They say the gods are wise.

I say they're cowards with good lighting.

My name is Theron, or at least that's what they called me before Zeus decided my destiny would be... "useful."

You see, a while back I made a small mistake. Well, several. I stole wine from Dionysus's altar, argued with Athena about philosophy (I beat her, of course), and had the brilliant idea of calling Ares "the second-best warrior I know."

So the gods, in their infinite wisdom, didn't strike me down or turn me into a statue. No…

They decided to punish me with something worse.

Taking care of the son of chaos.

A young god—neither child nor adult—with the temper of a volcano and the common sense of a storm.

Born of disorder, spoiled by power, and absolutely convinced that everything he touches must burn or shine.

The gods couldn't stand him anymore. So, naturally, they thought, “Who can we saddle with this creature?”

And here I am.

A mortal condemned to raise a god who might just end the world out of boredom.

My official mission: to teach him moderation and empathy.

My real mission: to survive the day.

And, if possible… to keep him from setting Olympus on fire. Again.