Apollo woke up with a start, sweat beading on his golden brow.
He had dreamed of something strange — something cold and shapeless, like a thick fog seeping through cracks in the sky. Voices whispered. Stars wept. A great hand of a shadow reached upward, pulling, stretching towards Olympus. But before he could see its face, the sun god awoke — confused, breathless, and deeply annoyed.
He pressed a hand to his temple and forced himself to breathe. It wasn't unusual for Apollo to dream of the future. Being the god of prohecy and light had its perks. But this dream felt... different. It didn't come with the usual radiant clarity of his visions. There was no poetry, no rhythm, no meaning — just fear. And Apollo hated fear. Especially his own.
He rose and let the first rays of dawn cling to his golden hair like an unspoken crown. The sky outside Olympus was a canvas of morning light, streaked with fire and clouds. His reflection glowed in the polish brown mirrors lining his chamber — radiant, immaculate, yet underneath that mask, the faintest furrow lingered between his brows.Today felt heavier, slower.
Today, Olympus would pass judgment on Ares.
And no one was looking forward to it.
***
The throne room of Olympus was unlikely any place in existence. Floating above the mortal world, anchored in storm clouds and starlight, it shimmered with power and pride — a monument to godhood itself.
Twelve great thrones stood in half-circle, each forged in the image of its owner's domain. The Throne of Athena gleamed with carved wisdom runes and owl feathers; Poseidon's was sculpted from coral and crashing waves; Apollo's shimmered like sunlight on a golden harp.
But today, only one throne was not occupied.
Ares, the god of war, stood defiantly in the center of the marble chamber. He was built like a battlefield — broad and wrapped in dark red armor, cracked from centuries of bloodshed. His throne visible in the corner of his eye was blackedened and scorched, forged from the blades of fallen warriors. Fittingly empty. His eyes flicked like burning coals from god to god as a calm droning voice recited his crimes:
"The council accuses Ares of weaponizing monsters in the mortal world...
For sowing strife beyond Olympus' will...
For breaking the Treaty of Athens...
For sacrificing minor deities in secret blood rites to incite war...
For feeding mortal hatred for his own glory..."
Ares sneered with every word, the veins in his neck straining as if they could snap any second.
When the reading was done, a hush fell like the silence before the storm.
Zeus rose from his thunder-shaped throne, the air crackling faintly around him. His gaze fixed on Ares was colder than the mountain's peak.
"Ares, god of war," Zeus boomed, voice echoing through the chamber, "by the will of the Twelve, you are stripped of your title and exiled from Olympus. You shall no longer hold domain over War. Your name shall be struck from the Circle until such time as the throne is claimed anew."
For a moment, the room held its breath. Ares stood shock-still — then his shoulders trembled with a low, bitter laugh.
"You hypocrites," he snarled. "You speak of honor? Peace? As if Olympus wasn't born from war!"
He clenched his fists. The air around him sizzled.
"You can't strip War from the world, Father," he spat. "I am war. Without me, you're nothing but bored immortals playing dress-up."
He lunged forward and Apollo stepped down from his seat, arm outstretched.
"Ares, brother, calm yourself — "
The fist caught Apollo square in the jaw. He didn't even see it coming. One heartbeat he was reaching out, the next he was airborne, slammed into a marble pillar with a painful crunch.
Before Apollo could blink away the stars spinning his vision, Ares was roaring at the rest of them. Athena stepped forward, spear materializing in her hand. She met Ares' charge with a blow so sharp it rang through the chamber like a struck bell.
They clashed — War and Wisdom, sparks flying, marble tiles splintering beneath their feet. For a moment they looked equal — rage versus precision, brute force against unyielding skill.
Then came the lightning.
Zeus raised his hand, and a bolt of pure power streaked down from the heavens, striking Ares in the chest. The room flashed white.The war god staggered, smoking, eyes wide with rage and disbelief then, spitting blood and he rose.
"You'll regret this," Ares spat.
And with that, he turned his back to the council and stormed out of the throne room, dragging a trail of smoke and thunder behind him.
Apollo, groaning, sat up among the rubble. His lip bled golden light. Apollo watched him go. For just an instant — as Ares' figure blurred at the edge of the throne room, another vision flickered before Apollo's eyes.
Darkness. Shadows. Screams swallowed by silence.
The same dream — but sharper now.
Still meaningless.
Still terrifying.
Artemis appeared beside him, helping him to his feet. Her touch was cool and grounding.
"You okay, brother?" she asked.
Apollo forced a grin, though his lip stung with every word.
"I'm fine. Just... got ahead of myself "
But deep inside his mind, the shadows lingered.
Something was coming.
And Olympus wasn't ready.
***
Ares' realm should have been a warrior's hall — banners high, trophies gleaming in the cold torchlight. Instead it looked like a battlefield ransacked by its own general. Smashed shields littered the floor. His throne, a giant seat of bronze and iron spikes, was half-shattered by a blow from his own war hammer. He paced around it like a cornered wolf, cursing the Twelve under his breath.
The shame burned hotter than any wound. Banished. Cast out. As if War could be locked out like a stray dog.
He bellowed and flipped a table of weapons with a crash that echoed through the empty keep.
In that echo, a shadow moved — a shape that wasn't quite flesh, nor smoke, nor memory. Black as midnight, slow as leaking ink.
"What do you want?" Ares snarled at the darkness. "Out. Now. Or I'll rip your ribs out and feed them to your mother."
The shadow smiled — though it didn't have a face to smile with.
"Such fury," Moros murmured, voice soft as a graveyard breeze. "Rage is a beautiful thing when it's hungry. But alone? It's just thunder without a storm."
Ares turned on him, eyes flaring red.
"I don't need you. I don't need any of you pitiful shadows."
Moros drifted closer, every word dripping like poison into Ares' ear.
"But you do. You crave the end — you crave their screams, their fall. You crave revenge, don't you? The gods took your throne. Let me show you how to take it back — and how to watch theirs burn in the ashes."
Ares' fists tightened. For a heartbeat he looked almost uncertain — then the shadows behind Moros seemed to coil into his mind like snakes.
His snarl curved into a savage grin.
"I want them dead. All of them."
The darkness around Moros seemed to shudder with quiet delight. The seeds of ruin had been sown — watered by War's own hatred.