God of Storms |The Anak Series| [COMPLETED!]

Twelve

Perseus left Typhon confused. The Lord of the Pit was rising against Olympus. That was a truth as sure as nightfall. He would bring fire and brimstone along with the depths of Tartarus, all the creatures stalking the dark. Hungry, they're all hungry. Tartarus brought creatures older than Olympus. Older and fiercer.

The Olympians stood no chance. They were too weak.

Perseus slid down a ravine, red dust flying behind him. It was bitter in his mouth. Appropriate for a bitter, exiled King of Storms. He should be happy, or at the least, satisfied. He would get his revenge, but . . .

He stopped. He sat down, pulling his knees to his chest. He should be the one to tear Olympus down, but . . .

He was to rule Olympus. What did he want? Perseus didn't know. The Arena had him for now.

It was too warm. The thought flashed in his head, and Perseus immediately drew Celestion and Maros. He was standing. Tartarus was always hot, its black smog thick with heat, but not like this. Perseus watched as the sky turned blood red.

And then it was in front of him. The Fire Spirit, with black armor and fire for skin, it met Perseus' eyes. Lifeless, he thought, and then he remembered. The First Challenge. It was there.

"Hestia?" He asked. His voice was hoarse, worn even to his own ears.

Somehow the Fire Spirit answered. "Yes, Perseus."

His world was spinning. "H-How?" He began.

She told him everything. From news of Olympus to her story, she explained. The Fire Spirit was a shapeless thing, morphing and shifting around its armor, orange, red, and yellow, but that voice belonged to Hestia.

Olympus was in chaos. The Olympians were raising their hosts. Zeus drew his Olympian Guard once more, Poseidon with the might of the seas, and even Hades with his unending army of the dead. Artemis herself had already gone to the battlefield. She met the creatures of the old, again and again. The rest of the Olympians led the legions of Demigods, each with their full might. Athena orchestrated everything; she organized the forces, all of them centered around Olympus.

The humans would surely suffer. Even if the Olympians won, perhaps even all the humans would die, but humans were fickle stubborn things. Against the odds, they might survive, but Perseus was no idealist. Olympus would fall. And when Olympus falls, everything would die.

Hestia had devoted herself to her Fire Spirits. This one was clearly special. It spoke, not with a mouth, but with magic. She went on, telling her tale of magic and such.

Suddenly, Perseus broke in. "Tell me, do they remember me?"

The Fire Spirit seemed to shrink. "No, those who do, pretend that they don't. It's only me, Perseus."

He stopped caring. "What do you want?" The words came harsher than he intended, dripping with hate he didn't know he had.

"Return, Perseus. Make them remember. Save us."

Perseus scoffed, his golden eyes darkening. All the heat of the Fire Spirit was gone. "Why?" He was bitter, exiled, and forgotten. "No. For what? For who? There is no one, nothing," He spat. He was angry, angry beyond reason.

"I am here, Perseus, waiting. I've been waiting for so long."

"Then remember why I am here, Sister." He did not hesitate, nor feel remorse. This was their doing. "Make no mistake," he growled, "all of you will die." His face twisted, harsh and ugly. "I'll be laughing, Sister. Make your battles or cry if you will. It doesn't matter to me."