Chaos’s Daughter: Sweet But Psycho

For the first time since the Titanomachy…

Olympus broke. The thrones shook.

And Zeus—He snapped.

"YOU DARE—!"

His voice didn’t just roar. It shattered the air, splitting clouds far above the mountain peak. Bolts of unrestrained skyfire lashed in every direction, turning marble into slag, sending minor gods and nymphs fleeing in terror.

He didn’t summon another bolt.

He didn’t posture.

He charged.

With nothing but bare hands.

The King of Olympus, wreathed in raw, howling Primordial Sky, moved faster than the air could part. His body blurred with such force that reality folded in his wake.

He reached Hespera in an instant, driving his fist forward like the rage of creation itself.

And Hespera caught it.

Fingers closing around his knuckles with a crack that wasn’t hers—

but his.

The chamber fell silent again.

Zeus froze mid-strike—eyes widening as he felt it—

His divine strength… folding beneath her grip.

Hespera leaned in, her forehead nearly touching his, lips curling into something far more terrifying than mockery—

Pity.

"I told you… you should’ve walked away."

She twisted his wrist sharply, and Zeus dropped to one knee, snarling in pain as she wrenched his arm behind his back, forcing him down before all of Olympus.

“Look at you,” she whispered into his ear. “On your knees in front of someone you once tried to seduce.”

Zeus thrashed, teeth bared, lightning crackling wildly around him—but it was wild. Unfocused. Broken.

“Do you yield, Zeus?”

The question slithered across the air, coated in honey and venom alike.

Zeus spat blood onto the floor, sneering through clenched teeth.

“I… will never… yield…”

Hespera’s smile turned razor-sharp.

“Wrong answer—again.”

The words fell like the tolling of a funeral bell.

And then she moved.

Not with a roar.

Not with a flourish.

With surgical, merciless precision.

She wrenched Zeus’s arm upward until it strained unnaturally, bone grinding against divine sinew. He snarled, fighting to rise, skyfire flaring wild and uncontrolled.

He pushed with all his might, trying to break free.

But Hespera leaned forward—

And snapped his shoulder from its socket with a sickening, wet crack.

Zeus screamed—raw and guttural—his body buckling fully to the floor.

The Olympian court watched in stunned horror as their King collapsed on all fours, lightning bleeding off him in erratic pulses like a dying storm.

“Get up,” Hespera whispered coldly.

He tried. Gods, he tried. He forced his weight onto trembling knees.

She stepped around him, gripping him by the back of his head, forcing his gaze down to Hera’s skewered, lifeless body still pinned to the Oathstone by the corrupted Vajra.

“Look at what you lost trying to control me,” she hissed. "Not like you'll miss your queen in the first place. More women to fuck, right? You disgusting piece of troll shit."

Zeus’s eyes burned—not with power, but with shame. And rage at the last comment.

Seeing the look, Hespera retaliated by breaking his spine next.

Her knee came down like a meteor, striking the base of his back with precision only a true predator could master.

The snap echoed like a thunderclap.

Zeus’s body collapsed face-first into the rubble, limbs twitching, breath ragged.

The mighty King of Olympus, broken in body and in spirit, lay defeated before the very court that had once sung his name.

Hespera stood over him—winged, radiant, and utterly untouchable.

She didn’t gloat. She didn’t pose. She just stood there, breathing in the absolute silence of a pantheon brought to its knees.

“…This throne is finished.”

Hespera turned her gaze slowly—methodically—toward the High Throne of Olympus.

The symbol of divine order.

The seat of authority crafted from the bones of Gaea’s fallen children and forged beneath Kronos’s own corpse.

The Throne of the King of Gods.

Without a word…

She raised her hand.

And the throne began to crack.

The golden marble shivered, splintering from the base upward, fractures spiderwebbing through the ancient carvings of victories long past. The inlaid sigils of sky and sovereignty dimmed—flickering like dying stars.

The Olympians watched—

Aphrodite trembling,

Hermes frozen mid-breath,

Athena clutching her spear so tightly her knuckles whitened.

The power woven into that seat—the very foundation of their dominion—groaned beneath Hespera’s will.

Zeus, broken on the ground, tried to reach out toward it, dragging his limp body inch by inch toward the symbol of his power, teeth gritted in helpless desperation.

Hespera glanced down at him with pity.

And spoke only one word:

"Fall."

And with that command—it shattered.

The throne collapsed into dust and splintered stone, dissolving into nothing but memory.

The divine authority of Olympus—broken.

Forever.

Hespera lowered her hand, the air around her humming like the universe itself approved.

She turned to face the silent pantheon once more.

“Your King is broken. Your throne is gone. Your Queen is dead.”

She spread her twenty-four wings wide, filling the ruined hall with crushing pressure.

“What will you fixate on now?”

The moment Hespera’s words settled into the trembling air, the ground beneath Olympus… shifted.

Not cracked. Not shattered. Shifted—as if something deeper than stone had just awakened.

A sound like roots groaning beneath the weight of a dying world rumbled through the broken marble.

And then—

From the crumbling threshold of the throne room, two figures stepped through the dust and ruin.

One barefoot, her skin the color of living earth, hair a tangle of ivy and wildflowers that bloomed with every breath she took.

Gaia. The Primordial of the Earth. The Mother of All.

The other followed a step behind, cloaked in vines and harvest-gold, her hair woven with stalks of wheat and ripened fruit. Her presence radiated life, but her expression… stone cold.

Demeter. Goddess of the Harvest. Bringer of Plenty… and Famine.

The Olympians stiffened.

Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Gaia walked—slow, deliberate steps that made the ground thrum with her heartbeat. Every inch of Olympus tensed as if the mountain itself was bowing beneath her invisible hand.

She stopped at the edge of the shattered feast hall.

Her ancient, moss-green eyes fell on Hespera.

And she smiled.

It wasn’t warm.

It wasn’t cruel.

It was knowing.

"My old friend," Gaia spoke softly—her voice older than time, heavier than the roots of the World Tree itself. "You’ve made quite the mess, Hespie."

Demeter, silent at first, brushed her fingers along a cracked column as she passed, every touch blooming fresh vines in her wake.

Her gaze fell upon Hera’s lifeless, skewered body. Then Zeus, broken on the floor. Then the shattered throne.

She sighed softly—almost… disappointed.

"You broke the cycle," Demeter whispered, her voice rippling like wind through dry wheat. "And yet… you’ve preserved it."

Gaia stepped forward until she stood face-to-face with Hespera.

The tension was murderous.

Until—

Gaia reached out. Placed her hand softly against Hespera’s cheek. And whispered, "It’s about damn time."

For a breathless moment, no one moved.

And then, with the slow curl of a wicked grin, Hespera leaned in toward Gaia’s touch and purred—

“Aww, Mother Earth herself… if I’d known you’d show up, I would’ve dressed for the occasion.”

She winked, tilting her head just slightly to nuzzle into the hand like a smug predator playing at being tame.

Gaia huffed softly, amused but entirely unsurprised by the defiance.

Her attention, however, drifted over Hespera’s shoulder—toward the three radiant forms hovering like silent blades at Hespera’s back.

The Hesperides.

Aigle.

Khrysothemis.

Erytheia.

Gaia’s ancient face lit up like a grandmother seeing her grandbabies after a millennia-long nap.

“My sweet blossoms!” she cooed, arms stretching out wide.

The sisters flinched as if they’d been shot.

“Oh no,” Khrysothemis muttered under her breath.

“Not again,” Aigle sighed.

“Brace for impact,” Erytheia deadpanned.

Too late.

Gaia swooped in, wrapping all three of them in an obnoxiously warm, bone-crushing bear hug, vines sprouting along her arms and curling gently around their waists like affectionate snakes.

The Hesperides groaned in perfect harmony.

“Ugh. You’re our less favorite mother,” Erytheia grumbled, squirming but unable to break free.

“Literally suffocating,” Aigle added flatly.

Khrysothemis just flopped dramatically in Gaia’s arms. “Tell our strawberries we love them.”

Hespera snorted, crossing her arms with a lazy tilt of her hip.

“Don’t let them fool you,” she teased. “They love it.”

Gaia squeezed harder, planting overly affectionate kisses on each of their cheeks as the three daughters continued to grumble loudly.

Demeter watched the scene unfold with a faint, knowing smirk, shaking her head as if she’d seen this chaos a thousand times before.

Finally, Gaia loosened her hold and leaned back, hands cupping all three of their faces at once.

“Look how you’ve grown,” she whispered warmly, brushing vines behind their ears. “I’m so proud… even if you left the Garden without saying goodbye.”

Khrysothemis huffed. “We left a note.”

“Carved into Ladon’s scales,” Erytheia added.

“He’s still sulking,” Aigle muttered.

Gaia chuckled and finally turned back toward Hespera, giving her a once-over with that same ancient smile.

“So… are we burning Olympus to the ground, or just leaving them to wallow in their own cowardice? The old me would have had a fit about you killing one of my children and harming another, but I have gotten rather disgusted by my children's spoiled behaviors.”

Hespera raised an eyebrow at this. "If that's the case, why didn't you do something about it? As their mother isn't it your duty to discipline your wayward children?"

Gaia sighed in disappointment before answering with, "I would have but the Powers that be didn’t allow me to interact with the world my husband and I created with the other pantheon Primordials. Each time the world is wiped cleaned and renewed by a different pantheon, the ones before aren't allowed to interfere. This was the biblical God's turn, so my hands were tied. Me asking you for assistance with protecting the golden apples was me pushing the limits to the Powers." Then she shrugged.

Before Hespera could ask anything, a graceful hum filled the ruined hall—like wind through sunlit fields.

Demeter’s steps were soft as ever, yet every Olympian still flinched as she crossed the shattered floor.

Not toward Zeus. Not toward Hera’s body.

Toward Persephone.

The Spring Queen stood silently by one of the broken pillars, having entered with Hades at some point unnoticed by all but the Primordials.

The Harvest Goddess’s expression melted into maternal warmth as she reached her daughter, immediately fussing over her as though Persephone were still a child sneaking back after running off with Hades for the first time.

“You look pale, my blossom,” Demeter whispered, cupping Persephone’s cheeks and brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Persephone—calm, as always—let her mother work, though her faint smile suggested this was a routine she had long since stopped fighting.

“I’m fine, Mother,” Persephone murmured softly.

Demeter didn’t listen, conjuring a fresh crown of white heather and golden wheat, settling it gently upon Persephone’s head with all the care of a doting priestess.

All the while—

Her eyes never left Hades.

The King of the Underworld leaned lazily against the pillar beside Persephone, one arm draped casually across the back of her waist, his long fingers idly twirling the silky ends of her hair between them like he owned every breath she took.

And oh, how Demeter’s jaw tightened.

Her smile remained perfectly fixed on Persephone. But those bright green eyes burned like an overripe harvest set to blaze.

Hades, sensing it, merely smirked. He leaned down, placing a slow, deliberate kiss on Persephone’s temple while meeting Demeter’s glare with a relaxed, unreadable gaze.

Hespera snorted softly.

“Honestly, you two need couples therapy,” she muttered under her breath.

Demeter finally turned back to Hespera, her voice tight but composed.

“Olympus deserves ruin,” Demeter stated flatly, though her fingers still tenderly stroked Persephone’s hair. “But the world does not. If you leave them to fester… they’ll rebuild. They’ll plot. They always do.”

She let her gaze flick toward Zeus’s broken form.

“They’ll claw their way back into power… eventually.”

Persephone spoke next, her voice like falling petals on glass.

“So the question is… do you break the cycle, or claim the throne yourself?”