Damon couldn't help but smile as he remembered the moments he'd shared with Rhea, sometimes alone, other times with one of her sisters, or even all three together.
Right now, he was training with his strange weapon.
He hadn't found anyone who could teach him to wield it with real mastery, so everything he'd done so far had been pure improvisation.
Still, he couldn't complain; so far, it had turned out better than he expected. With his sword and those improvised movements, he managed to win several battles that had looked grim for the brothers and the cyclopes against the Titans.
"This is starting to get frustrating," he muttered to himself, exhaling in defeat.
He couldn't understand how it could be so different from the other swords he'd seen. Everything he'd tried until now had been useless. Every blade had its own way of being handled, its strengths, its weaknesses in battle, but he knew nothing about this one. The only thing he'd noticed was that this particular sword was far more versatile than most.
Damon's arms ached as he lifted the weapon again.
It looked like a sword, but it didn't behave like one. The balance shifted whenever he moved, like the blade couldn't decide what it wanted to be.
The thrust went farther than it should've.
Damon caught himself and clicked his tongue. "This is starting to get frustrating."
He reset and tried again. Same problem. Every time he changed pace or angle, the weapon answered differently—almost like it was reacting to him, not his technique.
He stared at the blade. A normal sword forced you to adapt to it.
This one is adapted to you.
Damon exhaled, "At this rate, I will never master this weapon."
And that made his mind drift back to the last thing Rhea told them.
Other thrones. Other gods. Other dominions.
Not just Titans and Olympians. Entire pantheons with their own laws, some older, some crueler, some so far above Olympus that even Zeus would look small.
Damon tightened his grip.
If that was true, then they weren't only training to win a war.
They were training for what came after, when the world noticed, or maybe they already noticed.
That said, the weapon wasn't completely useless.
It didn't obey technique like a normal blade, but it did obey something else. He had seen it in the forge, how it stopped twisting when he steadied it, how the air thinned around it, how it drank the heat and the sparks like it wanted more than metal.
The longer he stayed near it, the more he felt that stolen "existence" settle into him—quiet, heavy, real. Not a sudden surge, not some dramatic blessing. Just… strength adding itself in layers.
Even his focus felt sharper, like his mind could hold a thought in place the same way he'd held the blade in place.
The sword was storing what it took.
And little by little… it was feeding its maker back.
And if Damon could learn how to use it… it could keep him alive in a world bigger than Olympus.
and ultimately allow him to reach a level beyond just a god.
Hestia found him before the sun fully rose.
Damon was alone in the yard again, running the same drills until his shoulders burned. Slash. Pivot. Thrust. Reset. The blade kept trying to "decide" what it was mid-motion, and Damon kept forcing it back into line with sheer focus.
A soft voice cut through the rhythm.
"You're going to tear something if you keep pushing like that."
Damon paused, breathing hard, and turned.
Hestia stood at the edge of the training space with a simple clay cup in her hands. No armor. No weapon. Just that calm, steady presence she always carried—like the world remembered how to be quiet around her.
She held the cup out. "Drink."
Damon hesitated, then took it. The warmth seeped into his palms. Something herbal—bitter at first, then soothing.
"You've been awake all night," Hestia said, not accusing him. Just stating it.
Damon swallowed. "I couldn't sleep."
Hestia nodded like that was the most normal thing in the world. She didn't look at the sword again. Instead, she looked at him.
"Come," she said softly, and turned without waiting.
Damon followed her out of the yard, past sleeping halls and quiet pillars still holding onto the last warmth of yesterday. The world felt different this early—less war, more home.
They stopped near a small hearth built into the stone wall, one of Hestia's places. It wasn't grand like Zeus's throne room or cold like Hades's corners. It was simple. Real.
Hestia sat on the edge of the step and motioned for him to do the same.
For a moment, Damon didn't speak. He just listened to the faint crackle of embers. The sound made something in his chest unclench.
"You always pick the worst hours," Hestia said, a hint of amusement in her voice.
Damon let out a quiet breath. "It's quieter."
"It's lonelier," she corrected gently.
He didn't deny it.
Hestia's eyes drifted toward the horizon, where the sky was starting to pale. "Do you ever think about how strange we are?"
Damon glanced at her. "Strange how?"
She gave a small smile. "We're fighting Titans… and still somehow acting like siblings arguing over a table."
That pulled a short, real laugh out of him—barely there, but it existed.
Hestia continued, voice calm. "Poseidon acts like the sea is the only thing that matters. Hera acts like control is the same thing as safety.
Hades pretends he doesn't care, but he watches everything."
Damon's expression softened. "And Zeus?"
Hestia's smile faded.
"Zeus is…" She chose her words carefully. "Zeus is bright. Loud. He thinks the world will bend because he demands it."
Damon stared at the embers. "Rhea worries about him."
"I worry about all of you," Hestia said, then added quickly, "and don't look so guilty. It's not your fault. It's just… what I do."
Damon gave her a tired look. "Since when?"
Hestia shrugged. "Since someone had to be the one who remembers we're a family and not a battlefield with names."
That pulled a small smile out of him.
Hestia noticed it immediately. "There. That. Keep that face. It's better than the one you wear when you're trying to become stone."
Damon scoffed quietly. "I'm not trying to become stone."
"Mm," Hestia hummed, unconvinced. "You're doing a great impression, though."
He took another sip of the tea, letting the warmth settle in his chest. "You always make tea."
"I always make tea," she agreed, like it was a law older than Olympus. "If I stop, you'll all start drinking anger and calling it strength."
Damon let out a short breath that almost turned into a laugh. "Poseidon would still find a way to drink the ocean."
"And Zeus would try to turn it into a speech," Hestia said immediately.
That time Damon actually laughed—brief, but real.
Hestia pointed at him. "See? You're not broken."
Damon's smile faded a little as his eyes drifted toward the halls. "It doesn't feel like a family sometimes."
Hestia's gaze followed his. "Because we weren't raised like one," she said.
"We were raised like weapons. And now we're trying to remember how to be people."
Damon didn't answer, but his grip tightened around the cup.
Damon exhaled. "I just want us to make it through this."
Hestia nodded. "Me too."
Then she added, dry as ever, "Preferably with everyone still having all their limbs. I'm tired of healing speeches and bruised egos."
That dragged another laugh out of Damon.
Hestia stood, brushing ash from her hands. "Finish your tea. And when you're done—sleep."
Damon raised an eyebrow. "You giving orders now?"
She leaned closer, smirking. "Someone has to. Zeus certainly can't be trusted with it."
Damon shook his head, but he was smiling again.
For a moment, just a moment, it felt less like Olympus was at war and more like it was a home that still had a heartbeat.
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