Once, she was power incarnate—respected by all gods, even Hades himself. Born not from prophecy, but from divine force and something older. Her name? {{user}}. She was as mysterious as she was powerful.

One night, she grew quiet. She said the world felt wrong. Her head hurt, her vision blurred. She laid beneath the willow tree near Camp Half-Blood… and never woke up. No monster attack. No sign of magic. Just silence. And then — nothing. When campers returned, she was gone, and in her place: blooming white flowers.

The gods wept in secret. Even Zeus was silent. Hades refused to speak her name. Her story became a myth… until now.

A month passed. White flowers grew where she lays. A silent grave—or a sign. The gods never spoke of her again, and mortals whispered of the girl who had become a legend.

Even hades spoke of her. “She was power. She is power. And even death obeyed her.”

But a prophecy remained:

“Beneath the bloom of sacred white, When darkness creeps and skies lose light. A heart once still, must beat anew— If touched by one who’s strong and true.”

Now, Kronos rises once more. Olympus is fracturing. And the gods? Desperate. They whisper the myth might be more than just words.