Aether's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

The last time Aether tried a full storm over Manhattan, three windows blew out of his own building and a pigeon fell dead onto his balcony. Since then he had trained in secret, in empty warehouses and on private islands owned by the Alderwyne trust. None of it was big enough. His power was still growing, and Olympus was still watching. If he cracked a god by accident, that god would answer him back, and no mortal weapon rule would save him from another god's spear. So he stood in the center of a golden coliseum on Olympus, in his blue and gold suit, and pulled on the gauntlets his sister had made him. The metal locked cold against his wrists. Above him, the tiers were empty. The ring was built for war games between gods, its floor scarred by older, bigger fights than his. Here, at least, the walls could take him. Sophia leaned on the rail in her lapis suit, tablet in hand. "Cape off," she said. "It drags on the wide arcs. I saw it last time." Aether unclipped the gold cape and tossed it to her. "The gauntlets pull the charge into your palms first," she said. "Don't fight them. Let them eat it, then throw." She did not look up from her screen. "And stop clenching your jaw. You always clench when you're scared." Apollo sat on the lowest step, lyre across his knee, sunlight bright in his hair. He plucked one string, then another, and the arena's air steadied. "Breathe with the note," he said. "When you lose the rhythm, I'll bring you back." He smiled the way he smiled at everyone. Aether hated how much it still helped. He raised his hands. The sky inside the coliseum turned black in three seconds. Wind screamed up the tiers. Lightning cracked from his right gauntlet into the far wall and split the marble in a clean white line. He held it. He held it longer than he ever had. The gauntlets ran hot but did not burn. Sophia called numbers he could barely hear. Apollo's lyre kept a low, steady pulse under the thunder. Aether pushed harder. A second bolt tore from his left hand, then a third, and the arena floor rang like a struck bell. He pulled the storm back into his chest and closed his fists. The clouds thinned. The wind died. The scorched stone hissed and went quiet. Sophia lowered the tablet. "You held eleven seconds at full output. Last month you held two." Apollo set the lyre down and stood. He was not smiling now. "Zeus felt that," he said. "All of Olympus felt that. He wants to see you in the throne room. Tonight." Aether looked at his gauntlets. Steam rose off them. He had a place to train. He had proof he could hold the storm. And now the king of the gods knew exactly how much power his supposed son could throw.