The war was relentless. An unending clash of bronze and steel where men would return with wounds, or not at all. It would be carved into the stones of history’s walls as the great ‘Trojan War’. Watched on by the gods, fate was weaved as effortlessly as mortals drew breath. Where they walked, cities burned.

  Where they whispered, kings bled. Yet, from that chaos, from that orchestration of suffering and glory, something greater stirred.

  Deep within the black waters of the River Styx, a young mother stood with her infant cradled against her chest. Her hands trembled, not from fear, but reverence. Fog curled around her feet. The air tasted of iron and cold stone. The river hissed and writhed, awaiting its hero.

  “Achilles”, whispered a fiery breath into the ears of the mother of the infant. A name that would command legions, shatter empires, and echo across centuries. And as the child was lifted from the grasp of the waters, a legend was born. His cries reverberating through the chill of the air, and fading in the comfort of his mother’s arms, softening the sting of the Styx’s curse. But she was not the only one watching him.

  From somewhere beyond the veil of mist, another gaze pressed upon the moment. This presence did not speak - it simply stared. A thin shimmer of heat rippled through the air, bending the fog with a faint distortion. It lingered behind her shoulder, then at her side, then everywhere all at once, like a fire searching for oxygen. A gaze without eyes. A heat without flame.

  The mother shivered. She clutched the child tighter, though she could not explain why her breath had quickened or why the hair along her arms stood on end. The river hissed louder, as if warning her or bowing to something greater. The unseen presence leaned closer. And though the infant could not understand words, his tiny fist curled, and a faint glow pulsed beneath his skin, as if answering the gaze with one of his own. Then, as quickly as it had come, the heat faded. Only the river remained, whispering its dark lullaby. But the fire had already seen him. And it would not forget.

  Achilles grew into everything the stories promised he would be. A hero shaped by prophecy. A warrior whose very name carried the weight of thunder. On the battlefield, he moved like a storm given flesh. Spears shattered against him. Arrows curved away as if the wind itself feared to scar him. His strength became legend before he had even lived enough years to understand the word. Those who fought beside him spoke his name with awe. Those who stood against him whispered it with dread.

  Villages brought gifts to lay at his feet: gold, carved idols, shields etched with blessings meant to reflect his glory. Children followed him in crowds, begging for stories of war.

  Kings sought his counsel. Warriors sought his favour. And slowly, unknowingly, the people’s prayers, once meant for the Celestarium, began to drift toward him instead. The temples felt it first.

  Fires that once crackled brightly for the gods, dimmed to sullen embers. Altars gathered dust. Offerings thinned.

  The hymns at dawn softened, then faltered, then fell silent. And high above, in the realm where mortals were but fragile toys, the gods watched. Jealousy seeped through marble halls like spilled oil. Anger sparked in forgotten chambers. The devotion that once fed immortals now flowed towards a mortal boy. Achilles, the blessed, the invulnerable, the invincible, the praised.

  It was then that the fiery gaze returned. The same burning presence that had watched him as an infant now stirred with new hunger. No longer curious. No longer protective. It burned with wounded pride. For mortals had begun to worship Achilles more fervently than the very beings who shaped the earth.

  And the gods would not tolerate a mortal stealing their reverence.

  The blaze that once watched him with interest now sought his downfall. It would show the world that Achilles was no god; a false idol.

  It would tear down the pedestal mortals had built. It would remind Greece who truly commanded fear, reverence, and worship. And the war that erupted was more than a conflict of kings. It was the gods reclaiming what was theirs.

  But the gods were patient. Deep within lands of Greece, far from spilled blood, empty prayers and sunken ships, they observed the war, orchestrating its events. Far from the highest mountains and cloaked by the clouds of the sky stood the Celestarium. Hidden from view of mortals, the gods take refuge here, building their world, and exacting their judgement. It was a realm of power, fixed with blinding white marble and streaks of gold that melted across pillars and sweeping arches of absolute architecture, seeping through the stone. Quiet winds flowed through the halls and curled around each surface, cooling it from the ashes of conflict and punishment that each god forged from within. At the heart of it all was the throne room, a circular room, a bastion to the heavens. The darkness of space and its shimmering stars would cloak the peak of each pillar, draping over the entirety of the room. Starlight pooled across the polished floor, reflecting off the marble as if the whole chamber were afloat in the cosmos.

  Across the room were four thrones, each formed from the element of its respected god. Each one rested at the same level as the others, evenly surrounded the room facing the roundtable in the centre. On a throne made of scorching magma that could scold the skin of any man, was the seat of Inferno, the Elemental of fire. Coated in molten veins, restless ribbons of smoke rose, hissing from cracks where the magma split and reformed over and over, as though the throne itself were breathing.

  Another stood a throne without form. All that could be seen was a flurry of suffocating fog, whistling against its corner of the room, and chilling the air around it. This air would shape the seat of Zephyra, the Elemental of wind. It was unpredictable, bending and cooling the floor of the marble around it, its rapid bursts of air mischievously breezing around the room. Where a throne of marble should have rested, a swirling mass of rushing wind hovered, never to be settled.

  Contrasting this throne was one that held an unbreakable form. As if built before the Celestarium itself was the seat of Quake, the Elemental of earth. Filled with cracks and irregular peaks, the throne formed of a cluster of divine bedrock, a layer of stone unseen by the mortal eye. Among each crack of the black stone was a vein of shimmering gold, threatening to burst out of its geological prison. Across the ground of the throne were the only cracks to ever scar the Celestarium, crushing down the floor of the throne room with the weight of the world. It was not sculpted or shaped by hand; it simply was. A jagged eruption of stone that froze mid-surge. Dust drifted from its corners whenever Quake shifted, and tiny shards of stone fell away only to rejoin the throne moments later, drawn back by an unseen gravity.

  The final of the four thrones rings a calming sound of flowing waters throughout the whole chamber. Just as water trickles down from its armrests, the throne holds a perfect flow of the tranquil liquid. Icicles form intricate detailing at the headrest of the seat for Hydrasyrra, the Elemental of water. The light of the room seemed to flicker across the throne, its short and smooth waves were constant and mesmerising, almost hypnotising to those who gazed upon it. Its perfection calls out like a siren’s song, guiding people towards it only to drown them within the throne itself. Around it lays a perfect puddle of cool black water said to be a rift from the River Styx, endlessly trailing around the marble floor around the throne.

  In the centre of it all stood the roundtable of the Elementals. Fog gently trickled down around the table, flowing down the white marble before vanishing at the base. Unlike the rest of the Celestarium’s structure, red and blue lodes of crystals decorated the exterior of the table, faintly glowing and beating like a heart. Like an unblinking eye, the surface watched every whisper of movement across Greece. It saw kings pacing in war tents, whispering prayers they no longer meant. It saw fields torn apart by marching armies; temples cracked open by the weight of war. As the invasion on Troy began, it was one fiery gaze that looked into the mist from the Celestarium’s eyes, monitoring the child of the River Styx – Achilles. A flame that burned brighter than the throne of Inferno leaned in, deepened its gaze in the vision, marking every muscle strained, every sword sharpened, and every breath taken. Waiting patiently for the moment that the legend of Achilles, the spark that lit a fire of hope for all of Greece, the man who had stolen the worship meant for a god, would be snuffed out.

  Inferno grunted, a puff of black smoke exhausting out from his darkened helmet. He stood robed in a full set of armour forged of darkened adamantine, the same divine metal said to bind the gates of the underworld. The black plates were streaked with glowing molten orange along every seam, as though rivers of fire pulsed beneath the armour’s surface, trying to break free. Every new piece locked into the next with razor-sharp precision. His helmet was shaped in the style of an ancient Spartan warrior. A visor carved to a permanent scowl of wrath. But from the sides rose two upward-curving horns, each one forged from pure fire, burning white-hot at their tips. Behind the helmet, Inferno’s eyes burned brighter, twin furnaces of hatred and wounded pride, capable of melting stone with a single prolonged stare.

  Distracted, a burst of wind flew past Inferno, Zephyra’s presence cutting through the chamber like a cold knife. The gust struck Inferno from behind, ruffling the shadowed and rugged cloak that hung from his shoulders. The smoke reacted instantly. What had hung like a heavy shroud exploded outward in a rippling wave, flowing as though it were furious at being disturbed. Dark tendrils unfurled behind him, curling and whipping through the air like living shadows, each strand leaving thin trails of soot that evaporated before they ever touched the ground. And as the black smoke that endlessly poured to create his cape fell back into place, Inferno spoke.

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  “I’m in no mood for your games, sister…”, Inferno growled, his voice a deep and disgruntled threat towards Zephyra.

  Zephyra seemed to effortlessly take place upon her throne, stretching out her arms and dangling her legs off the armrests as she gazed up into the stars.

  “Oh sorry, did I interrupt your brooding time?”, she mocked, paying no attention to Inferno, but instead attempting to turn and shift around in her throne to find a more comfortable position.

  Inferno remained still. His gaze lay fixed on Achilles.

  “How’s river boy doing?”

  Inferno grunted once more, turning his head slightly towards Zephyra before facing the roundtable once more. Leaning forward, he planted his hand firmly at the edges of the table.

  “He will fall as quickly as he rose,” Inferno stated, confident in the fate that he had secretly planned to fulfill himself. Zephyra lazily tossed herself around her throne, eventually spinning upside down and kicking her feet up against her headrest. As she dropped her head down, she stared at Inferno’s cape of smoke.

  “He’s had quite the impact across Greece. Though this war is coming to an end…” Zephyra said while adjusting herself, dashing to Inferno’s side to join him in watching Achilles.

  “…and he’ll march the entire army into Troy. The whole city, while impressive, will fall by his hand. He’ll be crowned a king,” whispered Zephyra, dancing on Inferno’s nerves, waiting for him to burst.

  “Troy will be his tomb,” responded Inferno, ignoring the obvious gentle wind beside him that toyed with the heat that emitted from his shoulders, the flames from his pauldrons flickering and shaking as if about to be extinguished. Zephyra titled her head curiously at him, raising an eyebrow as she slowly drifted back to her throne.

  “Aren’t you proud? Of the boy I mean,” she questioned, attempting to dissect what Inferno was planning. Inferno has always been known to carve his own decisions within the Celestarium, but to kill Achilles would break divine law. As she waited for an answer, Zephyra, for once, sat still on her throne.

  “Proud?” scoffed Inferno. The word left a horrible taste in his mouth, aggravating his mind and scattering his thoughts. He turned to Zephyra fully now slowly approaching her. Each step echoing throughout the room and leaving trails of ash along the marble.

  “Should I be proud of the boy whose name has become the anthem of hope?” Inferno’s voice thundered across the chamber, his words molten and sharp.

  “Of the boy who uproots trees to dam a river? Who matches the speeds of chariots and jumps over chasms? His feats are whispered playfully among the children of Greece, and echo along the walls of Kingdoms. All the while my temples have grown silent. Forgotten. Prayers and offerings are now thrown to Achilles and his Myrmidon,” boomed Inferno as he slowly approached her, his molten eyes narrowing.

  “Greece has been so ignorant to forget what he truly is…”

  Inferno’s tone dropped, low and lethal. “…a mortal.”

  He leaned in close, heat bleeding from his armour. “And I intend to remind them.”

  But Zephyra was unfazed. She crossed her arms unimpressed. With a smirk, she exhaled and blew a strong directed gust of wind at Inferno, crashing him into the roundtable. The blow forced him to one knee, molten cracks spiderwebbing across the marble beneath him as the air hissed and cooled around his rage. Inferno groaned, snapping his head up at Zephyra was giggling in her throne.

  “And I intend to remind you how easily a flame can be extinguished,” Zephyra said, her tone dripping with mock sympathy.

  “It’s like blowing out the candle on a child’s birthday cake!”

  Inferno placed his hand on his knee and stood back up, his armour beginning to glow a brighter orange, the flames that peaked underneath the cracks of his chest plate growing larger and more violent. He clenched his fists and roared with rage.

  “GRRAAAH! I’ll fill your lungs with smoke until they blacken!” Inferno snarled, thrashing around his cape of smoke at Zephyra.

  The tendrils of black smoke scattered outwards, shadowing over and reaching out for her until it all fell down, consuming her form. Zephyra stumbled back, falling to her knees and covering her mouth. Her world was nothing but choking heat and swirling black as the air was ripped from her lungs. Her eyes burned and began to water as she struggled to crawl out from the blinding smoke that flowed around her. Each gasp of air only feeding her more smoke. Blinded, she clawed through the haze, fingers scraping across the warm marble floors, leaving trails of ash and soot where her palms once were.

  It was in that moment that Inferno felt his body stiffen. Unable to move, he looked down to see jagged pillars of stone rising from beneath him. They twisted and fused, closing over him like jaws of the world, trapping him inside. At the doorway of the Celestarium stood Quake, his hand balled into a fist and directed at Inferno.

  “Be still,” he rumbled calmly. The smoke that clutched at Zephyra slowly scattered and disappeared. Laying on the ground, Zephyra finally gasped for air, clearing her lungs of Inferno’s rage. She rose to her knees and darted her vision upwards only to see a structure of stone. She grinded her teeth and gathered the strength to push herself upright.

  “PERHAPS WE SHOULD KEEP YOU WITHIN THAT PRISON OF STONE! TEACH YOU A LESSON FOR LASHING OUT LIKE A TODDLER HAVING A TANTRUM!” shouted Zephyra as she paced towards the cage of pillars ensuring that she could be heard.

  “ENOUGH!” boomed Quake, his voice echoing through the walls of the Celestarium, shaking the grounds itself. Zephyra froze, the words on her tongue dying in frustration. Pouting at Quake, she flicked her wrist to brush soot from her shoulder before slowly stepping backwards toward her throne and dropping onto it.

  Quake stepped towards Inferno, his steps sending tremors through the room. They were a deliberate slow, and impossibly heavy. His form was carved from layers of living rock, his body shifting with the grinding rhythm of tectonic plates. Yet despite his size, there was precision in his movements. When he turned, the sound was not of lumbering stone but of purpose, a quiet and contained strength waiting to be unleashed. He was slow only because he chose to be. As he stopped in front of the pillar he had formed, he unclenched his hand, and the pillars sunk back into the ground, releasing Inferno from their grasp. Quake looked down at Inferno, his flames now weak from the lack of oxygen to fuel his rage. Inferno looked upward at the towering size of Quake, unfazed at any attempt of intimidation.

  “Hello brother,” said Inferno.

  “To your throne. Our judgement will begin shortly,” Quake replied. Inferno scoffed, turning his back to Quake and marched to his throne, murmuring to himself as he settled down, resting his head on his fist. Quake waited until he had calmed, and only then shifted to take his seat at his throne. Behind the closed doors of the roundtable room, was the faint clicking of high heels across the cold Celestarium floors. Cutting the silence like a knife, Hydrasyra’s presence grew closer, with each step commanding silence and respect. As she neared the doors, rather than interrupting her stride, she flowed through the gaps both underneath and between them, perfectly coming back together in her ethereal form. She stood at the entrance and surveyed the room, her head titled upwards, looking down on each of her fellow Elementals. Taking notice to the mess of ash left near the roundtable, she smirked, continuing her slow stride to her throne, her hands clasped loosely at in front of her. Hydrasyra stood draped in a gown spun from living water, cascading down her body in endless streams that wrapped around each curve before falling away into a sea spray at her feet. Her skin as cold as ice, the hue of untouched snow beneath moonlight. Her hair, a deep ocean blue, framed her face in soft flowing waves that never quite stilled. Despite her beauty, there was nothing gentle about her presence.

  “I take it that whatever ‘dispute’ that occurred has been settled?” said Hydrasyra as she gently sat down at her throne, crossing her legs and placing her hands on her knees, her back upright as she lazily drifted her gaze to Inferno.

  “Gee, I don’t know, you done crying Inferno? Or will the big guy need to snuff you out again?” mocked Zephyra.

  Inferno leaned forward, “There won’t be enough air in all the heavens to save you next time.”

  “Ugh, do you two ever tire of bickering about?” Hydrasyra commented, rolling her eyes at them.

  Zephyra slouched in her throne, sticking her tongue out at Inferno.

  “Let us remember why we are gathered here today. Not childish troubles, but for the history of Greece. It is on this day that we must decide who the victors of this war will be, concluding this conflict that we began,” spoke Quake.

  Hydrasyra nodded, turning her attention towards the others once more, “Agreed. Zephyra? Have you decided?”

  Zephyra looked up at her and sat upright, “The winds of change do not blow for those who hide behind walls. They blow for those who march, who shout, who bleed. Greece calls to me; Troy only cowers.”

  Quake spoke next, “I am in unison with Zephyra. The Greeks have the will to change the world. To crack the ground and build anew. The Trojans would rather hide behind their walls and pray the ground never shifts. While the Greeks have shown aggression towards the land, the Trojans have done nothing with it.”

  Inferno smiles, “Precisely brother. The Trojans guard what’s left of the old world. The Greeks destroy it. From ruin comes glory and a new, stronger flame to purify Troy into a greater city for Greece.”

  Hydrasyra nods once again, “Then it’s settled. The fall of Troy will commence forth.” She rose from her throne and made her way to the roundtable, looking down into Troy. “I must commend their efforts. An impenetrable city. Though walls that never fall only become coffins for those within them…”

  “And what of Achilles?” asked Quake.

  The room fell silent. While the question was heard by all, answering it was Inferno’s responsibility.

  “What of him?” snarled Inferno. “He will fall with the Trojans.”

  Hydrasyra, like the others, turned her neck to Inferno, narrowing her eyes. “And who are you to decide his fate?”

  “Who am I? I am ‘HE’ who burns eternal. I am the crown of cinders, the lord of ember. I AM INFERNO!” he roared, as he slammed his fist against his throne, bright fiery sparks flying bright, and the clashing of magma and steel echoing across the chamber.

  “Brother, Achilles is to be kept alive,” said Quake, maintaining his composure despite Inferno’s fury. “His death serves no purpose. The people of Greece need him.”

  “Those ‘mortals’…” he spat, “know nothing of what they need!”

  “And what of our plans? Achilles was your chosen warrior, but we all intended to use him as a vessel that would uphold Greece’s kingdoms, and with them, our temples.” Zephyra said from her throne, sitting upright now to add reason to the chaos that was destined to form.

  “I must agree here brother. Achilles can be used to our advantage. Whether it be as a conduit of worship, a military instrument, or a tool for punishment, he is far too important to kill,” argued Hydrasyra.

  As Inferno grit his teeth, he held back the rage boiling up inside of him. He let out a slow growl from underneath his helmet, black smoke pouring out from each crack. Inferno leaned back in his chair, calmly placing his hands on the armrests, refusing to acknowledge their reasoning.

  Quake watched Inferno for a few moments before turning to Hydrasyra. “The attack begins at midnight. I trust us all to do what we can to favour the Greeks in this battle.”

  Both Hydrasyra and Zephyra nodded, leaving the chambers to prepare. As Quake sat up from his chair, Inferno laid still, staring ahead at the roundtable. As Quake reached the door, he turned his head to him. “End him, and you end the order that binds us all,” he said as he left the room, closing the door behind him. Now alone, Inferno rose from his throne, stepping towards the roundtable, slamming his hands against its edges leaving splatters of lava, slowly flowing down from his palms. He leaned in, watching Achilles and his army climb into the Trojan horse.

  “I am bound to nothing…” he whispered, his voice drifting across the roundtable as though carried back to the boy whose name was first spoken beside the River Styx.