Wrath "Rise of the Fallen"

They stood in fighting positions in the most desolate place Zeus had ever seen. An infinite sea of shifting sand dunes peppered with tableland and hammered by sweltering heat. Lightning danced across Zeus’ fingers while Poseidon snapped his baton to brandish his trident. Hades did the same with his baton, bringing forth his rosewood-staffed two-pronged spear. Ghostly fire flared from his helm as he looked this way and that, ready to strike. When it was clear that no imminent threat loomed, the three gods relaxed. Zeus cast a sideways glance at a decidedly uncomfortable Poseidon.

“Near as I can figure,” Hades said with a hand shielding his eyes from the relentless sun, “the opal is telling me that we need to get up there.” He pointed to the jagged remains of an ancient mount rising skyward directly in front of them. Zeus cast a quick look at his ring. Just a plain white stone now. No longer black, no longer glowing. He did not like this lack of control.

“I am not thrilled being led around by a… a rock,” Poseidon said.

“Not exactly having a party here myself,” Hades said as he strode toward a tumble of boulders that marked a pathway upward.

Poseidon leaned on his trident, a seaweed engraving wrapping around its teak staff, and cocked a dark eyebrow at Zeus. “Do you plan on explaining why we’re marching into the very asshole of the world?”

Zeus shook his head and followed after Hades. “I’m not entirely sure. Just prepare for the worst.”

“Where Hades is concerned,” the Lord of the Seas and Earthquakes said with timeless weariness and a spin of his trident, “I would be unwise to prepare for anything less.” He tapped the trident in the sand. The earth trembled as if under a lover’s touch and rocks slid down the face of the mountain before them with a dry splash.