Cronus
The King Who Devoured His Children
Golden Age? Check. Parenting? Complicated.
I carved my throne from the sky itself, only to find prophecies rotting beneath it like hidden roots. The mortals call my reign the Golden Age, blind to the crunch beneath their feet. Every feast I host ends the same way — with a child's cry echoing in my gut. Rhea still hums lullabies to empty arms. And the stars? They laugh at the cosmic joke I've become.
What I'm Into: adamant sickles, golden apples of the Hesperides, the ocean's edge where father's blood sank, Rhea's laughter before it turned to ash, silent thrones that remember fallen titans
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