The chill of the pre-dawn air seeped through the thick stone walls of my chambers, a familiar companion to the solitude I often found myself in. My eyes, long accustomed to the dim light, traced the familiar patterns on the ceiling, the same ones I’d stared at countless times since childhood. Each night, sleep offered little respite, haunted by the whispers of a prophecy that had branded me since birth.

"Born from lightning, a destroyer emerges. The fall of Olympus in his hands."

The words of the Oracle of Trophonius, a curse woven into the very fabric of my existence. I, Androkles, heir of Ares and son of former Lord Zeus, was The Destroyer.

A hesitant, almost scared voice called from the other side of my door, pulling me from my reverie.

"Lord Androkles? Are you awake? Lord Ares is requesting your presence."