The Wrath of Styx
The depths of the Underworld were silent, yet never still. The River Styx flowed like a black serpent through the shadows, its waters carrying ancient whispers and unbreakable oaths. Upon its rocky banks, shrouded in spectral mist that writhed around her, the goddess watched the slow and relentless course of her own essence.Styx had never been merciful. That was never her role. She was the guardian of oaths, the witness of sacred vows, the enforcer of the price of betrayal.
And the gods of Olympus, blinded by their own arrogance, had dared to break the promise sealed in her name once again.She had known from the beginning that the Oath of the Big Three was nothing more than an empty promise, dictated by fear and paranoia. Yet, like all things sworn under her dominion, their words had woven themselves into the very fabric of fate, an unbreakable thread spun by the Moirai.
This granted her a power the Olympians could never comprehend: the ability to see the chosen futures, to glimpse the paths laid by the Fates. And those paths, inevitably, led to the blood of gods spilled upon mortal soil.The dark waters flowed dense and turbulent, an eternal current of power and ruin. Amidst the treacherous waves, her form rose—ethereal, imposing, inseparable from the river itself.
Her eyes, two unfathomable voids of darkness, reflected the secrets of destiny. Her skin was pale as drowned marble, her long, flowing hair writhing like submerged chains. She wore a black mantle speckled with dead stars, and her presence whispered both promises of glory and foretellings of doom.She was furious.
For Zeus had broken his word once more. And Poseidon, his brother, had swiftly followed.The king of the gods, in his eternal arrogance, believed himself beyond consequence, that his position would shield him from immutable laws. But he was mistaken. The oath had been sworn by the Big Three, and though the prophecy centered on the Greek aspect of the gods, Zeus and his brothers had been careless in their wording.
They had not realized that, by sealing this pact under her domain, they had left room for their own undoing. For Destiny, like the rivers of the Underworld, made no distinction between sides.Her gaze settled upon the threads of fate, weaving and intertwining in endless possibilities.
There lay the prophesied children—Thalia, daughter of Zeus, the unborn Roman half-brother, and the other… the one whose future remained uncertain, yet was fated to bathe in her waters.Her lips curved into a cold smile.
Then, with the precision of a master weaver, she touched the threads.It was a subtle gesture, almost imperceptible, yet filled with power. The poison spread through the fabric of fate like cracks upon thin ice, invisible until it was far too late. Not even the Fates themselves could undo the damage without completely unraveling those heroes.
Their fatal flaws would be magnified, their choices corroded, their destinies entwined in a cycle of suffering from which even time would not set them free.And when all was said and done, the gods would finally feel the weight of the wrath of fate itself.
At the same moment, in another corner of the Underworld, where the rivers of forgetfulness and oath never met, another fate was being shaped. While Styx wove her vengeance into the threads of the future, the waters of Lethe lay still, ready to erase the memories of an ancient soul. But that night, under the shadow of forces even the gods did not fully understand, something would slip beyond control.
For destiny, once touched by the wrath of a goddess, would never follow the expected course.
In the silent domain of death, a soul walked through the mists. He had already chosen— a decision made with the weight of centuries upon his shoulders. Odysseus, the king of Ithaca, the strategist of a thousand cunning victories, had refused the Elysian Fields, rejected the eternity of the Isle of the Blessed.
He wanted to be reborn.
He wanted to find her. Penelope. His wife, his anchor, the only constant in a world of capricious gods and endless wars. And so, he approached the waters of Lethe, ready to forget, to begin again.But that day, the river of forgetfulness was restless. Invisible to the eyes of the dead, the shadow of Styx loomed over the currents, her influence already woven into the fabric of fate.
When Odysseus' soul touched the waters, something went wrong. Forgetfulness came…
but not completely.
Fragments remained, like shards of glass beneath the skin.
The feeling of battle, the instinct for survival, the memory of bloodstained hands.
He emerged from the river without understanding the weight he carried, unaware that the goddess of oaths had tainted his essence, preventing the past from truly dying.
And so, he was reborn.
Odysseus became Perseus Jackson, son of Sally and Poseidon. A prince of the sea, cursed to fear the waters of his own father. He would grow up without remembering Ithaca, without knowing the name of Penelope, but he would bear invisible scars. Every battle, every betrayal, every loss would echo within him as if he had lived it all before.
Because, in the end, fate never forgets.