The grandeur of Olympus was evident even in the smallest details of the grand hall—mosaic floors that shimmered like the sea at twilight, high arched windows framed by golden light. The air was thick with tension as Ares and Aphrodite sat across from each other, their shared space an uneasy blend of beauty and conflict.

  Ares lounged lazily in his armor, unpolished as usual, the cold steel mismatched against the warm, glowing environment around him. His gaze was narrowed, flicking between the scattered scrolls on the marble table before him, each filled with warnings of wars to come, petty quarrels among mortals, but his mind was elsewhere—far from the divine concerns at hand. He was restless, always looking for the next battle, but something nagged at him.

  Across the room, Aphrodite was a vision of contrast. Where Ares was chaos and fury, she was elegance embodied. The silken folds of her gown cascaded in delicate waves, catching the light like a sunrise over the ocean. Her golden hair, adorned with tiny pearls and intricate braids, was the epitome of divine grace, yet her eyes held a mischievous glint, the kind of smile that suggested she was already planning something that would challenge even the gods' patience.

  "Are we just going to ignore it?" Ares’ voice cut through the stillness, his gaze hardening as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "This endless courtship of wars and mortals. It's tiresome."

  Aphrodite raised a brow, her fingers tracing the rim of her chalice with a soft, melodic hum. "And yet, darling, you are never truly satisfied without it, are you? There’s no glory for you without a battlefield to stand upon, no crown of laurels to claim. Perhaps it is you who are tiresome."

  Ares smirked. "Maybe. But don't think I don't see your little games. Always pulling the strings of mortals with your sweet whispers and promises."

  She grinned, a little too widely for Ares' liking, her lips curving with that unmistakable mix of allure and mischief. "Sweet whispers? Perhaps you have yet to realize, my dear Ares, that not all games are won through violence." She took a deliberate sip of her wine, the delicate glass catching the light. The moment lingered in the air, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths. "Some of us know how to make a war of love."

  Ares snorted, his usual impatience flaring as he leaned back in his chair, his armor creaking. "Love? The same love that destroys kingdoms? You and your notions. I fight for things that matter."

  Aphrodite’s smile faltered, the briefest flicker of something unreadable flashing in her eyes. Her fingers tightened around the wine glass, but before Ares could notice, her expression shifted effortlessly, settling into one of serene amusement. "Ah, but you forget, Ares. It is love that gives your battles meaning. Without it, you would just be a man with a sword and nothing left to fight for."

  The tension between them thickened, the world outside their intimate exchange fading for a moment. And then, suddenly, the air seemed to hum. They froze, the sounds of a mortal’s vow piercing through the silence like a sacred chant carried by the wind.

  Ares' body stiffened at the words that reached his ears, a mortal’s voice ringing with an unsettling mixture of desperation and determination. "If my husband does not return home to me, I will burn this world to ash."

  Ares’ blood boiled instantly. His hand clenched into a fist, the promise of violence rising in him like wildfire. For a heartbeat, he forgot Aphrodite entirely. His thoughts were consumed by the image of the man this vow had been made for—he would find him, no matter the cost. The weight of his rage was a tangible force in the room, the power of a god spurred on by the fury of his blood.

  Aphrodite, however, remained still, her gaze distant, as if lost in the flicker of an old, forgotten memory. She listened to the mortal’s vow in silence, her heart catching as the words settled over her like a heavy cloak. "I will burn this world to ash..." The love behind them—raw and unrestrained—pulled at her in ways she hadn’t felt in eons, clinging to her heart like thorns. There was nothing hidden behind it, no complexity, only pure love—love as powerful and unpredictable as any storm.

  Her eyes, usually so composed, welled with tears that foamed like frothy sea waves, a symbol of something both pure and aching. But they were not tears of sorrow, no. They were tears of something far deeper, something older—a longing. The rawness in the mortal’s voice was a reminder of something she had forgotten, something she hadn’t felt in herself for as long as she could remember.

  When had she last felt something so painfully, so completely, uncomplicatedly… love? Aphrodite couldn’t recall.

  Ares had already gone, swept up in his singular pursuit, the heat of his impulsive nature lingering in the air like a ghost. Aphrodite sighed. Her God of War, as she liked to call him, would chase his impulses without hesitation, as he always did. She, however, was not driven by such blind action. Instead, she moved to the balcony, gazing out over the vast expanse of Olympus. The clouds swirled around their home like floating land, stretching all the way to the horizon. With a swift motion of her hand, an image materialized before her—of a mother, an infant boy, and an elderly woman.

  "Spartan blood, how bold, mortal queen," Aphrodite mused, her voice a soft whisper in the air. "I have a blessing for you." She didn’t often bestow such gifts, for they tended to do more harm than good. Yet, there was something about this woman’s vow, about the raw love behind it, that made Aphrodite feel the risk was worth taking.

  "Mortal queen, hear this: Your love is both your shield and your curse. I bless you with the power to protect those you hold dear, but know this—no harm shall fall upon your husband or son, unless a god’s hand is upon them, or the gods themselves decide their fate. Your love, fierce and undying, will keep them safe from mortal harm, but it will draw the attention of many, and not all of those who come will seek your well-being. Be cautious, for love can be both a weapon and a lure."

  Athena stood in her war room, her presence commanding and unyielding, as if every corner of the space bowed to her will. Her eyes, sharp and owlish, gleamed with a wisdom far older than mortal time. They were large, almost otherworldly, their amber depths reflecting the precision of a thousand strategies and the quiet, calculating power of her mind. Her gaze swept over the battlefield of the map before her, dissecting every move with unnerving clarity.

  Her hair was styled in a daring plaited pixie mohawk, a perfect fusion of war and elegance. The top of her head was shaved close, the remaining sections braided tightly into a series of intricate, warrior-like patterns, with strands of silver and bronze intertwined, reflecting her divine heritage. The bold, unconventional cut seemed to echo her strategic nature—always thinking ahead, never confined by tradition.

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  A dark blue cloak, embroidered with olive branches, draped across her shoulders, the edges shimmering with a faint, ethereal glow. Her armor was minimal, but the gleaming pieces that adorned her form spoke of both protection and grace—each plate a symbol of her connection to both war and wisdom.

  She moved with precision, her boots light against the stone floor, as if every step had been calculated in her mind before she took it. As she paced, her fingers occasionally brushed against the worn edges of the map, her touch leaving behind a soft ripple in the air—an invisible sign of her influence, bending the threads of fate.

  Though she stood at the center of the war room, the room itself seemed to fold around her, as if the very space obeyed her focus. Athena’s mind, sharp as a blade, was already plotting the next move for Odysseus, as she moved between mortal and divine realms with ease. Her thoughts were a quiet storm of strategy and foresight, her every action dictated by years of experience in the art of war.

  Odysseus hadn’t been long gone from Ithaca, when a familiar woman’s voice, with a vow caught her divine ear. It was Odysseus' wife. There wasn’t a blessing already given her father’s house, and Odysseus’ house that would help the queen. All she could do was continue what she does, but then she felt brother, Ares, disappear toward the location and sighed exasperatedly. Her brother always made her head hurt.

  He had seen all that there was to be seen—from the birth of stars to the death of kingdoms, the fleeting moments of life to the endless stretch of eternity. The Underworld echoed with the ghosts of lost souls, their whispers never stopping, always yearning for release. But what release could they know when he, too, was trapped within the eternal cycle of his reign?

  Hades stood tall at the throne of his domain, an imposing figure of cold, obsidian-hued skin, his features sharp and regal. His hair cascaded like liquid silver, dark as the abyss, rippling in a constant, subtle wave that seemed to shift with the gravity of the Underworld itself. His eyes, an unnatural shade of glowing violet, flickered with a light born not of the living but of forgotten stars, the remnants of those long passed. There was no warmth to them, only a piercing calm—like the void between the heavens and the earth, where silence reigned supreme.

  He wore a crown of onyx, crafted from the bones of long-dead titans, twisted into the shape of a serpent whose eyes glowed with the same haunting light as his. His cloak was as dark as the night, woven with threads of the deepest shadows, and it rippled like smoke in the air, shifting in the absence of wind.

  As the king of the dead, Hades was neither above nor below his immortality; he was it. Death was his domain, and his power was unyielding in the shadows of the Underworld. Mortals feared him, but immortals, with their egos and their fleeting passions, could never understand the peace he found in stillness.

  To him, eternity was not a curse—it was simply existence. It was the pattern of things, the web that tied together souls, fate, and the rhythm of the universe. Where his siblings flitted about in their divine courts, he remained. His presence was constant, as inevitable as the passage of time, as enduring as the silent whispers of the souls who sought solace in his realm. He did not wish for change, for there was nothing beyond the endless cycle. Even love, as complex and fleeting as it might seem, was just another force he could not escape. And yet, Persephone—a spark of warmth in a realm that never knew daylight—had drawn him in.

  She had been his solace, his break from the cold rhythm of death. He’d never asked for love, yet it found him, creeping in like the first spring flower breaking through the frost. In her presence, even the Underworld felt alive. Her laughter, her light, was something Hades could never have imagined he would want—until it became a need.

  But here was the truth of his existence: He was bound to her in a way no mortal could understand. She was his queen, his equal, but more importantly, she was the only thing that could make even the immortal god of the dead long for something more. And yet, despite the intensity of their connection, despite the love he harbored for her, Hades knew what others refused to acknowledge: nothing, not even their love, could change the nature of his immortality.

  He was not cursed, nor blessed—he was eternal. And in his eternal state, there was no end, no final destination. Time was not his enemy. It simply was, stretching onward into infinity. The Underworld would continue to echo with the cries of the lost, the gods would forever bicker in their heavens, and Persephone would return to him every spring. But in the space between, there would always be silence.

  And in that silence, there would always be him.

  Then, that silence was disrupted.

  A voice—a woman’s voice—echoed through the shadows of his realm, the words rippling like a tremor across the stillness of the Underworld. It wasn’t Persephone’s voice, nor one that he had ever heard before, and that was unsettling in itself. The words struck with the force of a storm, heavy with grief, anger, and a vow—fueled by something deeper, something he could not ignore:

  “I, Penelope, Spartan Queen of Ithaca, vow—upon my title and my blood—that if my husband does not return home to me, I will burn this world to ash. And should death befall my son, Telemachus, before his father’s return, I will carve a path to Troy myself, so Odysseus may know—and together, we will unmake the world.”

  Penelope’s words reverberated through the Underworld, carried by some force Hades could not quite place. A mortal queen, driven by grief and rage, speaking as though her wrath could shake the very foundations of the world. Odysseus, the man she spoke of, was a mortal king who had set sail for Troy, bound by the promises of war—though the war had not yet begun, the threads of fate were already being woven. Penelope’s words, uttered in the quiet desperation of a wife and mother, carried a weight that reached even him, here in the realm of the dead.

  Hades stood unmoving, contemplating the weight of it. Penelope's vow was a thread in the web of fate, and yet it felt strange. It was not the first time he had witnessed such anger, nor would it be the last. And yet, her words... "I will burn this world to ash." Such fury, such intent. She did not just threaten to alter the course of mortal lives. She threatened to unmake the very fabric of existence, to carve a path through the divine to reach Odysseus, and to bring the wrath of both mother and wife upon the gods themselves.

  A frown curled at the corners of his lips, though it was hard to say whether it was out of annoyance or intrigue. The vow felt... dangerous. A woman bent on revenge—yes, this was nothing new. But there was power here. Mortals wielded their fury like a weapon, but few had the strength to threaten the gods themselves. She would do more than rage against the heavens—Penelope would take the fight directly to them.

  Hades considered the implications, briefly. He knew of Odysseus' journey. His name was already whispered in the halls of gods and mortals alike. But Penelope—Penelope was still bound by the limits of her mortality. She could not know the true consequences of her words, the ripple they would cause. If this vow reached the ears of his brothers, if it made its way through the courts of the gods, it would cause ripples in the realm of the living and the dead alike.

  His gaze narrowed, and the Underworld around him seemed to grow colder, the air thicker. Should I involve myself?

  The thought was fleeting, dismissed almost as soon as it arose. His responsibilities in the Underworld could not be so easily pushed aside for the whims of a mortal queen. Besides, this was not his domain. This was a matter for his brothers, for the gods who played their games in the heavens above. Still, he could not help but wonder—would his brothers leave him out of this?

  With a quiet sigh, Hades leaned back in his throne, the shadows of his realm flickering in the periphery of his vision. The mortals would do as they always did—stir chaos, create ruin, and offer their prayers for salvation. He, as always, would remain in the silence. But for a brief moment, he allowed himself to ponder: If Penelope’s wrath did make its way into the hands of the gods, would it even be possible to keep his hands clean of the mess?