Thunder cracked again, but this one wasn't Zeus. It ca from the south ridge, where lightning hadn't touched yet. Where the clouds twisted in shades of gray-red, bleeding shadows over the torn earth. Where Iapetus stood like a walking executioner, his greatblade dragging trenches through the battlefield as he moved.
And across from him—Hera.
She stood with her back straight, feet planted. Her long black hair whipped in the stormwind. Her armor was cracked at the shoulder, one gauntlet missing, blood running down her left arm. But Neia—the spear forged by the Cyclopes—still pulsed in her hand like it breathed.
Iapetus smiled. It was sharp and cruel.
"I expected your brother," he said, voice like distant earthquakes.
Hera didn't flinch.
"You got ."
He pointed the massive greatblade at her. It humd with dark resonance, every scratch along the blade holding a curse older than mory.
"Then die like him."
He moved fast—too fast for his size.
But Hera was already in motion.
Their weapons t with a sound that shattered a ridge in the distance. Neia deflected the first swing, but the weight of it cracked the earth under Hera's feet. She slid backward, boots digging into the dirt. She spun, bringing her spear back around and—
[Skill: Serpent Bloom]
The spear blood open at its tip, like a flower of blades, striking in six directions at once. Iapetus barely dodged—his chest grazed, his cheek cut. Divine blood spilled into the dust.
He roared.
[Skill: Titan's Judgent]
He swung his blade in a full arc. The force didn't just move air—it moved space. Hera ducked under it, but the aftershock slamd her into the ground. She coughed blood, rolled, and sprang back up—barely in ti to catch his next blow with the shaft of her spear.
She grunted. Her arms trembled. Her legs scread.
Then she used it.
[Skill: War Pulse]
She shoved the energy out from her chest. The shockwave burst around her like a bubble of wrath, sending Iapetus skidding backward, his heels carving trenches into stone.
But he only grinned.
"You've grown," he said. "Your father would be proud."
"Don't talk about him."
Hera charged.
Their weapons clashed again. And again. And again.
Every strike broke sothing. Rocks. Bones. The sky itself above them started to spin as their powers built and crashed against each other.
Iapetus went wide with his blade, forcing her to leap over it. As she flipped midair—
He caught her leg.
And slamd her into the ground.
Once.
Twice.
She gritted her teeth, refused to scream. On the third slam, she twisted her body mid-impact and—
[Skill: Widow's Coil]
Vines of spectral snakes exploded from her armor, biting into Iapetus's forearms. He roared, stumbled back, and she rose like fire.
She wasn't done.
[Skill: Queen's Mandate]
It wasn't a title yet. But the power inside her knew what it would beco.
A crown of faint starlight ford behind her head for just a mont—an illusion of destiny.
And with it, her strikes grew sharper.
Faster.
Deadlier.
Neia hissed with every blow, drawing blood, cutting tendon, rattling Iapetus's bones with divine echoes.
But the Titan refused to fall.
[Skill: Endless Reprisal]
He spun, a full rotation of destruction, forcing Hera back. His blade extended, lengthening mid-swing with pure Titan will. It caught her across the ribs—she stumbled, coughing red, but rolled and kicked his knee out in one motion.
He dropped to one side—and she drove her spear down.
He caught it with his hand.
Her eyes widened.
[Skill: Graviton Core]
A pulse of raw gravitational force slamd outward from his chest, throwing Hera through three boulders.
She hit the fourth hard.
Didn't move for a second.
Then—
She stood.
Wobbled.
Spat blood onto her palm, wiped her mouth.
Her voice ca low.
"Do you know why I'm still standing?"
Iapetus wiped the blood from his mouth and rose too.
"No."
"Because I'm not here to survive," she said. "I'm here to end you."
Then she walked.
And the air followed.
Neia's shaft cracked with purple lightning as she activated her final stored strike—
[Skill: Curse of Loyalty]
It wasn't made to destroy bodies.
It was made to break bonds.
And as she stabbed forward, the weapon struck not just flesh—but the spiritual link between Iapetus and his blade.
He gasped.
His weapon flickered—its power destabilizing.
And Hera took advantage.
She spun once, twice, flipped behind him, and jamd the spear through his back—upward, toward his heart.
He scread.
Turned—barely.
Caught her by the throat.
Lifted her.
His hand glowed.
[Skill: Titanbrand]
The burning seal of the old world branded itself into her neck.
She scread now—back arching, lightning bursting from her mouth and eyes.
But she didn't let go of the spear.
Even as her vision went white.
Even as blood filled her throat.
Even as she felt death crawl close.
She didn't let go.
And then—light exploded from her.
The brand cracked.
Her eyes snapped open.
[Skill: Divine Reversal]
She twisted the seal's energy backward into Iapetus's arm. It burned him—recoiling—backfiring.
His skin seared black.
He dropped her.
She hit the ground, barely conscious—but her hand still moved.
She stabbed the spear one last ti.
Straight into his gut.
And whispered, "Fall."
Iapetus choked.
The glow left his body.
His blade fell first.
Then he dropped to his knees.
And then—flat.
Hera collapsed beside him, both of them still breathing.
But only one would rise again.
Deep in the heart of Mount Dikti
The forge roared.
Not like a fire. Like sothing alive.
The Cyclopes stood in silence, only their hamrs moved. Sparks sprayed across the shadows like stars being born and dying in the sa breath.
Brontes stepped forward first, his eye locked on the iron laid before him. It wasn't tal—it was death made solid. A black shard mined from the bones of the earth when the world was still young.
He raised his hamr. Slamd it down.
The sound didn't echo. It sank. Like the mountain swallowed it whole.
Arges worked beside him, shaping sothing thin, precise, and cruel. Not a blade. Not a crown. But a second skin for the mind.
Steropes grunted, his chest heaving with every swing. With each strike, the shard split, lted, reshaped itself—not because of the heat, but because it knew who it was for.
The brothers didn't speak. They didn't need to.
One worked the spine. One worked the head. One worked the soul.
When they finished the shaft, it was cold. Not because of the forge—but because no fire dared touch it again.
The prongs curved like fangs. The handle pulsed with a heartbeat. The Bident wasn't made for war. It was made to end things.
Then they moved on to the helms.
Each one was different. But all of them—silent. ant to disappear.
Not in style. In presence.
One would cloud sound.
One would cloud thought.
One would cloud fate.
When it was done, they stepped back and called out to Hades
The forge dimd.
And from the shadows—he stepped in.
Eyes like night with no stars.
No words.
He took the bident. Took the helms.
And vanished.
Like he'd never been there.
But the chill stayed.
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