✩ ━━━ chapter nineteen, requiem in d minor. ❝Telling myself I won't go there. Oh, but I know that I won't care, tryna wash away all the blood I've spilt. This lust is a burden that we both share, two sinners can't atone from a lone prayer.❞

GODS DRAW THEIR STRENGTH NOT JUST FROM WORSHIP OR THRONES BUT FROM THE ESSENTIAL ROLE THEY PLAY IN SHAPING AND GOVERNING VARIOUS ASPECTS OF THE WORLD. Their domains, responsibilities, and the influence they hold over various aspects of human life and the natural world are what truly empower them—From Zeus's control over the sky to Aphrodite's dominion over love and desire, each god's unique domain contributes to the intricate balance of the cosmos. The thrones serve as a focal point for their divine energy, comparable to a conduit for their abilities. Their destruction severs their connection to these domains, weakening their divine authority and diminishing their power. Without them, they become vulnerable.

Driven by a surge of sentimentality, Micah chose to destroy Dionysus's throne first.

The god of wine-making isn't a threat, undeserving of being regarded as an adversary to the House of Midnight when the likes of Ares or Hephaestus serve Zeus. His existence held as much significance as the fading sun in an eternal night. He fell short of the remarkable Zagreus—Dionysus represented a blemish, utterly repugnant to Micah, nothing more than a subject of mockery, unworthy of respect or regard. His absence would be barely discernible.

It would be more sensible to weaken a god like Ares or Athena, but a leaden weight settled upon Hiroki's chest all those years ago, an anchor of sorrow that pulled at the very core of his being. Hestia and Micah's brothers are right; he is soft-hearted. Memories plague him like distant stars scattered across the night sky, never reachable but always present, the death of each heavenly constellation resurrecting memories of his previous life like a ghost of a moment once lived. The echoes of his past never truly wane—The heaviness of Hiroki's pain lingers in the vast expanse of his heart. And so, as Micah gazes at the thrones, he yearns for closure. A sense of justice that can never be fully realized.

You'll be lucky if you don't become an orphan within the hour! What will your dad do—Run to his mommy again, huh?

Micah isn't Hiroki; Still, he wanted to see Dionysus bow before him, pleading for absolution that would forever remain out of reach. He'll never forgive. It is the only thing he can do for Hiroki.

Morpheus, attuned to every awful facet of Micah, chuckled as he recognized his brother's thoughts.

"Good, little brother!" The god of dreams erupted in cheers, applauding as the half-blood made his way toward a particular throne, scythe gripped firmly in his hand. "Dionysus will be the first to pay for what he has done! Excellent choice, little brother! Truly, you've matured wonderfully! If you keep it up, I'll give you a gift that's even more special later!"

Micah devoted himself to the collective gaze of the assembled deities, their eyes fixed on his every movement and gesture, unconcerned by his brother's pointless remarks. He could sense the weight of their hopes, and expectations bearing down upon him, the phantom presence of his grandmother urging him towards the colossal thrones that loomed ahead, awaiting his ascension.

His veins surged with a seething hatred as he raised the scythe aloft.

Dionysus has grown weak, his strength diluted by his unrestrained indulgence in pleasure and subsequent punishment, a weakness that has extended to his symbol of power. Under the brutal assault of Kronos' scythe, the marble throne shattered like a delicate sandcastle, its former glory reduced to a mere heap of debris. An unrestrained flood of divine power imbued the scythe in his grip, infusing each blow he unleashed with an ominous aura that trailed behind it, infecting all it brushed against with a sinister shroud, a poisonous threat stemming from the very heart of cruelty. The groaning collapse of broken marble passed through the hall and echoed off the walls, eclipsing all other sounds in its wake. An outpouring of cheers ensued as the deities celebrated the destruction of Dionysus's symbol of power, a symphony of applause and exultation filling the air.

As the ancient debris settled, Micah stood amidst the wreckage, unable to smile.

One of twelve, he thought as his gaze swept across the room, his proud brothers standing steadfastly by his side like two pillars of strength. It was just the first step, after all. Despite his power being greatly reduced, the god still lived. Micah will have to correct that soon enough.

The scythe's malice felt like it was seeping into his very bones as he held it.

Power belongs to those who take it.
Out loud, he addressed the deities gathered around him.

"The Olympians will soon return," he proclaimed, his voice booming through the chamber like a thunderclap. "They'll forsake humanity to Typhon's destruction because they only care about maintaining their power. We will show them why you—the so-called minor gods—deserve to rule in opposition to their self-centered ways! We will reclaim Olympus from their tyrannical grasp and serve out justice to all beings!" His voice grew more potent with each sentence, his resolve casting forth an aura akin to a blazing fire—the Ambrosia igniting his veins. "We have witnessed the damage their carelessness and indifference have caused. It is time for us to unite—to stand against their cruelty! We are ready. Here, with the ruins of the first throne, we have proven ourselves! Let them come, for we are prepared to challenge their reign and claim our rightful place as the new gods of this realm!"

The deities hung on every word; their expressions vibrant with renewed fervor. Having dwelled in the shadows of the major gods for far too long, their abilities belittled and their voices dismissed, it would end now. Olympus' greatest mistake had been underestimating them.

Serpens nisi serpentem comederit non fit draco—A serpent must have eaten another serpent before he can become a dragon.

And as the deities began to attack the thrones, shouting and raising their weapons, their divine strength wreaking havoc in a magnificent display of raw power, Micah stood among them. Under the command of the Agrarian gods, vines covered in thorns and viperous foliage sprouted from the ground, winding their way around pillars and statues as if attempting to devour them. Spiritual animals summoned by the Theoi Nomioi manifested in the form of massive pests and majestic birds of prey, circling above the chaos, their piercing screeches and haunting howls adding to the cacophony. With their razor-sharp talons, white-feathered falcons swooped down from the air, shredding the portraits of the gods and adding to the disarray that engulfed the throne room. The wrathful force unleashed by the gods was overwhelming, relentless; Micah acknowledged that if it hadn't been for the ambrosia he had consumed in the weeks prior, he would be struggling to simply remain standing in this cataclysmic conflict. Now, the scythe he held seemed almost weightless in his grip, the Titan's unyielding power coursing through him naturally, akin to the flow of sand through an hourglass. And as Eos, the goddess of dawn, and Lampetia, daughter of the faded sun Titan Helios, unleashed a blinding display of their combined abilities, Micah walked to Apollo's throne, swung the scythe, and counted, two of twelve.

Marble fragments scattered in every direction. Flames soared and cavorted from the goddesses, imitating the mania that saturated the atmosphere, burning the tapestries that hung on the walls. Divine fire consumed all in its path, transforming the once-decorated surroundings into a scene of charred desolation. Micah lifted the scythe and struck again, each hit sending shockwaves through the air and causing the ground to tremble beneath their feet.

In the distance, the rumble of thunder grew steadily louder, resonating through the air. Dark clouds converged overhead, shrouding the previously serene sky. The return of the Olympians was imminent, their power surging through the atmosphere. It did not matter; They were no longer willing to be cast aside as mere minor gods but instead were ready to rise and demand the recognition they deserved.

With the House of Midnight, they'll rewrite the order of the divine realms and usher in a new era.

And as Micah delivered the last blow with gritted teeth, a deafening explosion echoed through the chamber. From the vastness of the sky above, Zeus' thunderbolts descended, roaring as their strikes shattered the roof. Debris and fragments cascaded down, threatening to crush the wounded son of Hypnos. In an instant, Phantasos extended his wings to create a protective covering over Micah's body, ensuring his safety.

"Are you prepared, Brother?" Phantasos asked, his voice barely audible over the barrage of destruction. Micah responded with a brief nod. His grip on the scythe tightened, knuckles whitening as he readied himself. With a mischievous wink, the god of fantasy told him, "We only need family, after all," before vanishing into the midst of the battlefield.

Swifter than the rest of the Olympians, Hermes was the first one to arrive, his winged sandals casting back the flames as he observed the unfolding battle. Amidst the wreckage of devastation, the god stood unperturbed, a beacon of composure, as his gaze sought out a singular figure.

Micah's expression darkened as he recalled May Castellan's emaciated form, the humiliation that had veiled her eyes while discussing her fractured family in those rare moments of sanity. Three, he promised to the woman.

On her behalf, he will make things right.

Suddenly, a laugh pierced the air, its melodic notes dazzling through the desolate halls of the gods, reminiscent of a songbird singing on a sweltering summer night. As if summoned by the very essence of light, Hemera materialized in a burst of splendor. Her radiant form was adorned in robes that held captivating shades of blue and gold, shimmering and twirling like the louds of a dawn sky, her flowing golden curls dancing with the very spirit of daybreak. As she moved, it was as if time itself slowed down, as if the world paused to bask in her presence. She was beautiful; her smile radiated warmth and delight as she soared to witness the devastation that had befallen Apollo's once-proud throne. Without Apollo wholly subsuming her, the primordial goddess of the day could reclaim her rightful role as the harbinger of light, free to rekindle her strength without the looming fear of gradual fading.

"Welcome, my kin! My beautiful family!" Morpheus cried out in rapture, his voice almost lost amidst the raucous cheers and frenzied screams that had seized every god in the throne room. Through the shattered remnants of the roof, Eris and Oizys materialized in the form of dark, billowing smoke. They were followed by Moros, Momus, and Apate, each Daimon deity emerging from the shadows with an air of malice innate to the children of Nyx.

The ground trembled beneath them. Micah couldn't allow himself to be distracted.

He maneuvered to avoid being swept off course by the blood-thirsty deities, sidestepping divine creatures and steering clear of the crumbling pillars. He couldn't breathe, the air polluted with smoke, weighted by an overwhelming, tangible ache of disaster as the daimon deities unshackled their powers, causing the very walls of the throne room to splinter and crack. Still, he headed for Hermes' throne, using the scythe as support for his faltering steps, his body wracked by fits of coughing. Divine bulls charged blindly as more Olympians arrived, trees with twisting roots arising from the cracks in the marble floors and withering within seconds; falcons screeched as they were shot down, erupting into clouds of sand as Artemis' arrows pierced through their hides, her eyes contorted in wrath, streaked with tears; They must have left Apollo behind, prioritizing the return to Olympus over her twin.

High above her, having spotted the one he had been searching for, Hermes cried out with his hand extended, "Luke!"

With a strained cry, Micah brought down the scythe, its gleaming blade slicing through the air with a haunting whistle. The force of his strike on the throne sent shockwaves through the ground, causing cracks to spiderweb across the marble floors. He stood still, his breath ragged, blood pouring freely from his lacerated back.

Three of twelve—Hermes plummeted to the ground, unable to reach his son.

"Someone hide Kronos' vessel!" He ordered out. He cannot afford to stop now, even if it kills him; he has to topple as many thrones as he can before Kronos' own is obliterated on Mount Othrys, dissipating the power of the scythe and scattering the Titan King. Micah swayed, a dizzying sensation overtaking him. He fought to maintain his balance, vision blurring as he struggled to stay upright, his senses overwhelmed as frigid fear crept up his spine—the energy of Tartarus pulsed through the air. Night would be falling soon, and with it, Nyx would come.

Just as he was beginning to falter, a strong hand closed around his forearm, its grip unyielding.

Phobetor had returned.

He did not smile. His brother's expression remained cold and hardened, devoid of any emotion, lacking Hemera's warmth or the ardor that emitted from their other brothers. His hold on Micah did not relent as they both watched the primordial goddess of the day cast her glow upon the charred remnants, illuminating what remained—The Hall of the Gods, which had once been a sight of opulence with its marble pillars and golden accents, now reduced to a haunting ruin, three thrones shattered and reduced to mere rubble, the others desecrated and awaiting the same fate. The flames, unwavering in their ferocity, had spared no compassion; their heat flickered upon Athena's shield as she clashed with Momus, her spear confronting his malevolent grin head-on. The god of mockery seemed to revel in their collision, his laughter echoing through the devastated hall. From the heavens above, Zeus descended, his form enshrouded in a cloak woven from thunder and lightning, his eyes ablaze with a seething fury. Every footfall he took sent tremors radiating through the ground, shaking the very ruins beneath his feet. As he approached the battle, his voice boomed through the air, commanding both gods to cease their destructive clash.

"Enough!" Zeus thundered, his voice echoing across the battlefield. "This senseless fighting must end now!"

No one halted. Instead, their fury intensified.

Senseless, Zeus called it. The Hall of the Gods, containing merely twelve thrones.

Camp Half-Blood, where funeral pyres for children outnumber living heroes.

As the eons stretched on, the toll of casualties continued to rise in the name of the pantheon, a relentless count that showed no hint of reaching a resolution. Why wouldn't Zeus perceive it as a senseless endeavor, given that he himself remains unchanged, immersed in the deceptive allure of immortality?

Micah's head throbbed relentlessly, a steady rhythm of discomfort. Above, Hemera unleashed a blazing surge of fire, hurtling it toward Zeus, enveloping him in its scorching embrace. As the flames licked at his immortal flesh, Zeus refused to yield. Bolts of lightning and tongues of fire illuminated the scene, giving birth to fleeting bursts of light; All that remained was a bleak expanse of ashes.

Who is like God? Micah pleaded with himself feverishly. I am, I am, I am.

When he spoke, Micah's voice quivered slightly, betraying the depth of his emotions as he voiced the question that had been haunting him since the last time they met. "Are you disappointed in me, brother?" He asked, wishing he could possess the strength he lacked to face the answer.

Phobetor's response was short. "No—You are a child."

Micah fell silent. Unconsciously, he lifted a hand to his nose, fingers trembling slightly.

They were smeared with liquid gold. Ichor dripped from his nose.

No, not ichor. Human blood—scorching like molten gold, thickened with ambrosia.

He struggled to dislodge his brother's grip from around his forearm, but Phobetor's hold only tightened. Micah winced as his brother's fingers dug into his skin, leaving faint crescent-shaped marks. "The thrones," he tried to explain, his voice taut with desperation. "Grandmother—"

"Silence." Phobetor commanded. "Father is coming. Will he feel pride, do you believe, once he comes to know that his family led to the death of his youngest? That the very sons meant to protect him became the catalyst for his downfall?" He spoke with an undeniable weight of finality, his words reaching an unquestionable conclusion as he said at last, "Still, child. No more for you."

Micah's heart pounded within his ribcage. His gaze flickered across the wreckage that had enveloped the throne room, seeking an avenue to break free from his brother's clutches. Phobetor would not understand—It had been Micah who had spent countless years at Nyx's side within the Mansion of Night, ensnared in the depths of Tartarus. It was Micah, the one chosen by his grandmother, who had persevered through every trial, every beating, every degradation, enduring every torment Nyx had devised, all in the pursuit of becoming strong enough to save his family. It was Micah who has obediently fulfilled every command he has been given since the moment his grandmother left him to crawl from the waters of the River Lethe. Phobetor was born a god—He could not understand—It wasn't a god who had to stand by the Olympians, enduring every single one of Aphrodite's unwanted touches, Athena's condescending remarks, Ares' relentless aggression. Who had to smother whimpering newborns until they fell silent, stripped of their precious lives because Zeus could not be bothered to uphold an oath. It was Micah who lost his only chance at happiness, obligated to betray the one he loves—For them, he did it for them. It was not a god who had to bear the burden of their cries and tears, the haunting echoes of their stolen innocence. It was him.

How could his brother tell him to stop now, when he was without choice?

It was Micah, and no other, who understood that failure was simply not an option.

If his brother remained unyielding, so be it. If he was a child in his eyes, so be it. There was nothing left of him, either way. And so, Micah yelled. "ZEUS!" he called with all his might over the booming of battling gods, a grin escaping at the sheer absurdity of his brother's startled expression and the manner in which he scrambled to muffle Micah's mouth. "Zeus, you fucking coward! You may have the power, but I have the will!"

Amidst the carnage, the words barely rose above a whisper, yet Micah's voice persisted with unmistakable defiance.

"Silence!" Phobetor hissed, his face contorting with bewilderment; Micah laughed as if it were a game between siblings. Undeterred, he persisted in taunting the King of the Gods, his voice gaining volume and confidence with each uttered word. As his brother's hand clamped over his mouth, Micah reacted instinctively, biting blindly into anything he could—into flesh without a second thought. Desperation and the cacophony of his racing heartbeat surged in his mind, urging him to retaliate. The metallic tang of blood flooded his mouth as he sank his teeth deep, the scythe slipping from his grasp as he began to scratch at Phobetor's arm. The animalistic behavior was enough to shock the god—Phobetor released his grip, taken aback by the unexpected resistance. His brother was always well-behaved, striving to be the perfect son. But in that moment, all sense of decorum and restraint had vanished, replaced by a primal instinct to survive. With each pointless scratch, his brother's desperation revealed itself—a vulnerability that Phobetor had never witnessed before.

Summoning his last bit of strength, Micah shouted one last time, his throat raw and hoarse from the exertion, a fervent challenge to Zeus and all the Olympians who had desecrated him. "Zeus!" He yelled, struggling out of his brother's arms as the god of nightmares tried to restrain him again. "My father bested you before! I will simply finish what he started!"

It wasn't Zeus who replied; he was too preoccupied to even notice Micah, locked in fierce combat with Nyx's daughters as Hemera, Keres, Eris, Nemesis, and the Arai swarmed around him. Instead, a voice spoke mere feet away, dripping with a mixture of repulsion and scorn. "Look at this disobedient mutt, barking around like he's immune to getting snuffed out just like his damn sorry family."

From across the hearth, Ares' eyes bore into Micah, seething with unfettered fury, flames of wrath flickering in the depths of his gaze. Though mere feet apart, the expanse between them felt like an insurmountable chasm; There was nothing but rage on his face.

Micah's laughter grew louder in response to the god's words, a mocking melody that seemed to echo through the air, amplifying the tension around them. Ares' outrage grew, the atmosphere thickening with hostility as Micah's amusement seemed to stoke the flames even further.

Phobetor advanced, his gaze narrowing as he readied himself to protect his brother. However, before he could make a move, Micah raised his hand, a faint smile gracing his slit lips. When he spoke, he could feel a trail of blood beginning to trickle down his chin from the cut. "Filth teaches filth," the son of Hypnos taunted the god. "I am what you made me, mutt."

"You know the real reason I gave you a chance?" Ares spat the question with venom, his voice dripping with acerbic contempt. "You were downright vicious—A fuckin' runt, tearing apart the throats of anyone dumb enough to question you. Now look at you!" The god let out a scoff, his gaze sweeping over Micah's bruised and blood-soaked figure, a clear expression of disappointment evident throughout his features. "Sad Micah," Ares sneered with twisted mockery, "terrified that the people he loves will see him for what he really is—A stupid little errand boy, deceived by everyone, transformed into a mindless servant. Convinced that he is nothing more than a waste of air if he can't be of service, descending deeper and deeper into despair until he finally decides that he needs to take matters into his own hands. But let me clarify something for you, mutt. You don't have a damn future, and you know it. The gods were itching to snuff you out from the start, all because you had the audacity to strut around like some kind of special shit, and Zeus?" Ares chuckled, muscular arms rising as the very Earth trembled in response to the rumbling fury of thunder. "Oh, he gets off on smiting arrogant little bitches like you."

Micah's gaze remained fixed on the god, still smiling amid the tempest of cutting words that assailed him. The verbal onslaught, a torrent of jagged syllables, washed over him like a bitter rain, yet he stood unmoved; He could not feel. Faintly, he could hear Morpheus calling his name.

"Order him to smite me," Micah challenged with an air of indifference, his steps unsteady as he moved away from his silent brother. He sighed as he picked up the scythe again; Locking his eyes with Ares, he said at last. "Tell him to strike where I stand. What difference would it make for us? He is already as ruined as I am."

He turned his back to the god of war.
What torment could Ares possibly inflict on him at this point?

When he had survived the amnesiac waters of the River Lethe, Micah was plagued by recurring nightmares, the lingering echoes of memories infesting his slumber night after night. Adrift without a sense of purpose or identity, utterly alone, his mind transformed into a haunting theater where unsettling visions played out on an unending loop. He was the son of Hypnos, Chiron had told him; all his dreams have meaning, a glimpse of the hidden truths of the world. He did not feel powerful. Only fearful, cursed, damned to see what was meant to remain unseen, tormented by the weight of his visions.

Back then, he had nightmares of meeting God. He would cry, admitting repentance, begging for atonement. I did not want to be me, he would cry, ashamed of his resentment. I did not want to be me, I did not want to be me. Each time, God would drive his hand into Micah and rip him apart, and Hiroki would bleed and be squeezed until he burst into confetti of flesh and organs. His bones would shatter under the overwhelming force, and his screams would echo through the darkness.

God isn't real now. He has lost his faith in the existence of a higher power. How could he, when Olympus was crumbling around him and his grandmother condemned him with the name Micah? How cheap must divinity be if it is so close to someone as filthy as him?

Who is like God? Micah condemned himself. I am, I am, I am.

And as Artemis let out a scream that pierced the air, conquered by Hellhounds that sought for her throat, Micah noticed how not a trace of regret stirred within him. Oizys reveled in the agony of Hermes, who cradled his son's unbody, while Aphrodite's anguished cries echoed through the air, tormented by Geras as he taunted her with the erosion of her once-glorious beauty, and within Micah, an emptiness devoid of all sensation consumed him. The cage that imprisoned him for years had been destroyed, along with any remnants of his humanity. Tartarus will be the only home he knows from now on; God has died, and so will Zeus, and only Nyx will remain, because that is Micah's will.

The night will always come, swallowing everything in its darkness, and Micah will embrace it as his own.

There's no other path for him.

Quem di diligunt, adulescens moritur—Whom the gods love dies young, and Hiroki was the most loved of them all. Micah is just an intruder within these cherished bones, deceiving those who glimpsed Hiroki's face but remained blind to the insidious parasite within him.

A smile of pure delight illuminated Morpheus' countenance as Micah took slow steps towards him, his usually clear eyes now obscured by a shadow of fatigue, the lines of pain around his mouth were impossible to ignore. Even as a blend of crimson blood and thick ichor dripped slowly from his nose, his feverish face marked by streaks of ash and beads of sweat, Micah's countenance projected an unmistakable air of tranquility.

The god of dreams couldn't help but clap and whistle in genuine delight. "My beautiful baby brother!" Morpheus exclaimed in celebration. "I knew you would never disappoint me, so I went through the trouble of getting you a little gift. It took a while to track her down, but your big brother knew nothing else would be as perfect as this!" Phobetor voiced his protest, "Brother, is this truly necessary? We don't need to resort to such extreme measures," but he was silenced, always overshadowed by his older brother's extravagance.

"Necessary," Morpheus retorted with a malevolent grin, "is a matter of perspective. Yet rest assured, there is no better gift for our youngest sibling than this. Brother, if you will!" With a slight motion of his hand, Phantasos brought out the gift.

Micah, who had maintained silence throughout the exchange, suddenly became motionless, rooted to the spot. The world raged onward, an unrelenting tempest of chaos. The gods waged their ceaseless battles, their clashes echoing through the very fabric of existence, each one fighting for dominion over the realms. Eons could pass, yet they would remain oblivious to the siblings gathered by the eternal flame, lost in their own turmoil. In that fleeting moment, the ongoing war held no significance. Micah's entire being was consumed by the gift presented before him.

"It's perfect," Morpheus insisted, mumbling to himself as he witness. He was absorbed by the reaction he had provoked in his younger brother, captivated by the emotions playing across his features. The sight of Micah freezing in response to his gift—The tightening grip of his fists, the gradual draining of color from his pallid face, the widening of his eyes—all of these nuances played out in Micah's face before a surge of murderous rage ignited within him. Morpheus observed with a mixture of delight and fascination as his mortal brother's form seemed to ignite with a golden hue, his eyes ablaze, echoing the blaze of stars he had witnessed in his father's eyes years ago, before Hypnos had lost his edge and grown weaker. Micah's very being trembled, his breath ragged and uneven, ambrosia flowing through his veins, burning.

Enveloped in a cascade of golden hues, he resembled Hypnos.

A content smile played on Morpheus' lips, a silent acknowledgment that his gift had triumphantly awakened the slumbering god within Micah. With a triumphant glint in his eyes, he whispered, "Welcome to your true destiny, brother."

The woman—a goddess—knelt in front of him, her eyes shut tightly with fear. Her eyes were squeezed shut, clenched tightly with the grip of fear. "I plead for mercy." Her voice came as a quivering whisper, the tremor within it echoing her inner turmoil. The vibrant colors that once defined her aura dulled, overshadowed by a haunting pallor brought on by her profound dread. Her delicate butterfly wings sagged, their once-vivid hues wilting into a desolate gray, mirroring the toll that fear had taken on her spirit.

Iris, goddess of the rainbow, kneeled at his mercy.

"What do you think, Brother?" Morpheus asked, unable to fully suppress his laughter.

Micah could only manage to ask, "Why did you do this?"

Phantasos, ever the peacemaker among the siblings, began to explain before Morpheus could launch into a tirade against the half-blood for his perceived lack of gratitude. "Brother, was Iris not the source of all of your childhood tears? Grandmother asked us to give you a gift as a token of her gratitude, and Morpheus came up with the brilliant idea of offering you closure."

"Closure?" Micah's voice echoed, a mere blur amidst the echoes of his own thoughts. He felt suspended between realms, a ghostly presence hovering on the fringes of reality. In the stillness that followed, the word lingered, a heavy and solemn epitaph to the chapters left unfinished.

A strange laughter bubbled forth from his lips, a mirthless exhalation tinged with anguish. His thoughts wandered to Yangyang—of the bright-eyed boy who had been rendered into a grotesque, bloated corpse. The first death he had ever caused, the first person he had been unable to save—these memories, left as a reminder of his most crushing sin. Back then, he had hurt, for long—Just the thought of it evoked a wave of nausea within him, a sickening churn of emotions that threatened to consume his very being. He had ached everywhere since that day, from the depths of his soul to the tips of his fingers.

"Closure?" Micah asked again, his eyes flickering wildly between his brothers and the goddess before him, trying to abate the surge of tears that seared his throat and left him gasping for breath. His dirtied hands trembled as he covered his face, the desire gnawing within to gouge out his own eyes. He would not cry. He tried to breathe, but each inhale felt like a suffocating weight pressing down on his chest. The gods continued to battle, ash continued to rain from the sky, and Micah, unsure of what else to do, asked. "What do you want me to do, brother?"

Phobetor averted his gaze, unable to bear witness any longer. Phantasos placed a comforting hand on Micah's head as Morpheus uttered softly, "Whatever your desire, Brother. Ultimately, the decision is yours." Micah's stomach churned with a sickly unease as the god of dreams impelled him to seize Kronos' scythe, his guidance oddly gentle as he ensured Micah's fingers curled around the handle in the correct manner.

"We used to hear your prayers, Brother." Phantasos admitted softly, his voice tinged with regret. "Following your friend's passing, you would plead with any entity willing to listen. Among them, Iris received the brunt of your prayers. You, the beloved grandson of Nyx, knelt for her. Yet, she turned a deaf ear to your cries, didn't she?"

"She did," Micah acknowledged with a nod. His attention shifted to the scythe's leather-wrapped handle. The weapon he held contained the potential to disperse gods entirely, both their corporeal form and ethereal essence, into fragments so tenuous that reformation would forever remain beyond reach. If only he had been endowed with greater strength, if he had been brought into the world as a god, he could have wielded the might to shatter even Zeus.

The goddess apologized feverishly, unable to stand as Morpheus kept her under his intense gaze, his powers rendering his body imobile. "I'm sorry," she cried. "I'm just so busy—I'm—I'm the messenger for the gods, you see—"

"How many children do you have?" Micah interjected, his tone cutting through her faltering speech with a sharp edge. The goddess winced at the harshness in his voice, her gaze averted. "I have several children," she faltered, her voice barely audible. "I apologize if they have caused any offense to the House of Midnight—"

"1996," Micah began. "New York City. You had a five-year-old son with a mortal man. What was his name?"

"I've had many encounters with mortals," the goddess responded, her voice tinged with panic as Micah advanced slowly toward her. "I cannot recall the specific name you are referring to. My relationships with mortals are short-lived—"

"Not the man," Micah snapped impatiently. "The boy, what was his name?"

The goddess hesitated, her composure wavering. "I... I don't know," she eventually confessed, her voice uncertain.

Micah nodded. He hadn't expected her to know, but the confirmation did not feel like a victory. Iris had ignored him, Yangyang still rotted away, and the world carried on. The weight of these realities clung to him, a constant reminder. He knew he could never forget, and the thought of Iris living without consequences was something he couldn't bear.

Ares could no longer hurt him; Dionysus had no throne. Unless he acted today, Iris would live on in her undisturbed existence, the last among those who had let Hiroki down.

"Why?" He asked simply.
To become god, he had to shed his humanity. His grandmother had been meticulous in severing any ties that could bind him to his mortal lineage. Micah had outgrown those connections. She had painted a vivid picture of the anguish that would envelop Percy if they continued their relationship; to avoid hurting him, Micah had chosen to forsake him.

Closure, Morpheus claimed.
In the flickering firelight, Kronos' scythe gleamed with an enigmatic allure.

"He was just a newborn," Iris attempted to justify, her words tinged with an apologetic undertone, "and our time together was brief. I never thought I would need to remember his name—"

Ignoring the lacerations on his back could lead to a fatal blood loss. Micah wondered if he could ascend to godhood that way—Can a god kill a god? How could he rid the universe of cruelty like Iris?  "You birthed a child, left him nameless, and relinquished him to his father without another thought," he summarized, his voice heavy with accusation. While the goddess yielded to the pressure of Morpheus's hand on her hair, bowing lowly on the ground like Hiroki had all those years ago, Micah's unwavering focus remained fixed upon the scythe in his hands.

"You were pleading for mercy, earlier." Micah recalled how the goddess had begged for her life just moments before. As he tightened his grip on the scythe, a faint smile curved his lips. "He did the same. Blood will tell, I suppose. Do you know who I am, Iris?"

The goddess nodded her head once. Micah grinned and said, "Of course you do. You know my family, as well. Were you aware that Eleos, the daimona of mercy, is my aunt? You were calling her so desperately before, weren't you? It's ironic how mercy seems to elude those who need it the most, but that's just in our nature." Micah's voice dripped with cruelty as he taunted Iris. "His name was Yangyang, by the way. He was so emotional—He cried the entire time he was being toyed with by the storm spirits, just like you are now!" Micah laughed, any trace of amusement fading away as he watched Iris's tears fall. His taunting tone turned soft, then; "I suppose the only difference between you is that he loved you, whereas you didn't even know his name."

Iris's sobs grew louder, her cries lost amidst the tumultuous shouting that erupted in the background, drowning out her wailing. Micah sneered, his face oozing with contempt as he observed her teary eyes, apathy carved into his countenance. "Even as he drowned," he continued, and he made his choice. "He pleaded for his mother to save him. He held onto his faith in you until the last moments of his life."

He lifted the scythe aloft.

However, before he could bring it down in a sweeping arc, a voice that had been absent for an eternity sounded—a voice gentle and warm, in stark contrast to the furious inferno that had devoured the once magnificent throne room of Olympus. "Enough," the voice said, its soothing timbre cutting through the chaos like a ray of light breaking through storm clouds. The flames seemed to lessen in intensity, as if bowing to the authority of the voice.

Micah's grip on the scythe loosened as he turned, his eyes widening as he beheld the figure before him.

Even after everything, he still stared at his son as if the core embodiment of all the love in the universe resided within Micah, as if the brilliance of stars paled in comparison to the light that emanated from his child. His head tilted to the side curiously, a smile overflowing with adoration gracing his lips. "And what, pray tell," Hypnos said, "do you believe you're up to, Little Prince?"

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ! ! !

Micah, thinking he's about to fuck Iris up:
His father: └(^o^)┘

not written but just know Morpheus DIPPED the second he sensed his dad in the area

i'm not good at writing conflict so i'm sorry, either way I wanted to focus on micah's mental decline more than the gods battling so just picture they're still going at it in the background LOL

HOHOHO BUT MICAH AND HIS DAD ive been wanting to write those two for so long eee It's finally happening. I'm sorry again if the chapter is shit, I've been going through it for the past few days and wanted to update before it gets worse...

but anyways yeah! two chapters will be very intense then it's done but there will be another extra chapter and more content afterwards so it's not like it's the end LOLOLOL

okay thank you for reading
pls feel comfortable to share any suggestions ideas critícame anytbing in the comments!!! thank you!!!