Hephaestus wandered through lands untouched by mortal feet, a realm where the sky met the earth in an endless horizon.
It was here, on the desolate border between the physical world and the divine unknown, that he found something—the severed head of Coeus, the fallen Titan of Wisdom.
It rested upon a shattered plateau, half-buried in the dust of forgotten ages. Cracks ran across its stone-like surface, divine ichor long dried, yet its eyes still gleamed with knowledge.
Though the Titan had been slain, his mind remained unbroken, whispering secrets lost to time.
Hephaestus had heard the legends.
Before Athena, before even the firm rule of Olympus, there was Metis, the goddess of wisdom.
Metis was born with the concept of wisdom, much like Coeus, and she aided Zeus in the Titanomachy.
During the war, Coeus' head was severed from his body, and his concept of wisdom was stripped from him, absorbed by Metis. It was said that this was how she became so wise—wise enough to lead Zeus to victory. After the war, Coeus was cast into the farthest reaches of the world, his body lost, his name all but erased.
Yet Metis did not live long.
Her death came suddenly, and soon after, Athena was born from Zeus' head. The gods whispered about it in hushed voices. Some claimed Zeus had devoured Metis to gain her wisdom, fearing a prophecy that her child would surpass him. Others denied it, saying such a thing was impossible.
But none of that mattered now. What mattered was that the head of Coeus still existed.
Hephaestus knelt beside it, his divine hands brushing the ancient flesh. He felt something stirring—a lingering spark of knowledge. A god's concept could not be fully destroyed; only taken, reshaped, or reborn.
The head of Coeus looked at him. Though it had no body, no voice, wisdom radiated from it like an eternal flame.
What should Hephaestus do?
Should he destroy it? Forge it into something new? Or would he return it to the void, leaving wisdom to those who had claimed it?
The forge god pondered. What was wisdom, if not something meant to be shaped?
Hephaestus stared at the severed head, his divine senses confirming what should have been impossible. Coeus, the Titan of Wisdom, still lived.
The fallen Titan's eyes—deep, ancient, and filled with knowledge—turned toward him. A dry, almost amused voice resonated, not through sound, but through the space around them, carried by the very essence of wisdom itself.
"Hello, young god. It has been a while since I have had a visitor."
Hephaestus blinked. Of all the things he expected on his journey, meeting a still-living Titan's head was not one of them.
"Huh ? You're still alive?" Hephaestus asked, taking a cautious step back.
Coeus let out something that could have been a chuckle—a dry, brittle sound, like an ancient book being opened for the first time in millennia.
"Barely. I don't have a body, after all." The Titan's expression remained eerily calm, as if losing his body was merely an inconvenience rather than a tragedy. "Still, one does not need flesh to exist. The mind is eternal."
Hephaestus crossed his arms, still eyeing the head warily. "Alright, then. If you're just a talking head, what are you doing all the way out here?"
"I could ask you the same," Coeus countered, his ancient gaze sharp despite his broken state. "What brings the youngest Olympian to this forsaken edge of the world?"
"Looking for materials." Hephaestus shrugged, glancing at the surrounding land. Even in this barren wasteland, his mind was always searching for something that could be reforged, reshaped, or repurposed.
The Titan's eyes gleamed knowingly. "Ah, the forger god seeks to build once more. Always crafting, always creating."
Then Coeus paused, his gaze locking onto Hephaestus with something more intense.
"Tell me, young god—do you know why I know your name?"
Hephaestus narrowed his eyes. "You tell me."
"Because your footsteps have echoed across the world." The Titan's voice was quiet, yet it carried the weight of certainty. "You have walked the path of creation, and creation itself remembers you. Though most beings cannot sense it, the gods are different. When you become powerful enough, you are not just a being—you are an event. Your actions leave ripples that gods like me can still perceive, even in this wretched state."
Hephaestus tapped his chin. "Huh. That makes sense, actually." Then his gaze darkened slightly. "Then you should also know that a Titan's corpse is a great material."
There was no hesitation in his voice, no false politeness. Titans were the enemies of Olympus. Titans were the foundation upon which many divine weapons had already been forged.
Coeus did not flinch. If anything, his expression was one of quiet amusement.
"I know."
The Titan's voice remained calm, unshaken. "And that is why I will make you an offer."
Hephaestus arched an eyebrow, intrigued. "Go on."
Coeus' eyes gleamed with something ancient and knowing. "Save me. Take what remains of me and forge me into something new. Make me into a weapon spirit."
Hephaestus tilted his head slightly. "You want to be bound to a weapon?"
"I have seen much, but not enough." The Titan's voice carried an undeniable hunger—not for power, but for knowledge. "I do not wish for my mind to rot away in this wasteland. I wish to see the world again. And in return—"
His voice lowered, almost conspiratorial.
"—I will tell you the secrets of the world."
Hephaestus did not speak immediately. A deal with a Titan. A fragment of a fallen god, offering knowledge in exchange for rebirth.
For the first time in a long while, Hephaestus felt the weight of choice.