Chapter Text
"The Heirs of Gaia"
Olympus was in mourning. Zeus’s golden throne remained empty, a constant reminder of the King of the Gods’ absence. The main hall, normally vibrant with divine discussions and celebrations, now echoed with tense whispers and suspicious glances. The death of Zeus had left a power vacuum that everyone could feel, but no one dared to openly claim.
Heron, Zeus’s newly acknowledged son, kept his distance, watching the immortals with a mixture of respect and apprehension. His half-brother Ares, on the other hand, made no effort to hide his ambitions, his arrogant posture clearly communicating that he considered himself the natural heir to the throne.
“The Funeral Games will begin soon,” announced Hera, her voice carrying an authority few would dare to question. “As tradition dictates, we will honor Zeus with competitions worthy of his legacy.”
Athena, ever the strategist, observed those present with calculating eyes. “And at the end of the games, we will have clarity on who is worthy of taking the throne.”
At that moment, the air in the hall shifted. An ancient and powerful presence was felt before it even manifested. The floor trembled slightly, and a breeze carrying the scent of damp earth and primordial vegetation enveloped those present.
“Perhaps,” said a voice that seemed to come from the very walls of Olympus, “it is time to consider new possibilities.”
The gods turned in unison toward the entrance of the hall. There, materialized in all her primordial glory, stood Gaia. Not as the dormant entity many knew, but fully awake and aware. Her body seemed made of the very earth itself, with vines and flowers sprouting and withering in rapid cycles across her skin. Her eyes, deep as unexplored caverns, regarded the immortals with ancient and relentless wisdom.
“Mother Earth,” Poseidon was the first to speak, his trident held firmly in his hand. “Your presence honors us, but surprises us as well.”
“As it should,” Gaia replied, stepping into the center of the hall. Each step made the marble beneath her feet bloom briefly. “I come at a time of transition. The reign of Zeus has ended, and a new cycle must begin.”
Hera narrowed her eyes. “The Funeral Games will determine the successor, as they always have.”
“Yes,” Gaia agreed, an enigmatic smile playing on her lips. “The games will happen. In three days, we shall see who among you is worthy of ruling Olympus.” She paused, her gaze sweeping across each of those present. “But if you all fail to impress me, I already have in mind someone who will replace not only Zeus, but also Poseidon and Hades.”
A murmur of outrage swept through the hall. Poseidon stepped forward, the waters surrounding Olympus stirring in response to his anger. Hades, usually reserved in his appearances in the upper realm, materialized from the shadows, his Helm of Darkness tucked under his arm.
“No one will replace us,” Hades declared, his voice calm but laced with threat. “Not while we exist.”
“Existence is such a… fluid concept,” Gaia replied, raising a hand. “Allow me to show you what the future may hold.”
With a sweeping gesture, Gaia formed a circle of golden light in the center of the hall. The light pulsed, expanded, and then burst, leaving in its place three figures who had not been there a moment before.
Three young men, dressed in attire that blended ancient Greek style with elements clearly foreign to this world, stood side by side, their eyes scanning the hall with unsettling familiarity.
The first, standing to the left, had skin bronzed as if he had spent much time under the sun or in the sea. His dark, unruly hair reached just above his shoulders, with a small braid on the left side. A laurel crown in shades of blue and green adorned his head, matching his light-blue chiton fastened with a white belt. An orange scarf with Greek symbols draped loosely around his neck, partially concealing something engraved on his skin. His deep sea-green eyes studied the gods with a mixture of recognition and caution.
To the right, the second young man had a more imposing presence. His fair skin contrasted with faint marks of sun exposure. Short blond hair framed a strong-featured face crowned with green laurels. He wore a white chiton decorated with wing patterns along the hems and a golden belt. A purple cape hung over one shoulder, fastened by a golden clasp. Around his neck, a lightning-shaped pendant glowed with its own light. His electric-blue eyes surveyed the room with seriousness and determination.
Between them, slightly behind, stood the youngest of the three. His pale skin and the faint shadows under his eyes gave him an almost spectral appearance. Black hair fell to his shoulders, with a messy fringe nearly covering his dark eyes. A laurel crown in shades of orange and yellow contrasted with his somber look. His black chiton, edged in white and marked with gray arrows, was held by a white belt with a side chain. A red cape was fastened with a skull-shaped clasp, and around his neck, partially hidden, a pendant shaped like a moon caught the light of Olympus.
“Who are these mortals?” Ares demanded, his hand already moving to the sword at his waist.
Gaia smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “They are not mere mortals, son of Zeus. They are demigods, like many here. But these… these are special.”
She moved behind the three young men, placing a hand on the blond’s shoulder. “This is Jason Grace, son of Zeus.” She then approached the dark-haired boy with green eyes. “Perseus Jackson, son of Poseidon, though he prefers to be called Percy.” Finally, she indicated the youngest. “And Nico di Angelo, son of Hades.”
Silence fell. The two great gods stared at the youths with expressions ranging from disbelief to contained fury.
“Impossible,” Poseidon finally declared. “I would recognize my own son.”
“Time and fate are more complex than even you gods can comprehend,” Gaia replied. “These three will be the replacements should none of you prove worthy in the Funeral Games. They carry divine blood and the potential to rule.”
Hera, unable to contain her indignation, stepped toward the newcomers. “This is outrageous! More bastards of Zeus and his brothers have no place in—”
The reaction was instant and telling. The pale-skinned youth, Nico, instinctively recoiled, as if Hera’s proximity was physically and emotionally painful. Percy, Poseidon’s son, immediately took a defensive stance, his green eyes hardening with hostility that surprised everyone. His hand moved to his side, as if reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there.
Jason, son of Zeus, placed a firm hand on Percy’s shoulder, but his gaze toward Hera was no less intense. It was clear to all: Nico was protected by the other two, Percy was a heartbeat away from attacking the Queen of the Gods, and Jason, though restraining his friend, would allow it if he deemed it necessary.
“Interesting,” Athena murmured, observing the dynamic between them. “They know her. They know all of us.”
Hera stepped back, surprised not by the hostility itself, but by the familiarity it carried. It was not the fear or reverence mortals usually showed to gods, but something more personal—like resentment nurtured over a long time.
“Three days,” Gaia repeated, her voice cutting through the tension. “Three days of games to decide Olympus’s future. If none of you proves worthy, these three will take the mantle of the Big Three.”
“And if we refuse to take part in this… spectacle?” Hades asked, his eyes fixed on Nico, studying every detail of the boy who was supposedly his son.
“Then the decision will be made by default,” Gaia replied simply. “Olympus cannot remain without leadership, and the power vacuum is already beginning to affect the mortal world.”
Heron, who had been silently watching, finally spoke. “I will take part in the games. For my father.”
Ares laughed, a humorless sound. “As if a newly discovered half-blood could stand a chance against full gods.”
“Do not underestimate what you do not understand, Ares,” Gaia warned. “Sometimes diluted blood carries possibilities that pure blood will never know.”
While the gods argued among themselves, the three demigods remained silent, exchanging occasional glances that seemed to hold entire conversations. Percy, still tense, relaxed slightly under Jason’s touch, but his eyes never left Hera.
“It’s decided then,” Gaia declared. “The Funeral Games will begin tomorrow at sunrise. All gods and demigods present may participate. And these three,” she indicated Percy, Jason, and Nico, “will observe and await the result.”
With that, Gaia began to dissolve into particles of earth and light, returning to the soil of Olympus. Before vanishing completely, she added: “I suggest you use this time to get to know your… potential replacements. You might learn something valuable.”
When Gaia had completely disappeared, the hall erupted into heated discussion. The lesser gods gathered in groups, murmuring about the unexpected development. Poseidon and Hades approached Zeus’s throne, likely to discuss the threat to their realms.
At the center of it all, isolated in their own bubble of tension, the three demigods stood together, watching the chaos around them with expressions that mixed resignation and determination.
“Well,” Percy murmured, his voice low enough for only his companions to hear, “that was more dramatic than we expected.”
“It always is, with them,” Nico replied, his dark eyes following the movements of his supposed father, Hades.
Jason sighed, adjusting the purple cape over his shoulder. “Three years preparing for this moment, and still…”
“Still doesn’t feel real,” Percy finished, unconsciously touching the scarf that hid the initials engraved on his neck. “But it’s our only chance to go back.”
The three exchanged loaded looks, a silent conversation forged over three years of forced companionship and shared secrets. No one else knew the full truth — not even Gaia, who had found and taken them in — suspected they came not just from another place, but from another time.
Across the hall, Athena watched them intently, her analytical mind already working through the possibilities and implications. There was something in the way they moved, in how they communicated, that hinted at a far more complex story than Gaia had revealed.
The Funeral Games were about to begin, but the real game—the one that would decide not only Olympus’s future but possibly the fate of three young men displaced in time—was already underway.
And no one, not even the gods, could predict its outcome.
End of the First Chapter