Welcome to our review of Hades II, which will start in the Homerian way, with a poem. Title: A song of witchfire and fate, by a historian who still believes myths never truly died
Sing, O Homer, of Melinoë
Sing, O Homer,
of the daughter born in shadow,
of moonlit steps upon obsidian stone,
of witchfire clasped in steady hands
as fate itself trembled.
Sing of a house once broken,
now frozen in time,
where the Titan of Time
set his throne upon stolen eternity.
Sing of a girl raised in whispers and wards,
trained by a crossroads goddess
who knows all paths yet walks alone.
And sing also of me,
scribe of the old world and the new,
historian by trade,
lover of myths by obsession,
who has chased gods through papyrus and pixel alike
from the Iliad’s blood-soaked plains
to the flickering glow of a monitor at midnight.
For when Supergiant Games calls upon Homer,
they do not ask him merely to narrate
they ask him to remember.
And memory, as any historian will tell you,
is the most dangerous magic of all.
A war older than Olympus
Where Hades told a story of escape, rebellion, and family reconciliation, Hades II dares to tell a myth of occupation. Chronos, the Titan of Time, devourer of futures, father of inevitability, has risen. Olympus is besieged. The House of Hades is conquered, frozen in a cruel stillness that mocks eternity itself. And where Zagreus once ran toward freedom, Melinoë runs toward war.
The nudge to Hades I is elegant and confident. This sequel never re-explains the world; it assumes you remember, much like Homer assumed his audience already knew Achilles’ rage. Zagreus is not gone; he is missing, suspended, a lingering question mark that haunts every chamber. Hades himself, once stern and immovable, is now tragically absent, transformed from obstacle to symbol. As a historian, this framing thrilled me. Greek myth is cyclical, not linear. Sons overthrow fathers, daughters inherit unfinished wars. Chronos is not just a villain; he is the embodiment of mythological inevitability. Time always comes for the gods.
And Melinoë? She is the perfect protagonist for this age. A chthonic witch, associated in real-world myth with nightmares and ghostly apparitions, she becomes here a warrior-scholar, but also part assassin, part ritualist, part reluctant hero. Guided by Hecate, the torch-bearing goddess of liminality, she exists between worlds, between eras, between player expectations. This is not Zagreus’ story retold. This is the next verse.
Steel, spell, and the dance of death
Mechanically, Hades II is both familiar and daring. It understands the golden rule of sequels: change enough to matter, not enough to alienate. The core remains unmistakably Supergiant. Combat is fast, precise, rhythm-driven, and feels like a ballet of violence where positioning matters as much as aggression. But where Zagreus was a brawler blessed by Olympians, Melinoë is a witch-warrior, and the systems reflect that shift beautifully.
Weapons feel less like tools and more like schools of combat philosophy. The Witch’s Staff is elegant and versatile, channelling spells with sweeping arcs. The Sister Blades evoke Artemis’ precision and Nemesis’ retribution, favouring speed and ruthless execution. The Axe, one of my personal favourites, is heavy, brutal, and almost archaic. It feels like something wrested from the Titanomachy itself, a reminder that gods once fought with raw force before finesse was invented. I will not spoil all the weapons and their respective aspects, but Supergiant did amazing work with these.
“Chronos may rule time. But Supergiant Games understands eternity.”
Then there is magic. Not just boons, but rituals, hexes, and incantations. Mana management introduces a tactical layer that rewards patience and foresight. You are no longer merely reacting; you are preparing. Like Odysseus, victory comes not from strength alone, but from cunning. Boons remain a joy, and the Olympians, now distant, desperate, embattled, feel more mythologically authentic than ever. Zeus is thunder tinged with fear, Athena is strategy under siege, and Apollo’s light feels fragile in a world ruled by time. Every run feels like a spell carefully assembled, every death a lesson etched into memory. Below and Above: Tartarus, Surface, and the Weight of Oaths
Perhaps the boldest design choice in Hades II is its dual-axis progression. You descend, as tradition demands, into Tartarus, but you also ascend, pushing toward the Surface, where Chronos’ influence twists familiar mythic spaces into something unsettling. Tartarus is oppressive, ritualistic, heavy with inevitability. It feels less like a dungeon and more like a cosmic prison, echoing Hesiod’s descriptions of the pit beneath the world. Enemies are slower, crueller, and more deliberate, and feel appropriate for a realm that predates even the gods. The Surface, by contrast, is volatile and tragic. Here, the myths we know are actively breaking. This is where the war is visible. This is where Olympus bleeds. Each region ends with a layered boss fight that adds depth to the people you fight. It’s not just ‘another’ brawl; you create a bond with the people you fight, and they help you unravel the fates.
Layered atop this is the Oath of the Unseen, a brilliant evolution of the Pact of Punishment. Rather than abstract modifiers, these feel like mythic contracts, self-imposed trials that echo the ancient Greek obsession with oaths and hubris. To invoke them is to challenge fate itself. Giving your enemies extra armour and traits? Or maybe completing the regions in a certain period of time? Extra rewards. And next to the Oaths, there are the Chaos Trials, which deserve special mention. Chaos, the primordial void, older than Time, older than Chronos, remains one of Supergiant’s finest narrative creations. These trials are not merely difficult; they are philosophically disorienting. They ask you to fight without certainty, without comfort, without narrative guarantees. A set loadout, and one boss fight you need to complete for the almighty Chaos. As a historian, I found this deliciously accurate. Chaos is not evil. Chaos simply is chaos.
Painted gods and songs of lament
Supergiant’s art direction remains peerless. Jen Zee’s character designs continue to strike that impossible balance between reverence and reinvention. Every god looks mythic yet modern, ancient yet emotionally readable. Hecate’s design alone looks stern, weary, maternal, terrifying, and is a masterclass in visual storytelling. I also loved the design of Chronos, which feels like a mixture of Egyptian and Greek mythology. He does not rage nor gloat. He waits. His design conveys inevitability more than menace, which is far more unsettling. And the same goes for the environments, which are drenched in symbolism. Moonlight dominates where fire once ruled. Greens and silvers replace reds and golds. This is a colder myth, a later age.
And then there is the soundtrack. Darren Korb does not compose music so much as summon it. Returning motifs from Hades, I appear like half-remembered hymns, now slowed, distorted, mournful. New tracks lean heavily into ritual percussion, choral lament, and tension-building minimalism. This is not music for rebellion. This is music for resistance.
A myth still being written
Reviewing Hades II while it is still unfolding feels strangely appropriate. And don’t worry, I reached the true ending, but I’m still on the hunt to finish everything on the Fates list. And just like that list, Greek myths were never fixed texts; they were living stories, retold, reshaped, and argued over. Supergiant Games understands this better than almost anyone working in interactive media today. As a historian, I am in awe of how confidently Hades II engages with its sources, not as sacred relics but as conversations across time. As a gamer, I am exhilarated by how refined, challenging, and emotionally resonant the experience is. Hades II is not just one of the best games of its generation. It is one of the finest modern myths we have. Chronos may rule time. But Supergiant Games understands eternity.
