The final war Icarion led for the gods shattered more than just kingdoms—it broke something fundamental within his soul. The mortals of the Southern Realm had dared to question divine authority, building temples to their own gods, refusing to bow before celestial decree. Such defiance could not go unpunished.
Before the campaign, Icarion sought an audience with his father. The God of War sat upon his throne of bloodstained gold, weapons of fallen heroes adorning the walls around him. For the first time in centuries, Icarion spoke directly to his father, his voice echoing through the throne room.
"Father, before I depart... tell me what you expect of me."
The God of War's eyes blazed like funeral pyres. "I expect what I always expect. Victory."
"And if I deliver more than victory?" Icarion's hands clenched at his sides. "If I show them power that rivals the gods themselves?"
"Power?" His father's laugh was like armies clashing. "You speak of power when you cannot even purge the mortal weakness from your blood? Do what you were made to do, nothing more."
The dismissal stung worse than any battle wound. Icarion descended to the mortal realm with rage burning in his heart, leading an army that darkened the skies. What followed was not merely war—it was annihilation.
He didn't simply defeat the rebels; he erased their civilization from existence. Cities didn't just burn—they were unmade, their very foundations turned to ash that would never settle. Armies weren't merely slaughtered—they were broken in ways that would haunt survivors' nightmares for generations. He forged rivers of blood that flowed uphill, defying nature itself in his display of power.
The rebel leaders he saved for last. In their final moments, they saw something in his eyes that made them realize they had never truly known fear before. He didn't just kill them—he made their deaths into art, each one a message written in agony and despair: Look upon my power and know that I am no mere tool.
Victory was beyond absolute. It was transcendent.
When he returned to the heavens, his armor still dripping with mortal blood, Icarion approached his father's throne. Divine light reflected off the crimson stains, casting red shadows across the celestial hall. Surely now, after such a display, his father would see him as more than just a weapon.
The God of War barely glanced up from his eternal contemplation of battles yet to come. "You have done well," he said, his voice distant and disinterested. "Now rest until we call upon you again."
The words fell like stones into a deep well. No praise. No recognition. Just another tool put back on the shelf.
Icarion stood motionless, blood still dripping from his armor onto the pristine floor of heaven. "Father," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "I broke them. I showed power that made even the other gods take notice. I—"
"You did as you were made to do," his father interrupted, already turning his attention elsewhere. "Nothing more."
Something snapped inside Icarion at that moment—a break so fundamental it echoed through his very being. The truth he had been fighting for centuries finally crystallized in his mind: "They will never love me. They will never see me as their equal. I am a weapon, nothing more."
He turned to leave, his movements stiff and mechanical, when he overheard voices from the gods' private chamber. They spoke in hushed, fearful tones about the mortal who had defied them—about Kael. Their words carried something Icarion had never heard in their voices before: fear.
Kael had broken free of their chains. He had spat in the face of divine authority and walked away unscathed. And the gods... the gods were afraid.
Jealousy twisted into hatred, a poison so pure it made his divine blood burn in his veins. "How is it," he whispered to the uncaring halls, "that a mere mortal is feared by them... but I am ignored?"
Standing in those celestial halls that had never truly been home, watching his father's attention already drift to the next war, the next tool to be used, Icarion made his vow. His voice was soft, but it carried the weight of centuries of rejection, of power unrecognized, of a son's love turned to ash.
"If I cannot earn their love, then I will earn their fear. If Kael has taken their attention, then I will take everything from him." His fingers traced the blood-soaked patterns on his armor. "I will destroy him. And when I do, they will finally see me as I was meant to be."
The blood dripping from his armor sizzled where it hit the celestial floor, leaving marks that would never fade—just like the hatred that now burned in his heart.