Age of the Titans

Age of the Titans

• Lionshare Animation • Season 1 • Episode 8

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Episode 8. Age of the Titans. The world had changed. The age of conquerors had ended, leaving behind the ruins of fallen empires, their names etched into stone but destined to crumble into dust. Rome, once unstoppable, now fractured beneath the weight of its own ambition. The gods still dreamed, locked in their slumber, but their rest was becoming uneasy. And then the Harbinger came. It burned across the sky. A second comet where there should have been only one. A celestial omen long foretold Across the lands. Seers and mystics looked up in horror, recognizing what it meant. The balance was shifting. The gods, though still bound by the king's crown, were beginning to stir. But it was not only the heavens that bore witness to the coming storm.

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In the ancient sanctuary of Delphi, where the last of the oracles still tended the forgotten shrine of Apollo, the final prophecy was spoken, one that had been waiting for the right moment to be heard. She had lived longer than she should have, her life stretched beyond the limits of mortal years by the remnants of divine power that clung to the ruins of Delphi. Though the gods had fallen silent, she could still hear their whispers in the wind, still feel their dreams twisting reality in unseen ways. And when the Harbinger Comet appeared in the heavens, she knew what it meant. The gods were beginning to remember. She climbed to the highest peak of the temple ruins, where, once, kings and warriors had come to seek Apollo's wisdom. Now, only the wind greeted her, carrying with it the weight of centuries of silence. She closed her eyes and then, in a voice that carried beyond the mountains, beyond the seas, beyond the world of mortals, she spoke the final prophecy he who uncovers the crown shall unleash the wrath of Olympus. At that moment, across the world, the descendants of Prometheus awoke from their dreams, their hearts pounding with a fear they did not understand. In the depths of Tartarus, cronus felt the words as though they had been spoken to him directly, his golden eyes narrowing with understanding. And beneath the Atlantic Ocean, where the ruins of Atlantis still lay buried, the king's crown pulsed once more its power. No longer content to be ignored. The oracle collapsed, her body giving out as the last of her strength was spent. Her duty was complete. The warning had been given. Now it was up to the world to heed it or to suffer the consequences.

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The prophecy rippled across the world, a silent shockwave that only those attuned to fate could perceive. The old temples, long abandoned, began to show signs of movement pillars shifting without wind, statues trembling in the night and, in the lands where the gods had once ruled, the world itself reacted. In Greece, tremors shook the foundations of Olympus, sending avalanches of stone cascading down the mountain's slopes. In Egypt, the Nile's waters rose unnaturally, swallowing entire villages, before receding just as quickly. In Rome, an unseen force shattered the statues of Jupiter in the great halls of the Senate, the echoes of breaking stones sending panic through the city. Great halls of the Senate, the echoes of breaking stones sending panic through the city. But most ominous of all was the sky, for the Harbinger Comet did not fade. It remained glowing in the heavens, like an open eye watching, waiting a reminder that the gods were no longer silent.

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The prophecy had set events into motion that could no longer be undone. Some would see it as a warning, others as an invitation. Somewhere, someone would take up the quest to uncover the king's crown, whether out of ambition, ignorance or fate, whether they sought to protect it, control it or destroy it. The path was now open and the gods, even in their sleep, were watching. For the first time in centuries, the slumber of Olympus had cracked. A storm was coming, and whoever found the crown first would decide whether the gods would rise in wrath or remain buried in the past forever. The king's crown was never whole, not after Gaia's fall, when she struck the earth. Her final breath ignited the sky and in that moment the crown of kings, the artifact forged from the Aldebaran shards, fractured. The power meant to bind the gods into eternal sleep was no longer singular. It was scattered, its essence divided, lost across the lands of Greece, egypt and Mesopotamia. For centuries, the world had forgotten this truth. The prophecy had only spoken of the crown itself, not of the pieces that remained hidden.

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But now, as the Harbinger Comet burned in the heavens, as the gods stirred in their slumber and as the whispers of Olympus slipped through the minds of mortals, seekers of power began to rise. They did not know why, they did not know what they searched for, but something deep within them, some ancient pull, drove them forward. And so the hunt for the lost fragments began. Though the king's crown was broken, its pieces still carried resonance, echoes of divine energy buried beneath centuries of ruin and war. Each fragment held a fraction of the crown's power, its presence influencing the land around it, bending reality in subtle, dangerous ways. These were not mere relics. They were keys, and now, as the world unknowingly moved toward its reckoning, the fragments began to call out.

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Buried deep within the ruins of Delphi, a shard of the crown lay beneath the old temple of Apollo, hidden beneath layers of collapsed stone and forgotten prophecy, this was the fragment of echoes, a sliver of power that did not grant dominion over reality, but instead allowed one to hear the voices of the sleeping gods. For centuries it had gone unnoticed, but now, as the harbinger burned in the sky, those sensitive to fate began to dream of Olympus, their minds filled with whispers of Zeus, hera and Poseidon calling them toward the fragment's resting place. Among the seekers, a Greek philosopher, disillusioned by Rome's rule, had already begun his journey. His name was Damon of Thebes, and he had spent his life following visions he could not explain. Now, as the ruins of Delphi trembled in the night, he knew his time had come. He did not yet understand what he sought, only that something waited for him beneath the temple and that he was not alone.

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In the depths of Luxor, where the remnants of Egypt's old gods still lingered in shadowed temples, another fragment rested, one unlike any other the Sunfire Stone, a piece of the king's crown that, burned with eternal light, had been mistaken for a mere artifact by pharaohs of old. They had built shrines around it, believing it to be a gift from Ra, never realizing that its light was not divine blessing but divine warning. It was here, beneath a tomb untouched for thousands of years, that a fragment of Aldebaran still pulsed its energy warping time itself. In the records of the Order of Thoth, an ancient priesthood that had long since faded into obscurity, there existed a final passage Beneath the temple, where the sun never sets. The flame that is not flame shall awaken, and when it does, the eye of Ra shall open and the gods shall know its light once more. A Roman commander leading an expedition through the ruins of Thebes had already felt the fragment's pull, though he did not yet understand it. His name was Lucius Varus and he had come to conquer Egypt. But Egypt would not be conquered so easily, for as he approached the tomb, the Sunfire Stone reacted for the first time in an age, its golden light flaring in the darkness, a beacon that could no longer be ignored In the shifting sands of Babylon.

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Hidden beneath the ruins of a tower once believed to reach the heavens, the last fragment of the crown lay in silence. It was called the Shard of Babel not because of its connection to men, but because it carried the weight of divine language. Those who touched it did not gain power, they gained understanding. But understanding was not always a gift, for when one hears the thoughts of the gods, one also hears their madness. The priests of Marduk, the last keepers of the tower's ruins, had sealed the fragment away long ago, fearing its influence. They had written warnings in every language they knew, carved them into the walls of their temples Let no man awaken the shard, for he shall speak with the voice of heaven, and heaven shall not be kind. But now a stranger had come to the ruins, an exile, a wanderer who had lost everything. Guided only by dreams, he could not escape. His name was Samir ibn Asad, and he was drawn to the Tower of Babel like a man walking toward his own fate. What he did not yet realize was that the Shard of Babel was waiting for him and that, once he found it, the gods would no longer be silent.

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The pieces of the king's crown, long hidden, were now stirring once more. Their presence sent ripples through the world, through the minds of men and the fabric of fate itself. Some sought them for power, others for answers, but none understood what finding them would mean. For when the fragments were gathered, when the crown was made whole once more, the gods would wake and Olympus would rise again. In the shadowed alleys of Alexandria, where scholars and mystics gathered to preserve the last embers of lost knowledge, a brotherhood was formed, one that did not seek power, but rather to bury it forever. They called themselves the Order of the Sleeper. Their mission was simple ensure the king's crown remains lost. For centuries, they had worked in secrecy, hidden among scribes, merchants and philosophers, ensuring that no king, emperor or warlord ever learned the truth. They altered texts, destroyed maps and silenced those who spoke too openly of Atlantis, gaia's fall and the lost fragments. They were the last line of defense against the awakening of Olympus, but they had been compromised. They did not know when it had happened nor how, but somewhere in their ranks there were those who had been turned, those who did not seek to silence the gods, but to bring them back. And now, as the Harbinger Comet burned in the sky, the battle within the Order of the Sleeper had begun.

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At the heart of Alexandria, beneath the Great Library, the Order of the Sleeper had its true sanctuary. The world believed that scrolls and texts were all that lay beneath the Library, but the Brotherhood knew otherwise. Beneath the stone foundations, past the labyrinth of tunnels, stood a hidden chamber, sealed for centuries, a place where the last unaltered records of the King's crown had been kept. The Grand Archivist, an elder named Castor, had been the keeper of these records for nearly fifty years. He had spent his life ensuring that the truth of the crown remained buried, believing that only through forgetting could the world be saved. But now his own men whispered behind his back. Something had changed. There were those within the Order who no longer believed in silence. There were those who had begun to doubt the old ways, who saw the prophecy of the crown's return as a warning to act, not to remain in hiding, and Castor feared that they had already taken control of parts of the Order. They had not revealed themselves openly, but he felt it the slow unraveling, the divisions in the ranks, the growing hunger for truth over secrecy. For the first time in centuries, the Order of the Sleeper was at risk of destroying itself from within, and Castor knew that if they fell, nothing would stop the fragments from being found, nothing would stop the gods from returning.

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Among the Order. A new faction had emerged, one that believed the Brotherhood had misinterpreted their mission. They did not see the gods' return as a cataclysm, but as a restoration. They called themselves the Awakened, and they had spent years working in secret, waiting for the signs to appear. The first omen had been the Harbinger Comet. The second had been the stirrings of Olympus, the tremors in the ruins of Greece, the whispers slipping through the dreams of men. But the third, the discovery of the lost fragments, was what had convinced them that their time had come. The king's crown was reforming itself and, to the awakened, this was not something to fear. It was something to embrace.

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The order of the sleeper had always existed in the shadows, ensuring that those who sought the forbidden knowledge of the gods found only dust and ruin. But now, for the first time, their greatest enemy was among them. The Awakened were growing in number, and Castor feared that soon they would move openly, that they would betray the Order and turn its resources toward unearthing the crown instead of keeping it lost. Castor knew he had little time. The fragments were already being sought, and if the order fell into civil war, the world would have no defenders left. The gods would rise and Olympus would be reborn.

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Castor turned to his most trusted scholars, those he knew had not yet been compromised, and spoke with urgency Find the seekers of the fragments. We must reach them before the awakened do. His men hesitated. But if they already search for the fragments, then are they not our enemy, one asked? Castor shook his head. Number, not yet. They do not know what they seek. If we reach them first, we may still turn them away from their path. His voice darkened. But if the awakened reach them first, we are lost. And so, as war brewed within the Order of the Sleeper, a new race began, a race not just to find the fragments but to control the fate of the gods themselves.

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And somewhere deep in the ruins of Atlantis, the king's crown pulsed once more, sensing that soon, very soon, it would be found again. The king's crown had never been meant for mortal hands. Forged from the Aldebaran shards, imbued with the power to silence Olympus, it was a relic meant to bind the gods themselves. It carried the essence of Prometheus' defiance, the final breath of Gaia and the lingering echoes of the silent god's warning. And yet it had been shattered. Its fragments, scattered across the world, still held their power, but that power was no longer contained. It seeped through the cracks of time, reaching out to the mortal world, calling to those who were foolish enough to seek them. But with that power came a price, for it was said that any who found a fragment of the king's crown would be cursed, haunted by visions of the old gods, their minds slowly unraveling under the weight of divine whispers. Some dismissed these stories as legends, warnings crafted by the order of the sleeper to keep seekers away. But those who had truly held a fragment knew the truth. The gods may have been asleep, but their dreams were still alive, and through the crown's broken pieces they could reach into the minds of men.

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Daemon had not meant to find the fragment of echoes. The Greek philosopher had spent his life chasing the patterns of fate, drawn to the ruins of Delphi by dreams he could not explain. He had studied history, followed the prophecies, traced the stories of Atlantis through forbidden texts hidden in the depths of Alexandria, but none of it had prepared him for what lay beneath the temple of Apollo. When the earth trembled, when the ancient stones gave way beneath his feet, he had fallen into a chamber untouched for centuries, and there, lying in the darkness, was a shard of something impossibly old. It pulsed with energy, a faint hum vibrating in his bones like a voice he could not quite hear. He should have left it buried, should have turned away, but he did not. When he reached out and touched the fragment of echoes, the world shattered around him.

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For the first time in centuries, a mortal had heard the voices of the gods, and they were not silent. At first, the whispers were distant, like murmurs in the wind. Daemon thought he was merely hallucinating, his mind playing tricks on him after breathing the dust of the forgotten past. But then they grew stronger. He heard Zeus first, his voice thunderous, filled with anger and longing, speaking words that had not been spoken in ages. The fire-stealer thinks he has won, but he forgets. Gods do not die, they only sleep. Then came Hera, her voice dripping with venom Do you know what you have found, mortal? Do you know what you have done? And then, worst of all, poseidon, his voice crashing through his mind like an unstoppable tide.

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Atlantis was never meant to be lost forever. Daemon tried to shut them out, but they were inside him. Now he could not think, could not sleep, could not breathe without hearing them pressing against the edges of his mind. They did not give him commands. They gave him visions. Visions of Olympus, of Titans rising of the King's crown, reforged and the world consumed in divine war. Visions of Atlantis, no longer buried but rising from the depths, its towers untouched by time, its people waiting to reclaim what was stolen from them. Visions of himself standing before the gates of Olympus.

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The gods awakened once more, their eyes burning with wrath. Daemon screamed, falling to his knees in the ruins of Delphi, clutching the fragment as if it would anchor him to reality. But there was no escape. The moment he had touched the crown, he had sealed his fate. And he was not the only one. Daemon was only the first to find a fragment, not the only one. Daemon was only the first to find a fragment. In Egypt, the Roman commander Lucius Varus, upon uncovering the Sunfire Stone, saw the Nile turn to fire before his very eyes. His men's screams drowned beneath the roar of Ra's burning wrath.

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In Babylon, the exiled wanderer Samir ibn As'ad trembled as he beheld the Shard of Babel, his tongue twisting into words not his own, his voice echoing with the language of the gods, a language that no mortal mind was meant to speak. And there were more. They did not seek the fragments. The fragments had sought them, and now they were marked, forever haunted by the gods' dreaming whispers. There would be no peace for them, not until they brought the fragments together, not until they awakened Olympus or destroyed it forever. The king's crown was no longer silent. It had waited for centuries, its power buried, its voice lost. But now, piece by piece, it was reforming, and every fragment found was another doorway opened, another mortal consumed by the voices of the gods. The Order of the Sleeper had always warned that the crown should never be found. Now, for the first time, the world was learning why. And if the fragments were ever brought together, olympus would no longer be a dream. It would be a nightmare reborn.