A couple of days had passed since the meeting.
Aetherion stood alone in the heart of his personal training grounds, where moonlight kissed the trees and starlight shimmered across the grass like dew.
His cloak rustled behind him in the breeze as he moved in deliberate, flowing patterns—each motion honed, refined, and sharper than the day before.
The ground beneath him pulsed faintly, his divinity syncing with the rhythm of the world around him.
With every punch and sweep of his arm, bursts of starlight surged outward—controlled, compact, precise.
He didn't just unleash power anymore. He commanded it.
Aetherion had learned to outboost—a surge of speed and energy compressed into a single attack.
His movements became blurs, flashes of light weaving through the garden like comets.
He exhaled slowly as he finished a sequence, his breath steady, his star pupils glowing faintly.
He needed more power—not just to be strong, but to be capable of protecting the ones he cared for.
To free his siblings, still trapped inside the monstrous will of Kronos.
And to be strong enough not to worry about that weapon of Kronos—the Scythe of Doom, Thanatou.
That thought alone drove him harder each day.
But now… he had a plan.
And because of that, for the first time, he felt hope.
He smiled faintly to himself, the moment playing back in his mind—the way Gaia and Rhea reacted when he asked about a potion strong enough to make Kronos throw up.
His mother mentioned someone she knew—someone quite intelligent and possibly capable of creating a potion.
When she answered, Aetherion had a good idea of who she meant.
After all, in the myths, there was one person known for making such a potion—the future first wife of the king of the gods, Zeus.
"Probably Metis,"
he muttered under his breath, chuckling softly.
"If anyone could pull that off, it'd be her."
He continued training, shifting into one of his newer techniques—his Moonlight illusion.
In the pale glow of the moon, he forged weapons from divine energy: spears, blades, even scythes.
They spun around him in graceful arcs, like birds in flight.
Then, with a small surge of focus, he changed form—projecting an illusion of himself that launched forward with lethal intent.
The illusion struck a dummy with such speed and precision, it might have fooled even the gods.
But in the place where the illusion struck, something remained—a weapon.
A Moonlight Sword, a Moonlight Scythe, and a Moonlight Spear—each one embedded where the illusion had landed.
This was Aetherion's new technique.
A technique that allowed him to transform any Moonlight weapon—or any weapon he created—into an illusion of himself or something else entirely.
And while appearing as an illusion of himself, it possessed a kind of autonomous will—able to move independently.
It looked like him, yet it wasn't him.
It had no soul.
But it had purpose.
An illusion with a will of its own.
A shadow made from steel and moonlight.
Deadly—because when the enemy thinks they've landed a hit on you, but all they've struck is a weapon in disguise…
By the time they figure it out?
They're already cut down.
Aetherion rubbed the back of his head, watching it vanish in a flicker of light.
"Okay… that's kind of strong,"
he admitted with a grin.
But even with these new abilities, he wasn't done.
There was something else—something deeper.
Aetherion held out his hand, letting strands of golden-green light flow from his fingertips.
His life energy—vibrant, pure, alive.
He was experimenting with the idea of weaving it into threads—or vines—capable of connecting to the life forces of others.
If successful, he might one day control divine beings like puppets— which would be a great help in the war to come—for his allies, to protect them, to heal them through the threads.
Who knows—he might even be able to restrain or control an entire army in the future, a thought that excited him quite a bit.
It was a dangerous path, and he knew it.
But if he could master it, it could become his greatest strength.
He paused, hands resting at his sides as he stared into the sky.
"I can't win this war alone,"
he murmured.
Aetherion understood that he couldn't win this war without allies or companions.
He needed someone to rely on—because even if he one day became as strong as Kronos, or stronger, there would still be an army behind Kronos willing to do anything to bring him down.
And that was something he couldn't allow.
"I need allies. I need people who will stand with me—not because I command them, but because they believe in what we're fighting for."
And for that… he needed Rhea to succeed.
His mother, the Queen.
The one with influence.
The one who could reach those still inside Kronos' court.
All Aetherion could do now was train… and hope.
***
Far away, across the boundary between realms, beneath the looming shadow of Mount Ohrys—Rhea stood at the edge of Kronos' dominion.
The air here was different.
Heavier.
Oppressive.
The moon hung low in the sky, dulled and weakened, its light no longer proud and radiant but pale… subservient.
Even celestial bodies seemed to bow before Kronos in this place.
Deities walked the polished marble streets with hollow expressions.
Divine attendants and lesser immortals moved like whispers, too afraid to speak too loudly, too quickly, or with too much feeling.
Fear was not an exception here.
It was the law.
Rhea walked through the capital's great hall, her steps calm and regal, her long robes trailing like silver water behind her.
She refused to let the darkness touch her spirit.
Her head remained high. Her posture unbroken.
She was still Queen.
And if nothing else, she would carry herself like one.
She passed under towering pillars carved with images of Titan victory, and under the eyes of guards who did not meet her gaze.
Some once revered her. Now they feared her husband more.
But she wasn't here for them.
She was looking for two.
Two she trusted more than any others.
She found them near the back of the council chambers, speaking in low tones—Prometheus, He had long, messy brown hair that reached down to his med bag.
Standing at six feet eight inches tall, he stood with his arms crossed and sharp eyes—eyes that looked as if they were focused on the future… or perhaps the present shaped by the past.
and next to him was a woman, She had pale blonde hair—almost white—and a voluptuous, curvy figure.
Her eyes were hidden beneath a cloth that made it impossible to see them, yet her face was excruciatingly beautiful.
Her hips were slightly wider than Rhea's, and she wore a white toga that hugged her body. Her skin was fair and flawless.
The woman was Themis, standing like a blade in human form—stern, beautiful, and always on edge.
They turned at her approach.
Prometheus offered a small nod, one corner of his lips lifting in what might have been a knowing smirk.
"Rhea," he said. "I assume you're not here for pleasantries."
Themis, however, stepped forward, her voice tight with suppressed fury.
"What took you so long?" she asked. "You've seen what he's become, haven't you? This is no longer a kingdom—it's a cage."
Rhea didn't flinch.
"I know," she said quietly. "That's why I'm here."
The three stood in a triangle, the shadows of Kronos' palace swirling around them, the weight of rebellion growing heavier with every breath.