The first years of their new lives blurred together in warmth, hunger, and growth.
Elias—no, Chronos now—never forgot who he once was. None of them did. They remembered glowing screens, endless raids, and the laughter of voices carried through headsets. But those memories were fading into the background. This world was different. This world was real.
And here, they were not mortals. They were Titans.
Their mother was no ordinary woman. She was Gaia, Primordial of the Earth, embodiment of all living soil and stone. Her voice was like the shifting of mountains, her presence a weight that pressed against their bones and hearts alike. To mortals, she was the Mother of All. To them, she was simply Mother.
"You are born of me," Gaia told them when they were old enough to understand her words. "Shaped by my essence, carrying my will. The Sky will hate you. The world will test you. But if you endure, you will not just survive—you will become greater than gods."
The cavern they called home stretched vast and luminous. Crystals lined its walls, glowing faintly in hues of blue and green. Hot springs bubbled, keeping the air warm even through the coldest nights. Outside lay danger: forests thick with beasts, rivers with scales glinting like iron, skies haunted by wings.
It was not a place for children. But they were not ordinary children.
Each bore an emblem from birth—a glowing mark etched into their flesh, representing the seed of their divine power.
Chronos: a faint silver hourglass glowing in his palm.
Oceanus: rippling water rings etched across his forearm.
Hyperion: a blazing star at the center of his chest.
Mnemosyne: an unblinking eye at her temple.
Themis: shimmering scales along her collarbone.
Crius: shifting constellations crawling across his back.
Coeus: a radiant scroll carved along his wrist.
Iapetus: a jagged blade etched into his shoulder.
Phoebe: a soft crescent moon across her brow.
Tethys: a spiraling wave curling around her ankle.
Gaia regarded these marks with grave eyes. "These are not blessings. They are burdens. They are the chains of fate, and only through strength will you turn them into weapons."
From the moment they could stand, she thrust them into the wilderness. They were made to forage roots with beasts lurking nearby, to climb cliffs until their hands bled, to hold stones above their heads until their arms shook.
"The earth does not coddle," she said as Chronos collapsed one evening, his palms torn and bleeding. She placed her colossal hand over him, the weight of her essence pressing him to the ground. "The earth hardens. To wield power, you must choose it—again and again."
The siblings endured. They laughed together after each grueling task, bickered when things went wrong, and leaned on each other when exhaustion crushed them. In time, their emblems began to flicker with faint power.
Oceanus would sit by the stream near their cavern, laughing as ripples moved toward him of their own accord. Hyperion clenched his fists until sparks danced across his skin. Mnemosyne remembered entire days perfectly, correcting details others forgot. Themis grew sharp-eyed, her scales glowing whenever she judged right from wrong. Each of them changed slowly, steadily, as the divine within stirred.
But Chronos… was different.
His moment came during one of Gaia's trials. She had ordered them to cross a ravine, using only a fallen tree as a bridge. Below yawned a black abyss, stone fangs waiting to impale.
One by one, his siblings crossed—Hyperion first, fearless, nearly falling twice. Oceanus next, careful and steady. Mnemosyne, quiet, muttering every step under her breath. Chronos went last.
Halfway across, the bark crumbled. His foot slipped. His body pitched forward—
And the world stopped.
The wind froze mid-gust. Pebbles hovered in the air, suspended like stars. His siblings' gasps caught in their throats, their faces frozen in terror. Even his heart seemed to pause.
Only Chronos could move.
The silver hourglass on his palm blazed so brightly it seared his vision. Its sands flowed upward and downward at once, timeless and wrong.
Instinct moved him. He steadied his footing, straightened his body.
The glow dimmed—
And time roared back into motion. Wind screamed, pebbles fell, and his siblings cried out in relief. Hyperion laughed shakily. "Thought you were gone there, Chronos."
But Chronos only stared at his palm, trembling.
That night, he lay awake, staring at the silver glow faintly pulsing in his hand. Fear gnawed at him. Why was his power so unnatural? Why did it feel less like a gift and more like a trap?
Gaia must have seen it in him, for she came to him later. She knelt, lowering her vast form so that her face filled the cavern. Her eyes glowed like molten stone.
"Time," she said, her voice echoing. "The deepest root. The hungriest grave. Few can touch it without being swallowed. Do not waste it. Do not play with it. One day, you will need it—and it will cost you everything."
Her warning carved itself into his bones.
The years rolled forward. They grew stronger. Their emblems brightened. They learned to sense divine essence—the living breath of the world. To cultivate, to draw power from the soil, the river, the stars. Clumsy at first, then sharper, faster, hungrier.
Chronos endured. He told himself he was not cursed. He told himself he would master it. He told himself he would not fail.
But Gaia's words haunted him.
And on the eve of their tenth year, they proved true.
The ground shook. The mountains groaned. The cavern trembled.
Gaia rose, her immense body shimmering with divine essence. Her gaze turned upward, ancient and furious.
"He comes," she said.
"Who?" Oceanus whispered, his ripple-mark glowing faintly.
Gaia's hair flowed like forests in a storm. Her voice thundered through the stone.
"The Sky. The one who hates all that grows from me. Uranus has seen you. And now… he sends his spawn."
A howl tore through the night.
The siblings froze, their emblems glowing faintly, trembling in resonance with the oncoming power.
Chronos' hourglass seared his palm until it burned.
Their first true trial had come.