The King of Naziru

What had happened to the old gods we used to worship?

How long has it been since they became nothing more than stories told as some lesson as we grew up? How long has it been since humanity stopped believing in those who we believed controlled the world? Did they vanish before or after we turned them into nothing more than myth?

You may be wondering who I am and why I ask such questions.

I have had many names, held many titles, and sat on many thrones. Sometimes I wonder if I am still myself, if I am still the mortal I once was.

Ha ha, yes, I did say a mortal. For you see, there is a name that has once belonged to a dear friend of mine, someone who I had thought was nothing more than a myth, like you probably do right now.

My name is Hades, the eldest son of Cronus and the King of Naziru, the first throne of the Triarchs, the Supreme Chief and All-Father of the gods, and blah, blah, blah. So on and so forth.

Trust me when I say that if I were to list all my names and titles, it would fill over five books.

Now, why am I here? Why am I writing all this down? Well, I wanted to get my story down on the off chance that I do not make it back alive, as in 48 hours, a being known as the Great Devourer is going to arrive on Earth, and if he is not stopped, then our entire planet will be consumed and all lives will end.

Who is the Great Devourer, and why am I so nervous that I, a god who seems to hold all these titles, am afraid that I won't survive?

Well, this is not the first time I have encountered such a being, and as I have stated, I was once mortal, and it was a day I could not forget.

I was just another struggling college student, afraid of drowning in debt and unlikely to graduate.

My real name?

Nathaniel Rhodes. I was twenty-two, majoring in Archeology and minoring in mythology and folklore, and I was about to flunk out unless I aced my December finals.

How does one go from trying to get a head start and study for my final exam to taking over the body of one of the most infamous Greek god, one of the mighty Triarchies.

🙛🙚🙛🙚🙛🙚🙘🙙🙘🙙🙘🙙

It all began on a brisk October evening, when the lure of ancient worlds battled the reality of academic deadlines. October sat between fall and winter, echoing my own state of being. Every gust of wind carried the sharp scent of decaying leaves—a reminder of change. Outside, the campus looked faded, with oaks dropping gold leaves and rust-colored confetti swirling on the paths.

The air smelled like rain and wood smoke, with that faint metallic tang that always comes before a storm. Most people called it autumn.

I called it peace.

Inside my dorm room, peace was nowhere to be found. An anxious tension knotted in my chest. It was the fear of insignificance, the dread that all my late nights and endless studies might mean nothing. Maybe I'd be just a forgotten footnote in the vast expanse of history. This fear arose in response to the pressure to succeed. Determination mixed with doubt, intensifying with every passing day.

My desk was a warzone: textbooks stacked like sandbags, a cracked mug holding pens, and notes scattered everywhere. The unfinished essay outlines and scribbles about ancient rites seemed to merge into one chaotic mess.

A small desk lamp cast warm light over the mess, highlighting my open textbook, The Archaeology of Death and Burial. Beyond that glow, shadows gathered: clothes on a chair and a crooked map of Greece taped to the wall.

The radiator hissed in the corner, fighting the chill that crept in through the old windowpanes. Somewhere down the hall, someone blasted lo-fi beats. The walls felt paper-thin. My dorm always smelled faintly of burnt popcorn and laundry detergent, which seemed like the universal scent of college life.

I sat hunched forward, pen tapping against the page, the soft scratch of ink the only rhythm keeping me grounded.

Midterms had ended barely two weeks ago. I'd promised myself a break, a day to breathe, but here I was again, buried in research for finals.

Archaeology sounded like discovery, but usually meant reading about soil layers and pottery shards. Still, I loved it. I majored in Archaeology and minored in Mythology. My advisor once called it 'career suicide with flair.' Maybe he was right, but I wasn't in it for money. Every ruin and myth told an almost-forgotten story. I remembered visiting ruins in Greece with my parents, where a passionate tour guide sparked my fascination—it felt like uncovering something eternal. That moment grounded my risky career choice as my own truth.

At the moment, I was neck-deep in Mycenaean burial customs, trying to connect mortuary practices to early Greek beliefs about the soul. The essay prompt read: "What do ancient funerary rites reveal about early concepts of the afterlife?"

I had written half a page and six paragraphs of existential despair, my frustration simmering beneath growing determination. I felt my jaw clench and shoulders tense, a heaviness settling in my chest as each word failed to satisfy my need to make sense of it all.

I leaned back and ran a hand through my hair, which was this red that caught the lamplight like dying embers. I'd always wished it were darker, more red than orange. Then again, I was a ginger, and nothing was going to change the fact that I didn't have a soul.

Oh, I am only joking.

My reflection stared back at me from the darkened window. Messy hair fell just above my brows. A few freckles dotted my nose. My gray-green eyes looked dulled from too much reading. There was a faint smudge of graphite on my cheek. I'd fallen asleep on my notes earlier.

College life, I thought. Glorious.

A half-finished slice of pizza sat cold on the corner of the desk, next to a can of energy drink I couldn't remember opening. My phone buzzed once, lighting up the table, but I ignored it. Probably a group chat reminder about some study session I'd never attend.

"Finals," I muttered, flipping to another page. "Because midterms weren't painful enough."

The words on the paper blurred. Grave goods. Tholos tombs. Chthonic rituals. I rubbed at my temples. My hand brushed the stacks of half-empty coffee cups. I knocked one over. The cup clattered onto the desk, spilling cold coffee onto a mound of notes. The dark liquid seeped into the pages, creeping like the stress eating away at my fascination with death and the afterlife. It struck me as ironic: someone fascinated by death and the afterlife was slowly wearing himself down with stress.

The radiator hissed again. Outside, wind rattled the glass. For a second, I imagined being somewhere else, among ruins, dirt beneath my fingernails, uncovering something ancient—a vivid contrast to the sterile scent of old books and stale air around me.

That dream always came to me in quiet moments like this. The one where I was meant for something more than grades and caffeine. Something older. Deeper.

I shook the thought away before it could settle.

My dorm wasn't much—just four walls and a creaky floor—but I'd made it mine. Two bookshelves overflowed with texts on ancient civilizations and Greek mythology. I'd tried organizing them, but it turned into a scholarly avalanche.

Above my bed, photos from excavation sites—Crete, Anatolia, Santorini—curled at the corners. They reminded me of my goal: real digs, the chance to touch history instead of just reading about it.

What I wanted most was crystal clear: to make a discovery that echoed through time, to uncover something that declared to the world, 'I was here.'

I leaned forward, flipped another page, and underlined a passage about grave goods in the Mycenaean tholos tombs. My handwriting wavered slightly from fatigue.

"Alright," I muttered. "One more section, then food. Maybe."

The radiator clanked once more, a metallic heartbeat in the quiet, and I pressed my pen to the paper again. The smell of ink and old paper mixed with the faint scent of rain drifting through the cracked window.

And in that perfect, still moment, the door exploded open. My heart jolted, and I dropped my pen, its clatter echoing the sudden chaos that broke the quiet.

"Nate!"

I didn't even look up. "You know, knocking is a tradition in many civilized societies."

"Yeah, and hiding out here in your room must be another one as well."

The voice belonged to Ethan Cross, and with it came the unmistakable vibe of chaos wrapped in charm. My peace was officially over.

He swept in like he owned the place, tall and athletic, always wearing a smug grin that made people follow. His blond hair looked artfully tousled, fitting for someone whose mess was somehow charming. He tossed his backpack on my bed, nearly missing a stack of journals.

I sighed. "You ever think about asking before invading my personal space?"

"Not really my style," he said, leaning against my desk like it was his stage. "Feels like I've stepped into a museum every time I come here. You know there's an entire world outside, right? One with food, music, and people who don't collect dust?"

I flipped a page. 'Honestly, old paper still sounds better. Additionally, I'm preparing for my finals in December. Might as well start early.'

Ethan groaned and flopped dramatically into my desk chair, spinning once before stopping to look at me. "You're twenty-two, Nate. Try living your life for once. No offence, but we just finished our mid-terms, so maybe relax for a bit?"

I glanced up at him, dryly. "Says the guy who barely passed because he got distracted joining another campus protest, because a girl had batted her lashes at you."

He pointed at me, grinning. "Well, it was for a good cause, and she was really attractive. How could I say no?"

"Congratulations. Your moral convictions are as strong as your GPA."

He clutched his chest, pretending to be wounded. "Low blow."

I smirked, just a small one, the kind that never reached my eyes but still managed to make him grin wider. Even as he grinned, I noticed the way his shoulders relaxed slightly, as if reassured by my silent acceptance. That was our rhythm. He talked; I tolerated him. This unspoken understanding between us somehow made the friendship work.

"Anyway," he said, clapping his hands once. "Marcus and I are heading out with some girls from the science department. There's a new diner off-campus, and we're thinking of grabbing some food. You know, if you would like to get out of this room for once."

"No thanks," I said immediately, words edged with tired resolve and a twist of guilt pulling in my gut. I stared at the desk, feeling my exhaustion and self-doubt tighten around me, a mix of relief and regret for refusing.

He tilted his head, unfazed. "That wasn't a question."

"I'm studying."

"You study all the time, maybe you should actually take a break for once."

"Final exams are just three months-"

"It's life, Nate. And you're missing it."

I met his eyes for the first time. They were blue and sharp, like he could see something I couldn't. Ethan had a way of looking at you that made it seem like he was right, even when you knew he wasn't. It drove me crazy.

He pushed away from the desk and started rifling through my closet.

"What are you doing?"

"Saving you from yourself," he said, pulling out my cotton jacket, some clean jeans, and a nice shirt. "You're wearing this."

"Do I actually have to change?" Though I realized how stupid that question was as Ethan motioned to the sweats and hoodie I was currently wearing.

He tossed the clothes on the bed as he headed to leave the room. "Everyone is waiting in my car. I'll give you five minutes before we come and drag you out."

He left before I could answer, the door swinging shut behind him with a sharp click. The silence returned, heavier this time, leaving me feeling isolated and a little lost. As I sat there, the question I had been avoiding surfaced clearly in the quiet: Do I step out into the world, take a chance, and embrace the chaos? Or do I stay cocooned in the only certainty I know? The decision hung in that heavy silence, as if waiting for me to find the courage to turn the page on my story.

If I didn't leave now, Ethan would probably return with backup, and the situation could spiral out of control, forcing me into decisions I'm not ready to make. The thought of becoming part of their group pulled at me, intriguing yet terrifying. But deeper inside lurked the fear of losing my autonomy, of having my life dictated by others' expectations. Solitude had always been my shield against misunderstanding and chaos. With these thoughts lingering, I rushed to shower and change, grabbed my deodorant, gave myself a quick spray of the cologne I'd barely used, and figured I was presentable enough. I shoved my feet into my shoes, grabbed my coat, and slipped out the door before hesitation took over.

Outside, the air felt colder, rain misting quietly against the pavement. Westwood University's campus stretched out behind me, with lamplit paths winding between gothic buildings and modern glass halls. A solitary lamppost flickered in the distance, casting a ghostly glow over the deserted quad, matching the isolation I felt inside. Puddles gathered in the cracks of the brick walkways, and the clock tower's bells echoed faintly through the fog.

I crossed the quad toward the parking lot, my sneakers slapping against the wet concrete. Ethan's car, a gray Toyota Grand Highlander that seemed too well-kept for someone as reckless as him, was idling near the streetlight.

Marcus was perched in the passenger seat, head bent over his phone, its screen casting blue over his features.

He looked up as I approached and flashed an easy grin. "Hey, look who decided to rise from the grave."

"Funny." I opened the door.

If Ethan was all charisma, Marcus was broad-shouldered and strong, with warm brown skin and black curls damp from the rain. As he casually tugged down his shirt sleeve, the edge of a swirling Polynesian tattoo emerged along his forearm, hinting at stories most people only read about. The designs seemed to move with him, each curve of ink telling a silent tale.

He sat motionless, shoulders relaxed but ready, that same steady energy radiating as he watched the streetlights, fingers tapping once on his knee.

Ethan was still in the driver's seat, his grin widening when he saw me. "Told you he'd cave."

I started to reply, but then noticed someone sitting in the middle seat behind Marcus.

And two more in the back.

Great. Reinforcements, indeed.

The girl in the middle seat turned as I slid in. I didn't recognize her; she was probably one of the 'girls from the history department' Ethan had mentioned. She looked Latina, maybe in her early twenties, with bronze skin, dark wavy hair, and eyes that caught the dashboard's gold glow. Her forest-green jacket over a cream sweater made casual look easy. She smiled slightly at my hesitation. Something about her presence was unexpectedly calming, as if she could see through the surface and into the mess of thoughts swirling inside. I felt a strange, immediate urge to impress her, even though I didn't know her name yet. It was unusual for me, and it both intrigued and unsettled me. Her smile flickered through my mind, triggering a brief flash of pride tempered by self-doubt—a mix that hinted at both promise and uncertainty.

"Hi," she said, voice soft but confident. "Guessing you're Nate."

I blinked, managing a nod. "Yeah. And you are…?"

"Rosalia. Or Rosa, if that's easier."

She smiled, and it caught me off guard. There was something grounded about her, sharp yet warm. She seemed like someone who really listened.

Ethan smacked the steering wheel. "Names sorted! Now, for a real team bond." The others chuckled, anticipation and curiosity mixing between us.

"Wait," I said, glancing at the two girls in the back. "Not everyone."

Ethan grinned like a host introducing a game show. "Ladies, this is Nathaniel Rhodes — archaeologist in training and current king of antisocial behavior."

The brunette in the back seat laughed. "Oh my God, that's the guy you said reads tomb inscriptions for fun?"

"Guilty," I said. "You're…?"

"Daphne Lorne." She offered a little wave. "Environmental science major, tree hugger, and part-time barista."

Next to her, another girl crossed her arms, rolling her eyes. "And I'm Cassandra Myles. No major yet. It's hard to choose something, okay?"

Ethan chuckled. "Still deciding between marine biology, theater, or world domination?"

"Ha-ha," she said flatly. "I'm exploring my options."

Daphne whispered, "She's been exploring for two years."

"Shut up, Daph."

I tried not to smile as Daphne elbowed Cassandra after her joke, Cassandra crossed her arms even tighter, and Rosalia quietly folded her hands, her gaze distant and fixed on the rain sliding down the window. It was moments like these that reminded me of our late-night study sessions in the library, trading stories and jokes between frantic bouts of research. It wasn't just about the classes and the group projects. Somehow, amidst the hustle of university life, we had become each other's chosen family.

Ethan started the car. "Alright, everyone buckled in? Next stop: Harper's Diner."

The SUV pulled out of the parking lot, wipers moving as the rain got heavier. Soft indie rock from Ethan's playlist played in the background, filling the car with a warm hum.

I pulled my backpack closer and quietly took out a book, The Myths of the Underworld, an old volume I'd been marking up for days. The pages were yellowed and the margins full of notes. As the car rumbled along, I started to tune out the chatter around me. Cassandra were gossiping about some drama in their friend group — something involving a cheating boyfriend and an ill-advised karaoke night. Up front, Ethan and Marcus were laughing about a philosophy professor who'd compared modern politics to gladiatorial combat.

Rosalia pressed her fingers to the foggy window, following the rain's path with her eyes, her reflection shifting and thoughtful in the passing streetlights.

I turned another page and frowned, irritation creeping up as I read. The author got the Chthonic rites of Eleusis all wrong, mixing up the offerings to Hades. I gripped the book tighter and muttered, "That's not even close."

Rosalia studied my expression, then leaned closer. "You talking to yourself or arguing with the dead?" she teased, curiosity sparking in her eyes.

I looked up, surprised. "Just annoyed. This author's a hack," I replied, hoping she wouldn't press further.

Her lips curved into a knowing smile. "Let me guess. He claims Persephone was a passive figure in the myths? Like she was just another tourist influencer snapping selfies in the underworld?" she challenged, her voice playfully encouraging more.

I blinked. "You've read it?"

"Unfortunately. Half his citations don't even make sense." Rosalia shifted toward me, crossing one leg over the other. "He's got the myth of Persephone all wrong. He claims she just stumbled into the underworld like it was a shopping trip." I chuckled at her exaggeration, shaking my head. "And don't get me started on his take on the Labors of Hercules."

"Oh yes," Rosalia agreed, eyes sparkling with mirth. "As if the Nemean Lion was nothing more than a lap cat. You know, I'm an archaeology major too, actually. Focused on Greco-Roman studies."

That got my attention. "Really?"

Rosalia leaned forward, her eyes catching the lamplight. "Yeah. I've been working under Professor Halloway this semester. He's the one who mentioned the upcoming field program — the one in Greece."

I looked up from my notes, brow furrowing. "What program?"

Her expression brightened instantly, like she'd been waiting for someone to ask. "It's this month-long archaeological trip the university's sponsoring. They're partnering with Dr. Stavros — yes, that Dr. Stavros — for an excavation near Mount Olympus."

That got my attention. I straightened a little. "Wait. The Stavros? The grandson of the man who discovered the Tomb of Agamemnon?"

"The very same," she said, grinning. "And you'll want to hear this part. They're calling the site the Hypogaeum of Olympus. Locally, it's already earned the nickname the Tomb of the Gods."

Ethan snorted from the couch. "The Tomb of the Gods? What, did they find Zeus' bones down there?"

Rosalia rolled her eyes. "That's the joke, yeah. The locals started calling it that because the frescoes inside depict the Olympians — all twelve of them — like some kind of mythological pantheon carved into the rock. But the deeper chambers... well, that's what's really got everyone talking."

I set my pen down, attention caught completely now. "What do you mean?"

"They found a sealed cavern beneath the main temple complex. Hidden for who knows how long. The frescoes down there are pristine — colors still vivid, figures almost life-sized. They're not just decorative either; they tell stories. Whole sequences. Rituals, processions, battles. Halloway thinks they predate the Archaic period — maybe even touch on pre-Olympian beliefs."

My pulse quickened. "You're saying these might be older than Homeric myth?"

"Exactly," she said, her voice full of that quiet thrill only scholars get when history starts to whisper. "If the inscriptions turn out to be authentic, this site could change everything we know about early Greek religion. It's like finding the missing chapter of a myth we thought we already knew."

The words hidden cavern and Tomb of the Gods hung in my mind, heavy and irresistible.

Rosalia went on, pulling a folded flyer from her bag. "Applications just opened last week. It's open to all departments, but archaeology majors get first priority. The deadline's November fifteenth. You just have to submit your transcript and a short personal statement about why you want to go." She smiled, sliding the paper across the table toward me. "You'd be perfect for it, Nate."

Behind us, Ethan leaned back in his chair, stretching. "Oh, that thing. Nate's probably already signed up," he said with a grin.

"I haven't," I muttered.

Marcus, still half-absorbed in the game on his phone, raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? You were obsessed with Stavros' last dig."

Ethan laughed. "Yeah, didn't you enter that essay contest just to win his autographed journal or whatever?" You mentioned once it could be a stepping stone to following in your grandfather's footsteps as an archaeologist."

I shot him a look. "It wasn't whatever. It was The Stavros Field Journal, 1989. Only fifty copies exist."

Rosalia chuckled. "See? You're literally made for this."

I picked up the flyer again and traced the printed title with my thumb.

EXCAVATE OLYMPUS, EARN CREDIT, CHANGE YOUR STORY

SUMMER SESSION

Join and discover the secrets of the site nicknamed the 'Tomb of the Gods.'

The program offers an immersive experience in archaeological excavation, where students can engage in hands-on research and exploration. Participants will have the opportunity to travel to ancient sites and work alongside experts to unearth and analyze findings. Activities such as stratigraphic drawing or cataloging pottery sherds will provide students with a practical, authentic understanding of archaeological methods.

The words sent a shiver through me. Maybe it was standing beneath Olympus, somewhere undisturbed for thousands of years. The air was thick with the scent of ancient dust, carried by a gentle breeze that whispered secrets of forgotten gods. Or maybe it was that persistent pull when the past calls, echoing like footsteps through a grand forgotten chamber. Whatever it was, whether curiosity, unease, or longing, it had my full attention now.

I hesitated, feeling pulled between comfort and curiosity. "Doesn't it count as a final exam for the semester? I thought you had to complete the coursework," I managed, my voice betraying my uncertainty. The program offers an optional replacement for the final exam, provided students complete the accompanying coursework focused on relevant archaeological theories and practices. This ensures participants are well-prepared for the fieldwork.

Marcus shook his head, not looking up from his phone. "Nah, it's open to everyone. I already signed up. They only require a short statement of purpose and your latest transcript. The application deadline is in two weeks, so there's still time."

Ethan blinked. "You? Since when do you care about ancient rocks?"

Marcus grinned. "Since they're paying for travel and housing. Plus, it's Greece, man. Sun, beaches, maybe a few ancient curses. What's not to love?"

Daphne gasped. "Wait, we can all sign up?"

"Yep," Marcus said. "It's not limited to archaeology students. Stavros said he wants a mix of disciplines — 'diverse minds uncover deeper truths' or something like that."

"That's so cool!" Daphne said, pulling out her phone. "I'm doing it!"

Cassandra leaned over her shoulder. "We don't even know if we'll get in."

"Still worth a shot," Daphne said.

Ethan caught my eye in the mirror. "You hearing this, Nate? Fate's practically slapping you in the face."

"I don't believe in fate," I said.

"Good thing fate doesn't care," he replied, grinning.

The car filled with laughter and overlapping voices as everyone debated what to pack, how long the flight would be, and who would survive the heat. Jokes about forgotten passports and sunscreen bounced around, and Marcus said something about ancient ruins being overrated if not for their 'excellent selfie lighting,' feeding off everyone's energy. Cassandra joked about packing a second carry-on just for snacks, 'because you never know when the ferry strikes happen and you're stuck in some charming village.' I leaned back, quietly watching the connections form as conversation moved from person to person, chaotic but somehow in sync.

For the first time in a while, I didn't feel entirely like a ghost among the living. The unfamiliar warmth of camaraderie seeped through the layers of my usual detachment, reminding me of the late-night conversations we used to have in the library, where laughter and shared passion for knowledge dissolved the barriers I had built. As if moved by an unspoken force, my shoulders eased, and the tension I carried began to melt away, replaced by a sense of belonging that I hadn't realized I was yearning for. It was as if every moment with them chipped away at the solitude I had grown so accustomed to, leaving behind a newfound connection.

By the time we reached Harper's Diner, the rain had turned into a steady drizzle. Neon lights reflected off the wet asphalt, painting everything in red and blue. Ethan parked under the flickering sign, and we all piled out, jackets pulled tight against the cold.

Inside, the diner smelled of coffee and nostalgia, with stainless steel counters, checkered floors, and the low hum of conversation. A waitress led us to a booth by the window, the vinyl seats squeaking as we slid in.

Ethan took the head of the table like it was instinct. Marcus sat beside him, phone finally away, while Daphne and Cassandra claimed the opposite side. Rosalia slid in next to me again, and for reasons I couldn't name, I didn't mind.

Menus hit the table. Orders were shouted — burgers, fries, milkshakes. Ethan charmed the waitress; Cassandra rolled her eyes; Marcus asked if they served anything "ocean-inspired."

When the food arrived, conversation moved around the table. Ethan and Marcus debated politics and philosophy, their friendly rivalry drawing laughter and objections. Daphne leaned in to share a wild theory about Atlantis being an alien base, which got skeptical looks and real amusement. Meanwhile, Cassandra described her major dilemma as a 'spiritual journey,' which led to more side comments and teasing, each exchange bringing the group closer.

Rosalia nudged me halfway through her burger. "You're quiet."

I glanced up. "I'm observing."

"Classic archaeologist move," she teased. "Always digging for meaning."

"Guilty as charged."

She smiled — and for the first time that night, I smiled back.

The rain tapped gently against the window, the world outside blurred and glowing as neon lights danced across the wet streets. It was as if the city was alive with whispers of possibilities, a mix of hopeful promise and the ominous unknown. For a moment, everything seemed to slow down, as though this was the beginning of something.

A night I wouldn't forget.

A decision I hadn't realized I'd already made.

I was going to Greece. That single thought stood out, uncompromising and bold, cutting through the lingering doubt.