Another world, a quiet corner of the Underworld.
Týr, Ares, and Atlas—three gods—stood in a strange equilibrium, the atmosphere strained and silent.
Týr remained quiet, the lingering gloom still etched between his brows. Ares looked somewhat restless, occasionally glancing at the silent giant Atlas, then quickly looking away, as if both anticipating and fearing something. Atlas, for his part, was almost indifferent to the existence of the other two gods, standing like a true mountain peak.
Suddenly, Týr recalled the words Boreas had spoken that day.
"Three..."
At the time, he had felt merely teased. But now, looking at the silent combination of 'three gods' before him, an absurd thought flickered through his mind—what had Boreas meant by that?
Three gods? What did it signify? A prophecy? A warning? Or just another tiresome riddle?
He shook his head, suppressing the thought, and remained silent.
At the same time, a valley deep within the Underworld lay empty.
Kronos, the freed former King of Gods, had quietly left the 'temporary dwelling' agreed upon with Hades. His whereabouts had been deliberately erased—by whom?
Upon the Obsidian Throne, Hades's gaze seemed to pierce through layers of obstruction, looking past the empty valley and into the distant future.
His fingertips ceased their drumming.
"Metis," his voice sounded in the silent throne room, not loud.
"Our choice... is it truly right?"
Metis looked up, reached out, and gently smoothed an imaginary crease on Hades's dark robes. Her voice was soft, but carried an iron will:
"My dear, trust me." Her gaze seemed to penetrate time itself. "Trust in them, but trust in yourself as well."
And somewhere in the world of Chaos, on a hidden path leading to the core of 'reincarnation', Prometheus moved forward in silence.
In his hand, he held the god-slaying scythe he had 'obtained' from Metis.
A dark gleam ran along the curved edge of the blade, as if it could reflect the deepest fears of the soul.
Behind him walked his brother, seemingly unaware of what was about to happen—the god of hindsight, Epimetheus.
Their destination was unknown.
A few days later.
News that shocked the gods of Chaos spread quietly—Epimetheus, the god of hindsight, had fallen.
Almost immediately after the news spread, all suspicious eyes turned to the prophet who had been missing for days—Prometheus.
He had been the last to travel with Epimetheus.
In his hand, he held the forbidden weapon capable of utterly slaying a god.
There seemed to be some hidden antagonism, or perhaps complementarity, between his nature and the essence of Epimetheus's power, providing a motive.
The chain of logic coldly and clearly pushed Prometheus into the position of 'prime suspect'. It was almost a foregone conclusion, even for some of the gods.
Between the thrones of Hades, Hades received this news.
Metis's face showed no surprise. She gently took Hades's hand and whispered:
"See, it begins. A necessary cost... But at least the first step has worked."
The corridor deep in the Underworld was dark and silent, save for the sound of water dripping from the obsidian vault, so regular it could almost set one's heartbeat to its rhythm.
Kakia had been standing at her brother's door for three hours.
Her fingers traced the tiny cracks in the doorframe—marks she had left the day before, when she had angrily demanded answers.
From within the door, there was no sound, as if no god resided inside. But she knew Prometheus was in there.
"Open the door." Her voice was cold and hard, echoing down the corridor.
No answer.
Kakia's palms clenched and unclenched.
As the eldest daughter of Hades, she had always been renowned for her calmness and wisdom. But this time, the threads of her reason were nearly frayed to breaking.
Epimetheus, the younger brother who had always been slower, almost simple-minded, had fallen in silence.
And who had last been with him? It was the brother who always saw everything, the one known as the forethinker.
"I know you're in there," her voice dropped lower, carrying a suppressed tremor.
"At least... give me an explanation. Even if it's just a lie."
From within the door came a very faint sound, like the rustle of fabric, but no words followed.
Kakia closed her eyes.
She remembered the last time Epimetheus had come to her—he had been holding a pot of newly bloomed moonflowers, clumsily trying to place them on the windowsill of her study, only to accidentally knock the pot over.
Soil had scattered across the floor, and he had panicked, kneeling to clean it up, muttering, "Sorry, sister..."
At that moment, she had simply sighed, waved her hand to clean the mess, and said lightly, "Be more careful next time."
She hadn't even smiled at him.
If she had known it would be the last time—
"Why him?" Kakia's voice finally cracked.
"If you needed some kind of 'price', why choose him? Why not someone else? Why not..."
Why not me?
She couldn't say it.
But from within the door came a very soft intake of breath. Prometheus had heard.
The door finally opened.
No light emerged from the room, only deep darkness.
Prometheus stood in the shadows, much thinner than Kakia remembered.
His head was lowered, his long hair hanging loose, obscuring his face. His hands were empty—the legendary god-slaying scythe was gone.
Kakia stepped into the room.
"Look at me," Kakia said. "Tell me what happened."
Prometheus slowly raised his head.
Kakia gasped—his eyes, those silver-grey eyes that had always shone with wisdom, were now horribly empty.
The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, his pupils dilated, as if he had seen too many unbearable sights.
He opened his mouth; his lips were cracked. A hoarse sigh escaped his throat, but he couldn't form words.
"Speak!" Kakia grabbed his shoulder, her fingers digging deep into the fabric.
"At least tell me why! What did he do wrong? He trusted you so much—"
Prometheus suddenly squeezed his eyes shut, and two tears traced silently down his cheeks.
He shook his head—not in denial, but in inexpressible pain.
Kakia released her grip.
She looked at the tears on her brother's face and suddenly felt a burning cold.
"You killed him," she heard her own voice, detached and unfamiliar. "You actually killed him."
Prometheus was silent. But his silence was answer enough.
Kakia took a step back, then another.
Her gaze shifted from Prometheus's face, paused on the dark golden bloodstains on the floor, and moved to the corner of the room—where, against the wall, stood a stone pot containing a withered moonflower, exactly like the one Epimetheus had knocked over.
"He will forgive you," Kakia's voice was as faint as a whisper.
"You know that? Even if you killed him, he would forgive you. Because that's the kind of god he is."
She turned away, not looking at Prometheus again.
The door closed softly behind her, sealing two worlds apart.