A lesser god would've spoken by now, filled the silence with pleasantries or praise. But Brontes wasn't the kind of being you interrupted without good reason.
Besides, I didn't know what to say.
I wasn't even sure why I'd come down here.
I folded my arms and stared at the glowing bars of metal resting in the heat of the forge, their surfaces flickering like molten starlight. My shadows curled faintly at my heels, mirroring my thoughts—restless, unsure.
Was this the beginning of the ten years? Or had it already started?
The full moon hadn't risen yet. The march hadn't begun. But I'd already spilled ichor. Already bled, already fought, already buried Titans in shadow. If time moved by the measure of wounds, then perhaps we were already years in.
"I don't know what the hell I'm doing," I muttered.
Brontes didn't stop hammering.
He grunted. "You're leading a war. Nobody ever knows what they're doing at the start of one."
I smirked faintly. "Comforting."
His hammer paused mid-air. He looked at me, one great eye squinting. "You ain't here for comfort, Lord Hades."
"No," I admitted. "I suppose not."
We stood in the heat a moment longer, the roar of flames and clatter of metal filling the space between words.
Eventually, I said, "What are you working on?"
"Trying not to lose my damn mind," he muttered, slamming his hammer down again with a ringing crash. "And also trying to recreate adamantine."
That caught my attention.
I raised an eyebrow and stepped closer to his workstation. "I thought we had stores of it."
Brontes let out a bark of laughter—sharp and humorless. "Had. Past tense. Between reforging weapons, armor commissions, and chaining up half the damn Titans, we're burning through it faster than we can salvage."
He gestured to a series of tablets scattered across a nearby table. They were etched with alchemical symbols and alloy formulas, scrawled notes in charcoal, and diagrams that made my eyes cross.
"Adamantine doesn't just grow in the earth like other metals," he continued. "Not really. It is more… a heaven born metal. Ouranos created it to tie me and my brothers down and throw me and my brothers into the pit."
He jabbed a thumb at a metal ingot resting nearby, dull and cracked. "This? This is a cheap imitation, another failed experement."
I picked it up. It really felt wrong—unbalanced. Too light. Too quiet.
"I've been trying to find the right balance," he said. "Mixing all kinds of materials and yet nothing holds."
He sighed and scrubbed at his face with a thick forearm. "I'll figure it out. Eventually. We always do."
Then, without warning, he jerked his head toward the far side of the forge.
"'Til then, figured you might want to see this."
I followed his gaze.
The case sat near the wall, untouched by soot or ash. A glass container, reinforced with bands of silver and obsidian, gleaming under the firelight. Inside—
My breath caught in my throat.
It wasn't just armor.
It was a masterpiece—regal, terrible, divine.
Sleek plates of bone-black Necro-steel formed the foundation, smooth as obsidian and forged from the soul-metal of the Underworld itself. Every curve was shaped with predatory grace, less like armor and more like a second skin—one designed for a god who ruled from the shadows.
A chestplate of refined Adamantine overlaid the core, sculpted like a ribcage, each ridge carved to mimic the overlapping vertebrae of a draconic spine. Etched into the surface were glowing golden runes—each one pulsing faintly with power from the realms I commanded. Death. Riches. Shadows. Flame.
From the shoulders flared sharp pauldrons adorned with smooth, expressionless faces—sentinel visages—each one symbolic of judgment, fate, and silence. Inlaid with Polymythril gold, they shimmered subtly with divine energy, catching light and shadow in equal measure. Along the arms and greaves, filigree of white-gold ran like veins, pulsing with restrained might.
And the helm…
Gods.
The helm was reborn.
Gone was the helm of before. This was regal and terrifying. The Corinthian shape remained, but now it had been sculpted in white Necro-steel, crowned with a dark golden crest shaped like flame-wrought horns or a wreath of jagged laurel. The faceplate was smooth, almost serene—until the light caught it just right, revealing the faint outline of a hidden, fanged grin.
At the collar rested a heavy scarf of deep crimson silk, long and regal, flowing like a cloak when the wind stirred. It was fastened by a medallion forged from my soul's imprint—my personal crest carved in ancient runes, surrounded by serpents devouring their own tails.
Even dormant, it radiated presence.
It wasn't just armor for battle.
It was a mantle for a king of the dead.
I stepped forward, hand lifting on its own, and placed it against the glass.
"I reforged it with your exoskeleton armor in mind," Brontes said behind me, his voice softer now, almost reverent. "Took longer than I care to admit. The materials were stubborn, the design even more so. But once it's worn, it'll recognize you—your divine signature. No operation, no binding ritual or surgery. It'll fuse with your bones on contact. Become part of you."
I said nothing at first.
Just stared.
Not at Brontes, but at the reflection in the darkened glass of the forge wall.
The flicker of shadow behind my eyes, ever shifting like ink in water. The empty gaze from my empty socket. The way strands of my long hair danced in the rising heat, more a storm than anything mortal.
And just past it, was the armor.
White with edges trimmed in black metal . The helm shaped like a skull half-shrouded in shadow. Sigils etched into the plating—runes for war, for death, for endurance. For dominion.
I wasn't just looking at armor.
I was looking at a promise.
At a version of myself I hadn't yet become… but would.
"...Brontes," I said, voice low. "Thank you. It's perfect."
He let out a grunt, but the pride was impossible to miss. "It better be. Took all three of us weeks. Arges nearly lost an eyebrow shaping the outer core. Steropes carved the inner runes until his hands bled. And me? I've never hammered anything so stubborn in my life—not even Zeus's damn lightning bolt."
I finally turned toward him.
"How soon can I wear it?"
Brontes gave a low, knowing hum. "Right now, if you want. But understand something. Once it's on… it's on. No straps. No buckles. No taking it off when the war's done. It'll become part of you—forever engraved into your very bones and inchor"
A beat passed.
Then I nodded.
"Alright," I said, musing it over. "It seemsd that I am about to get another upgrade."