Ten years ago, in the golden halls of Olympus, Apollo knelt in his prophecy chamber, a dome of marble veined with light. Torches blazed, casting shadows that danced like restless spirits. His hands pressed against a crystal orb, its surface swirling with starfire, and a vision struck him like a thunderbolt. Marcus, a man of 23 with Colton's sharp jaw and weary eyes,
stumbled through a shadow dimension—a realm of black fog and jagged stone,
reeking of damp rot. Shades, their charred flesh gleaming, ember eyes glowing,
circled him, claws glinting. Marcus fought, fists swinging, but a shade's claw
slashed his chest, blood spraying, another raking his throat. His body crumpled, blood pooling, he lay broken, sprawled under flickering streetlights, no car in sight.
The vision shifted, and Apollo's breath caught. A boy, seven years old, with Colton's defiant scowl, stood in a cramped bedroom, clutching a hand-drawn card from his sister, Bella. A spark flared in his chest, a fire
that burned brighter than any before, marking him as the Prometheus lineage's
true heir. The scene twisted—Colton, grown, chained to a jagged mountain, a giant vulture tearing at his side, its beak dripping blood. Apollo's heart pounded, a mortal ache in his divine chest. "No," he whispered, voice raw. "Not him."
The orb pulsed, showing Cronus's shadowed form in Tartarus, his voice like grinding stones. "The spark-bearer's line ends with the father," he hissed, his ember eyes fixed on Marcus. "But the boy… his worthiness threatens us all." Apollo's vision cleared, the prophecy searing into his mind:
Colton was worthy, unlike Marcus, whose spark lay dormant, untested by fate.
Cronus had struck to snuff the lineage before Colton could rise.
Apollo stood, his golden robes rippling, and defied Zeus's decree of non-interference. He tore through the cosmos, a streak of light,
descending to the shadow dimension—a liminal prison between Earth and Tartarus,
where despair clung like mold. The air was thick, choking, the ground slick with ichor. Marcus lay in the center, surrounded by shades, their claws dripping red. Apollo's bow materialized, arrows of sunlight blazing, but he was too late. A shade's claw slashed Marcus's chest, blood gushing, his eyes wide with shock. Another ripped his arm, flesh tearing, bones snapping. Marcus's
scream choked into silence as his body slumped, lifeless, the shades dissolving
into fog. Apollo fell to his knees, hands trembling, the blood-soaked ground
staining his robes. "Damn it," he muttered, voice breaking. "I should've been
faster."
He carried Marcus's body to a quiet street in their hometown, the city's pulse—car horns, distant sirens—mocking the stillness. No
car, no drunk driver, just a lie crafted by Cronus to hide the truth. Apollo laid Marcus down, his face pale, blood pooling beneath him, and whispered, "I'll protect your son. I swear it." The Eclipse Aegis, a silver pendant forged by Hephaestus, gleamed in his hand, its surface flickering as if sensing the shades' lingering malice.
Apollo stormed Tartarus's depths, the air heavy with rot and screams. Cronus's throne loomed, a jagged mass of obsidian, his form a towering shadow with eyes like dying stars. "You dare interfere, sun-god?" Cronus
growled, his voice shaking the cavern. "The Prometheus spark defies us, threatens the order of gods and Titans. Marcus was weak, unworthy—his spark slept. But the boy… he burns too bright. He'll fall, or Chaos will claim him."
Apollo's fists clenched, sunlight flaring around him. "Fuck your order," he spat, the curse alien on his divine tongue. "Colton's spark will burn through your schemes, and I'll be there to see it." Cronus laughed, a sound like crumbling stone, and a whisper of Chaos—cold, formless, ancient—slithered through the air, chilling Apollo's bones. "The void stirs, sun-god," Cronus said. "Even Zeus fears it." With a blinding flash, Apollo was gone.
Back on Earth, Apollo crafted his guise as Mr. S., a social worker with weathered hands and kind eyes, his glasses glinting under
fluorescent lights. He found Colton and Bella in a cramped house, the air stale with grief. Colton, seven, punched a wall, his knuckles bleeding, a faint hum in his chest Apollo could feel—a spark waiting to ignite. Bella, four, clutched a crayon drawing of a family, her eyes red from crying. Their mother, hollowed by loss, worked double shifts, leaving the kids to fend for themselves. Apollo knelt beside Colton, his voice soft. "You're tougher than you know, kid," he
said, echoing words he'd repeat a decade later. Colton's scowl softened, just
for a moment, and Apollo felt the weight of his oath settle like chains.
He learned of the Eclipse Aegis's origin from Hephaestus, who forged it to detect Tartarus's servants. "It'll guide the boy," Hephaestus growled, his scarred hands hammering metal in his hidden forge. "But the spark's power draws Chaos. Be ready, Apollo." The god of fire's warning
lingered, a shadow of what was to come.
Apollo watched Colton sleep that night, the boy's chest rising and falling, the spark's hum faint but growing. Bella curled up beside him, her tiny hand gripping his. Apollo's heart ached, a mortal pang he
couldn't shake. He'd failed Marcus, but he wouldn't fail Colton. Not when the
spark burned so bright, not when Chaos whispered from Tartarus's depths. The
vulture's shadow loomed in his mind, a warning of the price of defiance. But
Apollo stood firm, his oath a beacon in the dark: he'd guide Colton, no matter
the cost, until the spark set the world ablaze.