The moment he opened his eyes, Hades remembered everything.
Not just this life, fragile and new, but the life before—one where gods were stories told in stone temples, their tales carved into time by mortals. He had been one of those mortals, fascinated by myths, by the gods who seemed both magnificent and flawed. He'd lived an ordinary life, but his fascination with one god in particular—Hades, the quiet ruler of the underworld—had consumed him.
And then, somehow, he was here. He was Hades, not the myth, not the misunderstood figure, but a living god, newly born into the world of the Titans.
Yet his awakening was brief. Before he could comprehend the enormity of his reincarnation, Kronos arrived. The Titan loomed, vast and terrifying, his hunger palpable. Hades barely had time to cry out before the world went dark.
The belly of Kronos was not what he expected.
There was no fire, no screaming torment. Instead, the space was a void—alive and pulsing, yet eerily silent. It felt timeless, a liminal space where nothing could grow, yet everything waited.
Hades floated in the darkness, his divine form raw and unshaped. But he was not helpless. Unlike the others who would follow him, he carried knowledge. He knew how this story would unfold.
Zeus.
The name burned in his mind like a warning. Hades didn't hate his youngest brother—not yet—but he remembered the myths. He remembered how Zeus would take the throne, how his lightning would overshadow everything.
Hades clenched his fists, his form flickering faintly in the void. No. This time, things would be different.
He began by testing the boundaries of his prison. The void resisted at first, its shadows thick and sluggish, but Hades pressed on. He willed the darkness to move, to obey him. Slowly, the shadows responded, swirling and coiling like serpents around his feet.
"Good," he murmured to himself, his voice low and steady. "I am not powerless here."
The work was slow. Days passed, then years—though in Kronos' belly, time was meaningless. Hades immersed himself in the shadows, shaping them into blades and shields, dissolving them and starting anew. He learned to meld with the darkness, to let it conceal him completely. It was more than a tool; it was a part of him.
Beyond the void, he could sense the faint hum of life—the mortal world, vibrant and fragile. And beneath it, deeper and quieter, was the pulse of death. It was not a violent force, but a steady rhythm, as constant as the tides.
Hades reached for it, letting its flow wash over him. He could feel the weight of it, the balance it demanded. Death was not chaos or destruction; it was order. It was justice.
He practiced judgment in the silence, imagining the choices he would make when he was free. He would not be swayed by emotion or the whims of his siblings. Justice, like death, demanded clarity.
But as he worked, a thought lingered in the back of his mind. Zeus.
He knew his brother would be the last to come. He knew Zeus would rise, overthrow their father, and lead them to freedom. But what then? The myths painted Hades as the outsider, the unwanted king of the underworld, overshadowed by Zeus and Poseidon.
Hades let the shadows swirl around him, their movements deliberate and slow. That would not happen again. He would not be dismissed, nor would he bow to Zeus.
"I was the first to be swallowed," he said aloud, his voice a deep rumble in the void. "And I will be the first to rise."
Time passed, and Hades continued to grow. His connection to his domains deepened with every moment, his understanding of death, darkness, and justice becoming sharper. He knew the others would come—his siblings, unaware of what awaited them.
When they did, he would be ready. For now, he worked in silence, shaping himself into the god he needed to be.
And when the time came, no one—not even Zeus—would command him.