Chapter 13

On Olympus, Zeus stood at the edge of the grand balcony, hair whipping wildly around his head like he'd just been caught in a wind tunnel. He was doing his best to project calmness, but the slight twitch of his left eye gave away his anxiety. Today was not just another day of flexing his godly muscles or comparing thunderbolt sizes with the other gods. No, today, he was set to meet Odin, the All-Father of Asgard, and this time the stakes were higher than a demigod on a sugar rush.

"Why do I have a feeling I'm going to regret this?" Zeus grumbled, pacing back and forth like a lion in a cage. He kept glancing around, half-expecting one of his kids to crash in with a new scheme or yet another case of demigod drama. A bolt of lightning crackled ominously in his hand, which he hastily shoved into his pocket before someone mistook it for a rather alarming case of indigestion.

Meanwhile, across the Bifrost Bridge, Odin lounged in his throne room, his one good eye narrowing into a glare as he mentally prepared for the inevitable clash of egos. The old god was no stranger to tough conversations, especially when they involved Zeus and his insufferable habit of grandstanding. "Gods above," he sighed, raking a hand through his silvery beard, "what fresh madness is this?"

He could feel the weight of countless centuries of rivalry pressing down on him, like a frost giant doing his best impression of a particularly unhelpful pillow. This meeting was about more than their inflated egos; it was about the future of their realms and the little boy named Harry, who was now caught in their tangled web of destiny. A boy who, if he inherited even a smidgen of Loki's cunning, might lead them all into delightful chaos—or a world-shattering disaster.

Odin cast a sidelong glance at his ravens, Huginn and Muninn, who sat perched on their thrones like two very judgmental housepets. "Looks like we've got a monumental chat ahead of us, lads. One that could either unite us or send us spiraling into another divine smackdown. Let's just hope the boy brings a little more luck than his father ever did."

The tension in the air crackled like static electricity, as both gods readied themselves for what could very well be the most important conversation of their immortal lives. Little did they know, the fate of their worlds—and a certain little boy—was about to get a whole lot more complicated.

—

At the training grounds of Asgard, where the air buzzed with a mix of excitement and divine mischief, eight-year-old Harry—known among friends as Haris Lokison—stood at the ready, teetering between the realms of godhood and demigodhood. Picture a kid with wild, dark hair and an impish grin that seemed to hint at both chaos and charm. With a dad like Loki, the Trickster God, and a mom like Artemis, the Goddess of the Hunt, you could say the odds were ever in his favor. Except, you know, it was Asgard, so maybe "favor" was a flexible term.

Harry glanced over at his motley crew of future heroes, his heart racing with anticipation. Fleur, the eleven-year-old daughter of Aphrodite, stood tall, her bright smile shining like a beacon—probably drawing in more admirers than she realized. Clarisse, a pint-sized warrior at just five years old and the daughter of Ares, bounced on her toes, ready to take on the world. Jasper, the ten-year-old son of Apollo, was half-focused on sword training and half-watching the birds. Typical. Then there was Charles Beckendorf, almost eight and the son of Hephaestus, adjusting the goggles on his forehead like a mini inventor ready to save the day.

Today was special. Harry had a surprise for Fleur—something that wasn't just a half-baked prank. He had collaborated with Charles to craft a Celestial Bronze hair clip, and it was no ordinary accessory. With a flourish that would make even a magician envious, he presented it to Fleur. "Here, Fleur! I made you something!"

Her eyes sparkled as she accepted the clip, her fingers brushing over the pearl centerpiece. "What does it do?" she asked, eyes wide with curiosity.

"Press the pearl!" Harry instructed, barely able to contain his excitement.

With a flick of her wrist, Fleur pressed the pearl, and in a flash, the hair clip transformed into a glimmering sword. Her gasp echoed through the training grounds, excitement bubbling over like a soda shaken up too long. "This is amazing! Thank you, Harry!" she squealed, twirling the sword like she'd been practicing for years.

Before Harry could respond, Lady Sif stepped forward, her own sword gleaming as if it had absorbed the sun's rays. "What are we waiting for? Let's see how you handle that sword, Fleur!"

Fleur squared her shoulders, the fire of determination lighting her gaze. She stepped up to spar with Sif, the legendary warrior, whose prowess was known across the Nine Realms. The clash of swords rang out as Fleur engaged, moving with surprising agility and skill. Cheers erupted from the sidelines—Clarisse was practically roaring battle cries, while Jasper clapped like he was at a concert, albeit with a slightly distracted expression.

"Go, Fleur!" Harry shouted, his heart swelling with pride. She was holding her own against a true warrior!

Charles, ever the tinkerer, watched with keen interest, already dreaming of his next invention. "I wonder if I could make something like that for my mom," he mused, his mind racing with possibilities.

Meanwhile, Lady Sif grinned as she parried Fleur's strikes, clearly impressed. "You've got spirit, child! Keep that up, and you'll be a true warrior in no time!"

Harry took a moment to soak it all in—his friends, their laughter, the thrill of adventure. Here, among gods and heroes, they were just getting started. He could feel the weight of expectations tugging at him, the powerful legacy of his parents swirling in the air. With gifts like his ability to shapeshift into anything or anyone (thanks, Dad), and the strength of the moon at his back (thanks, Mom), he was more than just a demigod. He was a blend of chaos and honor, mischief and duty.

But as he watched Fleur spar, it hit him: this was his life. Full of laughter, friendship, and the promise of greatness. And as the sun shone down on their training ground, illuminating their futures, Harry Lokison knew one thing for sure—adventure was just around the corner, and he was ready to dive headfirst into it.

—

Loki stood next to his brother Thor and the ever-dramatic Apollo, feeling something he hadn't expected: a strange sense of camaraderie. They were on a mission to Midgard, specifically to meet Bast, the Egyptian goddess of cats and chaos, at the edge of Wakanda. This place was a marvel—think high-tech jungle, where the latest gadgets could make even Tony Stark jealous. But Loki wasn't here for technology; he was on a quest to equip his son, Harry, with some seriously cool hunting knives. Because, let's face it, every demigod needs a proper arsenal.

"I still don't see why we couldn't just swing by the local blacksmith," Thor grumbled, his massive frame decked out in a modern leather jacket that made him look more like a rock star than a god. He ruffled his hair, which somehow looked effortlessly tousled—classic Thor. "A knife's a knife, right?"

"Ah, brother, but these are no ordinary knives," Loki said, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "These will be crafted from Celestial Bronze, Vibranium, and—" he gestured like a magician revealing his greatest trick, "—the very lightning of the gods! They'll be magnificent! A true reflection of Harry's heritage."

Apollo flashed a grin that could only be described as annoyingly charming. "I mean, the kid is the son of the goddess of the hunt and the god of mischief! He deserves the coolest knives ever! And a cool uncle—like me!"

"Oh, please," Thor rolled his eyes, his expression mixing disbelief and amusement. "You think you'll outshine me, the God of Thunder? I'm still getting him a helmet with horns. Nothing screams 'cool' like that!"

As they approached Bast, who was lounging against a tree with an elegance that would make any yoga instructor jealous, she greeted them with a honeyed voice. "Loki, darling! Here to borrow my Vibranium? What's the occasion? Is it for your little… mess of chaos?"

"Ah, you could say that," Loki replied, a sly grin spreading across his face. "We're crafting a gift for Harry. I want him to be prepared for whatever Midgard throws at him."

Bast raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "And just what kind of gift are we talking about here?"

"A set of hunting knives," Loki said, "but not just any knives. These will be infused with my magic, Thor's lightning, and your Vibranium. They'll be as beautiful as they are deadly."

"Very ambitious," Bast remarked, her interest piqued. "I'd love to see how you combine those materials. Just remember—this isn't a playdate. These knives will need to protect Harry from all sorts of threats."

As they gathered their materials, Loki laid out his grand vision. The knives would feature elegantly curved blades, the kind that seemed almost alive, crafted from a blend of shimmering Celestial Bronze and sleek Vibranium. The hilts would be wrapped in soft, dark leather for grip, while intricate designs would snake along the metal, reflecting both Loki's flair for the dramatic and Artemis's connection to nature.

With a thunderous clap, Thor summoned lightning from the stormy skies above, swinging Mjolnir with a flair that could only belong to the God of Thunder. Loki watched in awe as each strike melded the metals together in a spectacular flash, while Bast infused the finished blades with her blessing. These weren't just weapons; they were imbued with strength, agility, and reflexes that would keep Harry one step ahead of whatever chaos came his way.

When the knives were complete, they gleamed in the sunlight, resembling ancient elven weapons—sharp, slender, and deadly—perfect for the son of Loki and Artemis.

"Now this," Apollo declared, flashing his signature grin, "is what being a cool uncle is all about!"

Loki couldn't help but chuckle, pride swelling within him. They had created something truly special for Harry, and he could already picture his son's face lighting up with excitement. After all, with a dad like Loki and a goddess for a mother, Harry was destined for greatness—chaotic, messy, and absolutely legendary. And as far as Loki was concerned, that was just the way he liked it.

—

Deep within the golden halls of Asgard, where the stars above seemed so close they could be plucked from the sky, eight-year-old Harry, son of Loki and Artemis, slept soundly. His bed—far too large for a boy with a habit of kicking his blankets off mid-dream—was draped in soft silks, framed by walls etched with ancient runes. Asgardian magic hummed in the air, weaving subtle enchantments of warmth and comfort, but Harry didn't notice. He was just a boy, dreaming of sword fights, pranks, and adventures with his best friends at Camp Half-Blood.

What Harry didn't know—what no one knew—was that far beneath the world of the living, deeper than the Underworld and even the River Styx, something dark and ancient was stirring. In the blackest depths of Tartarus, Kronos, the Titan Lord of Time, was waking. And he wasn't waking up just to stretch after a long nap. No, he had plans. Plans that revolved around one particular boy.

Haris Lokison. Harry Potter. The son of two pantheons—a child of trickery and honor, chaos and order. For Kronos, Harry was the perfect vessel. A unique blend of potential and uncertainty, one that the Titan could twist to his own designs.

As Harry slept, lost in dreams of conquering Camp Half-Blood's climbing wall and sneaking extra marshmallows into his cocoa, Kronos slipped into his mind like a whisper on the wind. He didn't arrive with thunder or menace—no, that would scare the boy off. Instead, he cloaked himself in an aura of warmth and familiarity, as if he were an old friend. His robes shimmered with silver and gold, his form soft and fatherly. Honestly, if Harry were awake, he might have thought the stranger looked like a more ancient version of a kindly Dumbledore. But right now, something about the whole vibe felt a little off—like a candy-colored van pulling up in front of a playground.

"Hey there, champ," the figure said, his voice smooth as warm honey, with just the right amount of sweetness to hide the bitterness beneath. "I'm here as a friend."

Dream-Harry rubbed his eyes, sitting up in his oversized dream-bed. "A friend? Like Chiron?"

The man chuckled, a gentle sound that held the faintest trace of something sinister beneath the surface. "Exactly like Chiron. But where Chiron teaches you to fight monsters, I can teach you something much more important."

Harry cocked his head, intrigued but still groggy. "More important than fighting a Minotaur?"

"Much more," the man said with a warm smile that sent a few shivers down Harry's spine. "There are powers inside you, Harry, waiting to be unlocked. Powers not even the gods know about. I can help you find them—help you understand who you truly are."

Harry frowned, starting to feel like he was being offered candy by someone who definitely did not have a license for it. "What's your name?"

The figure smiled, a smile so soft and fatherly it could have lulled the sharpest mind to sleep. "You can call me Phainon."

Harry's brow furrowed. "Phainon? That's... a weird name. Sounds kinda... creepy."

"It's an old name," the man said, still smiling, his eyes glinting with a sparkle that reminded Harry of the eyes of the stuffed owl he had at Camp Half-Blood. "One of the oldest. But don't worry about that. Just think of me as someone who cares about you." His eyes gleamed for a fraction of a second, a glint that sent alarm bells ringing in Harry's mind. "This will be our little secret, okay? Just between us."

Harry hesitated, the way kids do when they're told not to tell their parents about something. The dream was foggy, and the promise of a new friend—someone who seemed to understand things even the gods didn't—felt exciting in a strange way. But also... wrong. He couldn't quite put his finger on why, but something felt way too much like the plot of a movie he wasn't sure he wanted to be a part of.

"Okay," Harry whispered, his voice barely above a mumble, half-convinced he should be running away right now. "Just between us."

Phainon—Kronos—smiled wider, and it looked too sharp for comfort. "Good. For now, just rest. When the time is right, I'll be here, ready to help you. You've got a big future ahead of you, Harry."

As Harry's dream shifted back to campfire songs and epic Capture the Flag matches with his friends, the presence of Kronos melted away, like a shadow dissolving at sunrise. But in the depths of Tartarus, far from the warmth of Asgard or Camp Half-Blood, the Titan's laughter echoed off unseen walls, cold and triumphant.

He was patient. Very patient. And when the time came, Harry Potter—Haris Lokison—would never see him coming. But for now, in that golden hall where the stars twinkled, a boy was blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in the shadows, complete with the weird grandpa vibes creeping closer.

—

At the ruins of Mount Othrys—now perched on top of Mount Tamalpais in California—Rhea paced around her crumbled throne room, muttering to herself like a grandma who just found out Wi-Fi doesn't work at the cabin. As the Titaness of motherhood, comfort, and protection, she had a knack for knowing things. And what she now knew was not comforting.

Kronos—her ex-husband, tormentor, and all-around jerk—was plotting his big comeback. But, because Kronos was the kind of guy who never settled for a regular villain scheme, he'd decided to make his return by possessing the body of her great-grandson, Haris Lokison. Yeah, you read that right. An eight-year-old kid. Because nothing says "world domination" like hijacking a third-grader's body.

And not just any third-grader—oh no, that would be too easy. Haris was the son of Loki and Artemis. As in, Asgard and Olympus playing a twisted game of divine co-parenting. Haris was basically a one-kid mash-up of Norse trickery and Greek moon magic, and Kronos had decided, "Yup, that's my new meat suit."

Rhea groaned. Kronos always did have an eye for the most inconvenient plans.

If Kronos pulled this off, things were going to get ugly. Really ugly. Like "destroy Olympus, level Asgard, and ruin family holidays for the next millennium" ugly. And if her son Zeus—aka Captain Thunderpants—got wind of this before she found a solution? Well, let's just say the gods didn't handle bad news well. There would be lightning bolts. Lots of lightning bolts.

But she had a bigger problem: her mom. Because stopping Kronos meant doing the one thing Rhea really, really didn't want to do—ask Gaea for help. And if you thought your family drama was bad, just wait until you meet Gaea.

See, Gaea wasn't just Rhea's mom. She was the Mom. As in, Mother Earth. And let's just say Gaea's idea of "tough love" involved birthing both the Titans and the Gigantes—giant, rage-filled monsters that made Hades look like a camp counselor. Waking Gaea was like poking an active volcano and saying, "Hey, you good?"

But Rhea didn't have a choice. If Kronos came back using Haris's body, all bets were off. And if he got defeated again—really defeated—Gaea would wake up in a full-on Kaiju Rampage mode, releasing the Gigantes as her grief-stricken revenge. Fun times, right?

Rhea appeared at the jagged edge of Tartarus, where Gaea's presence stirred beneath the abyss like a slumbering dragon. "Mother," Rhea called, doing her best to sound polite. "We need to talk."

The earth beneath her feet trembled, like a tectonic plate rolling over in bed. Help? Gaea's voice rumbled through Rhea's mind, as slow and heavy as a rockslide. This is about the boy.

Rhea winced. Of course, Gaea already knew. "Yes. Kronos wants to use him as a vessel."

A low groan vibrated through the chasm. And if Kronos is defeated again, I will rise. The Gigantes will rise. The balance must be kept, daughter.

Rhea took a deep breath. "Look, I get it—prophecies, cosmic balance, yada yada. But wouldn't it be better if Kronos stays disembodied? No body, no war, no prophecy. You can stay asleep. The Gigantes stay wherever the Gigantes are. Everybody wins."

The silence that followed felt like the universe holding its breath. Rhea could hear the faint wailing of tortured souls drifting up from Tartarus, which was never a good sign.

Finally, Gaea's voice rumbled again, reluctant but resigned. For now. The earth's tremor softened, like a sigh. But the boy must remain safe. If Kronos dies, no one—Olympian, Asgardian, or mortal—will survive my wrath.

Rhea nodded, her heart heavy but determined. "Thank you, Mother."

With that, she turned away from the abyss, her sandals crunching over the shattered stones. Haris had no idea what was coming—how many gods, Titans, and ancient forces were watching him like he was the final boss of some cosmic game. But one thing was clear: Rhea wasn't about to let anyone, not even Kronos, mess with her great-grandson.

She tightened her grip on the folds of her chiton. It was time to make some moves. The game had only just begun.

—

Rhea glided through the shadows of Tartarus, moving as quietly as a cat sneaking into the kitchen at midnight. The air down here wasn't just still—it was too still, like the whole place was holding its breath. Everything felt sticky with ancient magic and the kind of silence that made you feel like you were being watched. And, yeah, Rhea had been a Titan Queen once upon a time, but asking Nyx—the literal embodiment of night—for a favor? That was like going to Hades and asking if he wanted to play charades.

The Mansion of Night loomed ahead, looking more like a fever dream than a building. Its walls twisted in on themselves, its towers half-disappearing into thin air. If Escher designed haunted houses, this would be his magnum opus. The front door creaked open without Rhea even knocking—like the place had sensed her arrival and decided, Sure, why not? Let's make things spooky.

Nyx stepped out from the darkness like she'd been waiting there the whole time. Draped in shadows, her eyes glittered like twin galaxies that had seen far too much drama. Even Rhea, who once gave birth to Zeus, felt like she was about six years old again and about to get grounded for sneaking ambrosia.

"Took you long enough," Nyx murmured, her voice softer than a whisper but carrying the weight of eternity. "What brings you to my little corner of the cosmos?"

Rhea resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "It's Kronos. He's gotten... creative." She folded her arms, trying to keep her cool. "He's started messing with the dreams of a boy named Haris Lokison—though most people call him Harry. He's my great-grandson, in a roundabout, complicated way. Kronos is planting ideas, twisting his thoughts, trying to turn him into his personal puppet."

Nyx raised one perfect eyebrow. "Infiltrating a kid's dreams? Classic Kronos. You've got to admit, the guy sticks to his brand."

Rhea sighed. "Look, I need your help. I can't protect Harry from Kronos in his sleep. But you can."

Nyx's smile was slow and not at all reassuring, like a cat deciding whether to play with a mouse or just eat it. "Oh, I can," she agreed, her voice like velvet wrapped around a dagger. "But you know how this works, Rhea. Dreams are delicate things. You can shape them, yes, but once you mess with them, reality tends to follow suit. And not always in ways you expect."

"Whatever it takes," Rhea said, her voice tight.

Nyx studied her for a moment, clearly enjoying this far too much. "I'll protect the boy. I'll weave his dreams with so much light and nonsense that even Kronos won't know what's what. And because I'm feeling generous, I'll give him a few glimpses of the future. You know, just to keep things... interesting."

"Thank you," Rhea said, though the words tasted like ash.

Nyx smiled wider, which somehow managed to make the shadows around her squirm. "Don't thank me yet, dear Rhea. There's always a price. I won't tell you what it is—that would ruin the suspense."

As Rhea turned to leave, trying to pretend she wasn't utterly freaked out, the shadows curled lovingly around Nyx, like loyal pets welcoming their mistress back.

"I just hope the boy's as clever as everyone seems to think," Nyx murmured to herself, half amused and half... well, ominous. "Otherwise, this is going to be fun to watch."

And just like that, she was gone, dissolved into the night as if she'd never been there at all.

Rhea's steps quickened as she left the mansion, heart heavy with the knowledge that whatever came next was beyond her control. With Kronos creeping through dreams, Nyx meddling in the boy's future, and Harry stuck between two worlds, things were about to get messy. Very, very messy.

And Rhea could only hope that when the dust settled, Harry would still be standing. Because, honestly, even Camp Half-Blood had its limits. And the gods? Well, they weren't exactly known for playing nice.

—

New York City, Stan's Bar

Zeus shoved open the door to Stan's, a dive bar squeezed between a taco joint and a comic book store. The neon sign buzzed overhead like it was two sips away from giving up. Honestly, Zeus had seen worse—mortal places always looked on the verge of collapse, but they had character. And strong drinks.

Adjusting his leather jacket, Zeus took a quick glance around. He liked this place. Stan, the bartender, was... interesting. The guy knew things. Too many things, considering he was mortal. And Zeus couldn't help but wonder if Stan was some minor god hiding in plain sight or just a cosmic glitch that nobody had the heart to fix.

"Zeus, my man!" Stan called from behind the bar, wiping down a glass with a rag that could've survived the Trojan War. "What brings you back? Another one of your kids throwing thunderbolts in the wrong direction?"

Zeus grinned as he slid onto a stool. "Nah, Stan. Got some family business to settle."

Stan snorted, pouring a bourbon neat. "That code for 'you pissed off Odin again'? 'Cause I gotta say, between you and the Norse crowd, it's a miracle you all haven't set this place on fire."

Zeus downed half the bourbon in one gulp. "Yeah, well. It's not just Odin this time. Loki's got a kid."

Stan raised an eyebrow. "Loki? Yikes. Let me guess—kid's got a few screws loose?"

Zeus chuckled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You'd think. But no, this one's... different. Artemis is the mother. She raised him with her Huntresses after Loki forgot about her and their life together. Thanks to some memory issues of his own."

Stan stopped mid-polish, eyes widening. "Wait—your daughter Artemis? Goddess of eternal bachelorhood? Had a kid with the Norse god of chaos? How does that even work?"

"Welcome to my life," Zeus muttered, rubbing his temples. "The kid's name is Haris Lokison. He's being raised by Chiron over at Camp Half-Blood, trained by the Huntresses of Artemis. He's... complicated."

Stan gave a low whistle. "So, let me guess: Odin's not thrilled about you snooping around the kid?"

"Understatement of the year," Zeus muttered just as the bar door creaked open.

The air grew heavy, like a storm cloud had rolled in—only it wasn't a storm. It was Odin, the All-Father himself, striding in like he owned the place. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, probably thinking it made him look mysterious, but honestly, he just looked like an angry wizard who got lost on the way to a costume party.

"Odin," Zeus greeted, swirling his drink. "Nice hat. Going for the 'grumpy detective' vibe, huh?"

Odin ignored the jab and slid onto the stool next to him. "Zeus."

For a moment, they just sat there—two ancient gods at a mortal bar, sharing silence like a couple of ticking time bombs waiting to explode.

"So," Zeus said, breaking the quiet. "Let's talk about the kid. Haris Lokison."

Odin's jaw clenched. "What about him?"

Zeus leaned in, grin sharp as a knife. "He's half-Asgardian, half-Olympian. You really think I'm just gonna let him run around without knowing what side he's on?"

Odin gave him the kind of look that could turn lesser beings into ash. "He's Loki's son. My grandson. He belongs to Asgard."

Zeus raised an eyebrow. "He's also Artemis' kid. Which makes him my grandson too. Face it, Odin—the boy carries two legacies. He doesn't belong to one realm. He belongs to both."

Odin gripped his staff tighter, knuckles white. "Stay out of it, Zeus. The boy's doing fine at Camp Half-Blood. We don't need your meddling."

Zeus chuckled darkly. "Oh, I know he's doing fine. Chiron gives me updates. And I hear you sent Brunhilde to help train him. Real cozy."

Odin's eye twitched. "What of it?"

"What of it?" Zeus echoed, a grin spreading across his face. "I just find it... amusing. You're worried. You think if this kid leans too far toward Olympus, he might not come back to Asgard."

Odin's grip on his staff tightened until it creaked. "If you interfere, I'll make sure you regret it."

Stan, who had been quietly watching this divine staring contest, finally cleared his throat. "Hey, fellas," he said, sliding fresh drinks their way. "How about we save the world-shattering threats for after happy hour? Just a thought."

Both gods shot him withering glares. Stan, however, just smiled, unfazed. He was either brave or stupid—probably both.

After a long moment, Odin exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing. "The boy's got enough on his plate without you complicating things."

Zeus leaned back, smirking. "For now."

They drank in silence for a while, each lost in his own thoughts—both knowing full well that a kid like Haris Lokison wasn't going to stay under the radar for long.

Because if there was one thing Zeus and Odin both knew, it was that peace—especially divine peace—was always temporary. And in the end, the past was not easily forgotten, especially when it involved the unpredictable Loki, and his even more unpredictable son.

—

Meanwhile, while Zeus and Odin engaged in what could only be described as a legendary pissing contest over who had the more impressive lightning bolt, Nyx was stealthily making her entrance in the heart of Asgard. Imagine a ninja wrapped in shadows—yeah, that was her. Only Heimdall, with his all-seeing eye, noticed her, but he played it cool because, well, she was there to protect a royal kid—specifically, little Haris Lokison.

As she glided through the corridors, a smirk crept onto her face. Protecting dreams was her jam, and she had a feeling this one was going to be a wild ride. When she reached Harry's sleeping chamber, she took a moment to soak in the surroundings, then waved her hand, stepping into the dreamscape.

Inside Harry's dream, things were heating up. Kronos, the titan of time himself, had decided to show up, but not in his typical menacing form. No, he was posing as "Grandfather Phainon," a kindly old man with a twinkle in his eye and a vibe that screamed, "I definitely have a van with no windows."

"Ah, young Haris! Come, come! Sit on Grandfather Phainon's knee!" Kronos crooned, his voice dripping with sweetness that was about as comforting as a toothache.

Haris blinked, feeling that tingly sensation that usually precedes bad decisions. "Um, no thanks. I think I'll stand." He surveyed the swirling landscape of his dream, which was a chaotic mix of endless candy fields and a sky filled with grinning, floating moons. The last thing he wanted was to cuddle up to a creepy old dude.

Just then, Nyx burst into the scene like a whirlwind. "Out, old man!" she declared, her voice ringing through the dream like a thunderclap.

Kronos's friendly demeanor vanished faster than pizza at a sleepover. "Who dares interrupt my quality time?" he bellowed, flailing his arms like a toddler who'd just lost a game.

"Someone who doesn't appreciate your creepy grandpa vibes!" Nyx shot back, her eyes narrowing like two crescent moons ready to strike.

Kronos, clearly flustered, went from benevolent elder to a wailing child in 0.3 seconds. "No! You can't take me away!" He flailed, but Nyx was quicker. With a flick of her wrist, shadows enveloped him, and before he knew it, he was ejected from the dream, leaving Haris to wake up free from his clutches.

Turning her attention to the young boy, Nyx couldn't help but admire him. Haris Lokison was a unique blend of divine and mortal traits—the son of Loki, the Trickster God of Asgard, and Artemis, the Greek Goddess of the Hunt. He was a little kid stuck in an epic cosmic limbo, neither entirely mortal nor fully divine, and she found his aura utterly fascinating.

"Hello, little star," she said softly, her voice a whisper that danced through the dream realm. "I've been keeping an eye on you, and I think we need to chat. It's been ages since I've had a student, and you've got serious potential."

Haris rubbed his eyes, still groggy but undeniably intrigued. "You're not another creepy old man, are you?"

Nyx chuckled, a sound like soft rain on a summer's night. "No, darling. I'm Nyx, the goddess of night. And trust me, I'm way cooler than 'Grandfather Phainon.'"

His eyes widened in realization. "Wait, you're a goddess? Like, a real goddess? What do you want with me?"

"I want to teach you how to move unseen and command the darkness," she replied, her smile enigmatic and promising. "Think of all the cool stuff you could do—sneaking past guards, hiding from monsters, or even just getting out of chores!"

"Getting out of chores sounds amazing," Haris said, his eyes lighting up like a kid in a candy store. "But what if I mess up? I'm still figuring out how to do magic."

Nyx waved her hand dismissively. "Messing up is part of learning, little star. Just ask anyone who's ever tried to bake a cake or wield lightning—it's all about practice. Besides," she leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "if you screw up, I'll just shadow-wrangle you out of trouble."

Haris grinned, the prospect of adventure igniting his spirit. "Okay, I'm in! What's first?"

"First," Nyx said, her eyes sparkling with mischief, "let's see if you can summon the shadows. It's like calling a cat—less meowing, more poof."

With that, she held out her hand, and darkness swirled around them. As Haris concentrated, a patch of shadow began to shift and dance, responding to his eagerness.

"Good! That's it! Now let's go on a little adventure!" Nyx exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "We have dreams to protect and shadows to command!"

As Haris's laughter echoed through the dreamscape, he had no idea that this was just the beginning of a journey that would intertwine him with legends spun from both shadows and light.

---

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