A subtle, amber glow from a single hanging pendant light illuminated the small kitchenette, casting deep and dancing shadows on the walls. The aroma of freshly brewed tea lingered in the air, mixing with the faint scent of the bath salts that the two women had recently indulged in.
Once the two had made love, they had realized that they were in need of some pick-me-up. They decided to bathe together in salts and oils, successfully calming their nerves enough to speak about their plans. After making tea and coffee, respectively, the two stared at the red herring in deep thought.
Between them lay a card, ornately designed, with the symbol of winged sandals – the mark of Hermes.
"For some reason, I thought that Apollo would have us commit some ritual sacrifice to summon Hermes. It's strange to see that even Olympus have bowed their pride to the ingenuity of human technology."
Adamantia only hummed, sipping at her coffee.
"Yeah, they were always a 'step ahead' of the humans. Or as they would like to say to mask their incompetence. The Gods are just petty; they don't want to be left behind Humankind in any way possible."
Both women, Ahmanet and Adamantia, were draped in plush bathrobes, their hair damp and loosely tied up. They leaned over the simple wooden table, their expressions pensive.
The weight of their earlier conversation still hung in the air. Ahmanet touched the card, tracing the symbol with a tentative finger.
"Contacting Hermes is a bold move. If we reach out to him, it's as if we're directly addressing Zeus. Are we ready for that?"
Adamantia took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving the card. "Considering the gravity of the situation, it might be our only option. I never imagined we'd even think of allying with Zeus, especially in a battle against Cronos."
Ahmanet nodded, her face reflecting the weight of their decision. "But it's not just about Cronos. This is bigger than our individual issues or past grievances. If the Egyptian Pantheon gets involved without caution, the balance of power might tip dangerously, plunging mankind into chaos. If the Egyptians find out then so will the Norse Gods and who knows, maybe even the Hindu Gods will hear whispers of this catastrophic event."
Adamantia frowned, worry creasing her brow. "Waving a white flag and joining forces with Zeus might be seen as betrayal by some, but it's a necessary act of diplomacy for the greater good."
Ahmanet locked eyes with her. "Remember, love, this is not about surrendering, but uniting. The world is at stake, and if Cronos has his way, there might not be a world left to fight for. But be prepared for…"
Ahmanet's voice trailed off and Adamantia knew what she was insinuating.
"I'll deal with Poseidon." His very name was tinged with venom on her tongue. "I am afraid my feelings for Poseidon weighs nothing against Cronos. He must be dealt with at this very moment."
A heavy silence settled between them, punctuated only by the soft ticking of a wall clock. Adamantia finally broke the silence, "So, we contact Hermes."
Ahmanet nodded in agreement, "Yes, we ask for his guidance to Mount Olympus. Whatever awaits us there, we face it together."
With a shared sense of purpose, the two women stood side by side. The card, now glowing faintly, seemed to acknowledge their decision, and with it, the path to Olympus lay open by only a call away.
"Wait wait." Adamantia was about to type in the number when Ahmanet held her hand.
"Do you think Mount Olympus gets signals?"
Adamantia blinked and stared at the number on her phone screen and shrugged. "Well, only one way to find out."
Taking a deep breath, Adamantia picked up the phone and dialed an ancient sequence of numbers. Just as the last number was pressed, a loud whoosh echoed through the room and a man appeared out of thin air.
"What the fuck!" Ahmanet sprang into action, leaping over the kitchenette to confront the stranger.
"Is this it? Weird, why would I be called to such a place?" Hermes began to scratch his head, completely oblivious to Ahmanet coming towards him. "Now where is that God-sized lantern?"
Hermes stood there, in between the two women, his eyes wide with surprise, dressed in his classic garb, winged sandals on his feet.
"Oh, I didn't see you there before." Hermes laughed nervously, raising his palms up to Ahmanet who didn't waste time. Before he could react, Ahmanet screamed, "Intruder!"
With a force that no one expected, she pushed Hermes, causing him to stumble backwards. He was now being backed into the corner, his hands up in defense, eyes darting around for an escape.
"Wait! I-"
She didn't give him a chance to finish, her eyes filled with rage. "How dare you enter our home uninvited!"
"What do you mean uninvited! Give me a chance to explain!" Hermes stumbled, trying to speak as fast as his tongue would allow him. "A-Apollo….the number! Aaaah, lady please, I am only doing my job!"
"Ahmanet, stop!" Adamantia cried, realizing who the intruder really was. But it was too late. Hermes tripped over a fallen stool, landing heavily on the floor.
Panic shone in his eyes. "Please! I mean no harm!"
Ahmanet, adrenaline pumping, raised her hand to strike, her fingertips aimed at his neck to paralyze him.
Adamantia, realizing the weight of the situation, moved swiftly, putting herself between the fallen god and her lover.
"Stop!" she yelled. "It's Hermes! This is who we summoned!"
Ahmanet's hand froze mid-air, her fiery gaze shifting from Hermes to Adamantia and then back to the god on the floor.
Hermes, catching his breath, managed a weak smile. "She's right, you know. It's me, Hermes."
"Hey- woah woah!" Hermes backed away not realizing that he phased between the two girls and the kitchenette. Ahmanet's poised fingers were ready to strike at the man's neck causing him to trip over the kitchen mat and land over his ass.
A loud thud resonated in the room, and a shuffle of swift footsteps followed after.
"Wait, wait, wait!" Adamantia ran after the two, sandwiching herself in-between the two.
"That is Hermes!"
He stopped mid-sentence and turned his neck to look at Adamantia. "Wait, why did you call me? And how did you have Apollo's credentials."
"That doesn't matter at the moment."
A silence enveloped the room as Ahmanet lowered her hand and stepped back. The realization of what she had almost done weighed heavily on her.
"I'm... I'm sorry," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't know. With so many dangers lurking in the horizon, your sudden appearance alarmed me."
Adamantia knelt down, helping Hermes to his feet. "It's alright," he replied, brushing off his clothes, "Once I am summoned, my power does not exempt me from respecting the time and space of the location. I simply am!"
Hermes nervously chuckled, his eyes flashing unpleasant memories of several instances where he was summoned at the wrong place and at a wrong time.
"Anyways, my question still remains unanswered. How do you have Apollo's credentials?" When he saw the question written on their faces, he simply sighed and shook his head.
He mumbled to himself, formulating a sentence within his mind.
"Each God has their number, so when I arrive, I know exactly whose message I need to carry. So, imagine my surprise when I see the daughter of two Egyptian Gods and a possible target of Olympia!"
Hermes stopped his pacing and turned to Adamantia, bowing his head in apology.
"No offense, Miss. I am just very tired of being called in the middle of unruly situations. Once I am summoned, I am summoned. I don't get to choose where I am summoned. One time, Ares called for me and I appeared in the middle of a blood bath. I was bathed in crimson the moment I showed up and saw Ares laughing maniacally. And don't get me started on Hades, that man's reaction time is so slow. He doesn't look up from his paperwork when he calls me… sometimes I feel like he has dementia… then there was Nyx! She just summoned me in the darkness! Imagine enjoying your life in the beautiful Alps of the mortal world when you are dragged into the mouth of the abyss!"
Adamantia shook her head as if to casually dismiss his words backed by truth.
Aside from his mindless rambling, she knew that the Olympians didn't trust her for the fact that Zeus trusted his brother and Athena more than a nobody like her. Especially the daughter of a monster that was cursed by Athena. Just the thought of it made her second guess her temporary alliance with the Olympians but she couldn't battle Cronos on her lonesome.
"None offense taken, now. We need you to take us to Olympus. We can't tell you the details, I feel like you will know soon enough."
For the first time since he arrived, Hermes looked focused and solemn. He could register the feeling of dread hanging in the air, the unsaid implication of a terror unknown to him, stalking the shadows was nothing to him.
Hermes was no Ares. Hermes was no Asclepius. He was only a messenger and that was his armor. His mode of existence was dependent upon the delivery of a message although some gods would use his speed for crafty purposes but usually, they would only need him for simpler things.
Unfortunately, his speed demanded that he finishes all tasks as quickly as possible. He wasn't as erratic as he is now because the Gods didn't have him on a speed dial.
Now, whenever he was done with one delivery, he would get a call from an angry Hera, asking him to fetch his philandering husband from the clutches of a love-struck mortal. If that wasn't the case, then the call would be coming from Aphrodite's lovers and well… their messages for the Goddess of Beauty have always been tasteless.
"Uhhh…. Hermes?"
Snapping back to reality, Hermes realized that he was standing in one place for too long.
"Aaah. Yes, yes…" He realized that the two women had long since changed their clothes. "Sorry I tend to….do that." He picked up a nearby fork, feigning Godly ignorance alas, the two women were beginning to question the messenger god's sanity.
"Riiiight."
In the wake of their abrupt encounter, an air of amicability began to settle in the room. Ahmanet's eyes, still resembling the radiant warmth of a desert sunset, softened as she looked at Hermes. Adamantia, her sun-kissed skin seeming to glow under the room's lighting, offered an apologetic smile.
"I think we all need a moment to center ourselves." Adamantia suggested, folding her arms in an attempt to hide her impatience with the man.
A few minutes later, both women reappeared in more comfortable attire – Ahmanet in a dark ensemble that accented her deep skin tone and golden, crimson speckled eyes, and Adamantia in leather pants and a tank top underneath a jacket that mirrored her preference for mobility.
Hermes, now visibly more relaxed, chuckled at their transformation.
"Much better, it would have been embarrassing to walk into Mount Olympus in a bathrobe…" he nodded.
Taking the cue, Hermes shook his head free from residual thoughts and gently extended his hands to the two women. As their fingers intertwined, a gust of otherworldly wind whirled around them and, in a blink, they were gone.
They materialized on Mount Olympus, amidst the grandeur of godly halls and divine gardens, the air here tinged with a power that was palpable, yet serene.
"Welcome to Olympus," Hermes announced, his tone warm and rich as honey.
Meanwhile Ahmanet attempted to hold her balance. She felt a similar discomfort when one feels after stepping out of a day's long flight or from an elevator. Her feet took some time to register solid ground while Adamantia held onto her lover. As she held onto Ahmanet's hands, her own heart was racing.
Despite the murderous history of her father, her very marrow acknowledged the soil of her own lineage. If Athena had been understanding of her mother's plight, then maybe, she would have joined the ranks of the Olympians a long time ago.
Hermes, sensing their individual reactions, motioned at the two to follow him through the divine realm, each step resonating with history and power. Their destination was Zeus's war council chamber.
"I assume that you will need to see Apollo. You have his number after all but as you can guess…"
As they approached, the sounds of divine debate reached their ears – a cacophony of voices, some cool and reasoned, others heated and thunderous. "The Gods are a bit… busy."
Hermes leaned closer to Ahmanet and Adamantia, "It's rare for the gods to have a calm conversation," he whispered, a comforting smile gracing his lips.
At that moment, another figure approached, his presence as commanding as the shadows he ruled. Hades, with dark, penetrating eyes, strode toward them. He wore thin spectacles that slouched on his pointed nose, on the verge of falling off.
"And this is just a Monday," Hades sighed, a touch of humor in his deep voice that cut through the tension like a finely honed blade. He pushed his glasses up, flipping through the pages in his hands after wetting his thumb.
"Ladies. We have been expecting you."
The two women exchanged glances, amusement dancing in their eyes. Here, amidst the mightiest beings of myth, they found themselves part of a moment that was at once extraordinary and endearingly mundane.
Ahmanet, her nerves steadying, turned to Hades and offered a respectful nod. "It's an honor," she said, her voice steady and warm. "My father speaks highly of you."
"Ah yes, you are the cub of Anubis and Sekhtmet?" Hades's voice was nonchalant as he was far too busy sifting through the paperwork. "Ahmanet was it?"
"Yes…" She was a bit surprised that the Lord of the Underworld remembered her name.
"Aah yes, say hello to your father and mother for me. Persephone holds them in high regard." He stopped for a bit, turning his eyes to her but all she saw was his sharp nose and equally as sharp gaze studying her. "How is that old coot?"
"O-Oh, you know. Judging the dead as always at an equally dead pace."
Hades released a half-hearted chortle, shaking his head at a memory where she could not reach.
"Aaah yes, he is stuck to his old ways, no? Regardless, I cannot blame him. I carry the same stubborn burden upon my shoulder. My children tell me that I need to upgrade my work environment, alas, papers and pens bring me comfort."
"Well my father is older than you, sir. He does not move beyond papyrus and reeds." Ahmanet rolled her eyes to which the man smirked.
"Good for that ol'coot. Does he still ring that incessant bell?"
"Yes. Each time he does, new souls are close to becoming deaf."
"Love that man's spirit!"
Adamantia, with her golden wheat waves catching the divine light of Olympus, stepped closer to Hermes, her ancestral connection to this place grounding her.
Hermes squeezed the handles of the large doors, his eyes reflecting the vibrant life of the gods' abode. In the shadowed corridor leading to the war council chamber, the air was thick with the tension of divine debate. As Ahmanet and Hades caught up with Adamantia and Hermes, the latter turned to the two women, his eyes serious but not unkind.
"Be on your toes," Hermes warned, his tone both protective and stern. "The gods can be as volatile as the storms they command."
Hades, whose eyes seemed to carry the depth of the underworld itself, gave them a reassuring glance. "It won't be as dire as it seems," he said smoothly. "If the gods' tempers flare, just appease them with a compliment or two. Vanity is an old friend in these halls."
Ahmanet and Adamantia exchanged a look and rolled their eyes in unison, their skepticism a shared language by now. Despite the heavenly stakes, they were not easily cowed.
With that, they followed Hades, who moved with the certainty of an eternal ruler, into the chamber.
Inside, the room was a grand spectacle, columns of pure white marble stretching towards a vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of celestial grandeur. At the center stood a massive round table, its surface a detailed map of both the divine and mortal realms. The energy in the room was electric and chaotic.
Seated at the head of the table was Zeus, the king of the gods, his face a portrait of exhaustion. His head was in his hands, silver hair cascading like a stormy night around his shoulders, as if the weight of the world pressed down upon him.
To the side, Ares, god of war, was a tempest of fury and fire. His arguments with Apollo, the sun god, were heated and filled with thunderous proclamations. Apollo, for his part, countered with a cool, calculating demeanor, his golden lyre silent and forgotten at his side for the moment.
Across the table, Athena, the goddess of wisdom, was deep in strategic conversation with her sister, Artemis, goddess of the hunt. They hunched over scrolls and maps, their fingers tracing potential lines of defense, their expressions focused and intense.
It was Poseidon, lord of the seas, who first noticed the newcomers. From his position, his trident resting against the table like a sentinel, he looked up. His eyes, reflecting the fathomless depths of his domain, widened as they found Adamantia.
"Adamantia," he whispered, almost like a prayer to the tides he commanded.
Adamantia caught his gaze but ignored it. The last thing she wanted to see was the eyes of her treacherous father. In more ways than one, that man was untrustworthy and today, she will throw that man under the wrath of Zeus.
Sensing her discomfort, Ahmanet grabbed her hand, squeezing it as if to give her reassurance. The blondette turned to look at her lover, smiling at her as the two walked close behind Hades who merely gestured towards the guests of honor, knowing that the Gods were probably sensing her arrival.
At the sound of Poseidon's voice, Zeus slowly lifted his head, his tired eyes – as stormy as the sky before a tempest – shifting to meet the sight of his brother Hades approaching the table. Following in Hades' wake were Adamantia, whose presence seemed to momentarily calm the storm in Zeus's eyes, and Ahmanet, her golden-red eyes a stark and radiant contrast in the room of gods.
In that instant, as the women met the gaze of the divine assembly, the clamor of the room seemed to still, the fate of both gods and mortals hanging palpably in the air.
The tension in the room was palpable, as tangible as the storm clouds that gathered at Zeus's tempestuous command. Athena's grey eyes, usually as calm and calculating as a still ocean, now roiled with a storm of their own as they fixed on Adamantia and Ahmanet. Her brow was furrowed, her normally composed face betraying a flicker of anger and nervousness.
Athena knew. She knew that Poseidon had secretly met with Adamantia, his daughter, and entreated her to join his cause against Zeus. What she didn't know, what gnawed at her like a secret shadow, was whether Poseidon had revealed her own clandestine involvement in the freeing of Cronos from Tartarus.
It was a secret that could unravel the very fabric of Olympus.
The room remained stiflingly silent until Hades, ever the master of timing, cleared his throat gently. It was as if his voice was the key to a locked mechanism. Zeus, as if brought to life by a divine spark, lifted his head sharply. His eyes, stormy and fierce, fixed on Adamantia, and his hand rose to point an accusatory finger towards her.
"What did Cronos say to you?" Zeus's voice was thunderous, a demanding force that filled the chamber. "What have you been promised?"
Adamantia's sun-kissed face remained stoic, but her eyes betrayed a storm of emotions, shining a deep Mediterranean blue. For a brief moment, she was silent, her gaze turning to Ahmanet as if seeking an anchor in this divine tempest…and a place she would rather see in ashes.
Ahmanet, strong and steadfast as always, met her lover's gaze. With a reassuring nod and a gentle squeeze of her fingers, she silently communicated her unwavering support.
Taking a deep breath as if drawing strength from Ahmanet's touch, Adamantia finally spoke, her voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of defiant pride.
"I am Poseidon's daughter," she began, her words echoing in the grand chamber. "And the daughter of Athena's most sacred priestess—Medusa." She said so with such malice and sarcasm that it could cut through the tense atmosphere.
And it did. At the utterance of 'Medusa,' a palpable shockwave seemed to ripple through the chamber. It was a name that held within it a cascade of sorrow and rage, a living reminder of Athena's most anguished chapter, a narrative twisted and fraught with the darker nuances of divinity.
Athena's face, usually the epitome of composed wisdom, tightened ever so slightly at the irrelevant memory. Her grey eyes, deepening like a storm front moving over the sea, were windows to a storm of emotions she was barely keeping at bay. The mask of the goddess of wisdom slipped for a moment, revealing a raw, vulnerable core.
Poseidon's strong frame tensed visibly, his deep blue eyes now stormy, reflecting the turbulent emotions that his daughter's declaration had stirred. His trident, usually a steady and commanding presence, seemed to quiver slightly in his grasp, echoing his internal unrest.
Beside him, Artemis, ever the defender of women wronged, cast a look of ire on Adamantia, sensing the monumental vengeance that the woman had carried on her shoulders which will surely multiply tenfold. However, the Goddess of the Hunt, could in fact understand the woman's need for vengeance for her mother.
Ares, whose fiery demeanor was perpetually seeking a target, seemed for once subdued, his fiery eyes dimmed as he regarded Adamantia with a new, cautious respect. In her, he saw not just the offspring of his fellow god, but a living legacy of one of the most poignant tragedies of their time.
At the head of the table, Zeus, the mighty king of the gods, seemed for a moment not a ruler, but a Judge. His accusatory finger slowly lowered, the weight of centuries and familial strife pressing heavily upon his shoulders. His stormy eyes, which could ignite tempests with a glance, softened into a weary sadness as they settled on Adamantia then at his daughter, Athena.
"Ah, so the child of the serpent returns." Athena muttered, holding her hands behind her back. "And in such strange circumstances?" Her eyes narrowed upon studying her and the daughter of Anubis beside her. Though she was cautious considering, she could sense the woman's ire was mainly directed at her…and less at her Sire.
"Yes, strange indeed. The blood of Poseidon flows through you, girl." Zeus spoke, his voice no longer a tempest, but a gentle rain. "Your presence here is not mere chance—it is woven into the fabric of our shared fate. I am not a stranger to illegitimate children, I have a few too many… but, I offer each a space in Olympus."
Hades groaned, his tired eyes regarding Poseidon who had mentally retreated himself into a shell. It was strange to see the product of your poisonous past stand right in front of you. Zeus's escapades have always been dramatic but many have deemed Poseidon's elopement with Athena's priestess as monumental.
He has heard many mortals curse him for touching the pious priestess of Athena. Furthermore, the Goddess in question was bombarded with judgment and ire. There was a sharp decline in prayers and belief in her power, mortals began to hate her and then forget her. Their negligence was inevitable but what Athena couldn't fathom was the loss of her honor therefore, the implication that her divine wisdom was in question.
In her mind, she wasn't the one at fault when cursing the beautiful maiden. It was the woman who dared to have sexual intercourse in HER temple. That woman was hers and she dared lay herself with another man, let alone the Greek God of the Seas. Perhaps it was out of jealousy that she had cursed the maiden to possess monstrous head of snakes.
But that was just the beginning. Her affiliation with Cronos would surely send her to Tartarus regardless, she wouldn't go down that easily without punishing the humans.
Sensing the wisdom Goddess's glare, Ahmanet stood tall and firm beside Adamantia. She could feel the tension in the room and saw the clear impact of her lover's words. She reached out to gently place a steadying hand on Adamantia's shoulder, grounding her in the midst of this divine storm.
In that touch, Ahmanet conveyed her unspoken vow: she would stand by Adamantia through the storm they had entered, as resolute and burning as the Egyptian Sun.
The chamber, with its towering columns, thick clouds and divine occupants, seemed to breathe with them in this pivotal moment. Zeus looked at all of the participants present and sensed the foreboding sense of secrecy hanging in the air. He knew that someone was keeping something from him.
In the wake of Adamantia's confession, a tension that could rival the most potent of divine storms charged the air of the council chamber. It was as if Olympus itself awaited the verdict of the gods.
Athena, her grey eyes stormier than ever, was the first to break the silence that had engulfed the room.
"Lies," she hissed sharply, her voice like a dagger aimed at Adamantia. "This is a farce—a play at deception!"
"Deception my fucking ass!" Adamantia's stoney visage crumbled, her eyes promising swift death if the woman continued to speak. "Don't get me started, Goddess. Do I need to remind you that my mother was YOUR priestess? The most devoted one at that? How dare you fucking call me a liar when you stand here spouting utter nonsense!"
Adamantia was enraged. How dare she wrongfully accuse her when she was the one who cursed Medusa, was a tempest of indignation and denial. Hades, Lord of the Underworld, stood as a figure of calm amidst the divine tempest that had overtaken the room. His dark, regal attire seemed to absorb the ambient tension, rendering him an unyielding pillar of authority.
His eyes behind thin spectacles were dark and showed disinterest. Regardless of his feelings, all Gods fell quiet when Hades cleared his throat, the sound of him flipping pages resounding in the chambers—deep, eternal, and insightful.
"That is not the case," he interjected, his voice deep and resolute, resonating with the authority that came from centuries of ruling the realm of the dead. His tone was not defensive, but declarative—a statement of fact that brooked no argument.
"I have seen to it that a thorough account of Adamantia's lineage was prepared," Hades continued, his words flowing with a cold precision. Plus, he always did like throwing a wrench in someone's plans…ever since the first soul to come to him of a woman killing anyone that dared to harm an innocent? He has been watching this young woman through the thousands of years she has been alive. He never once said a thing, his own wife actually bid him not to because the woman protected all who needed it…never being picky or choosy on who she protected. If they were innocent and needed protection; she would step in to do so.
"I consulted the Fates themselves, who guard the records of every soul's thread. Medusa's line, so tragically altered in its course, leads unmistakably to this young woman."
As he spoke, he extended a hand, palm up, conjuring a silver thread that gleamed with an otherworldly light. It danced in the air like a living thing, as delicate as a spider's silk and as unbreakable as destiny.
"This thread," Hades explained, "is Adamantia's. It weaves through Medusa, unmistakably binding them as mother and daughter. It is a lineage of pain and strength, of tragedy and survival. And it is unbroken."
Around the room, the other gods—immortal beings who had seen eons pass—were visibly affected by the stark, irrefutable evidence presented by Hades. The silver thread seemed to shimmer with a truth that was deeper than the sea and as immutable as the march of time itself.
Zeus, the great king of the gods, slowly turned his gaze to Poseidon. The sea god, a figure whose very presence was akin to the deep and tumultuous oceans he ruled, seemed to subtly deflate under the scrutiny of his brother. His broad, usually resolute shoulders dropped infinitesimally, and his deep blue eyes, which had stormed with denial moments before, softened into pools of quiet acceptance and melancholy.
"It is as she says," Poseidon admitted, his deep voice imbued with a rare vulnerability and weighted heavily with emotion, barely above a whisper. "Adamantia is my daughter." He lifted his eyes to meet those of Adamantia, and in that gaze was an ocean of unspoken apologies and love—a father acknowledging his child, not just as flesh and blood but as a living testament to a shared, complex legacy.
In that hallowed chamber of the gods, as Poseidon's admission echoed softly, a poignant stillness seemed to settle—a divine acknowledgment of a truth that would change the very tapestry of Olympus.
Apollo, god of truth and the radiant sun, chimed in with celestial clarity. "There is no lie in her words," he affirmed, his golden eyes reflecting an unwavering certainty. "I can feel it—the truth resonates in her voice."
As accusations and affirmations volleyed across the table like arrows in a battle, the room became a cacophony of divine discord. It was Ares, god of war, who brought the tempest to a sudden, startling halt.
With a furious slam of his fist onto the war room table, papers and instruments of strategy were sent scattering like leaves in a storm. The sound was like thunder, commanding and absolute.
"Enough!" Ares bellowed, his voice a clarion call that demanded attention and obedience.
Every eye in the room snapped to him, and for a moment, the chamber was as still as the world before creation.
In the wake of Ares' words, a heavy, sobering silence fell upon the council. The chamber, previously alight with the fiery interplay of divine words and emotions, was now cold as a winter's night, still as a frozen lake.
The gods, beings of immense power and pride, were rendered contemplative and grave by the war god's stark reminder. As Ares' words hung in the air, the balance of the universe seemed to hang with them, teetering on a precipice that Olympus had not faced for eons.
"Do you think we can ask Nyx for aid?" It was Ahmanet who dared to voice the question, her tone both respectful and tentative. She was not unaware of the gravitas that invoking the name of Nyx, the primordial goddess of the night, carried within these hallowed halls.
At her suggestion, Zeus's eyes widened, the lightning that so often danced within them now stilled, replaced by a storm of a different kind: fear of the infinite darkness written plainly in them.
"Absolutely not," he replied, his voice steady but tinged with an unmistakable edge of dread. "Let that woman sleep in the darkness comfortably."
In his eyes, and in his words, lay the vast and deep-seated respect—and fear—that Zeus held for Nyx and her realm. Nyx, older even than the king of the gods, was a being of such primordial power that even Zeus, ruler of Olympus and lord of the sky, treaded carefully when it came to her domain.
"Nyx is beyond even our reach," Zeus continued, leaning back in his throne as if to physically distance himself from the mere idea of invoking her involvement. "Her darkness is not just the absence of light; it is a force, ancient and untamed. To wake her is to risk unleashing a night that may never end, a darkness that could swallow gods and mortals alike."
As Zeus spoke, the room seemed to grow perceptibly dimmer, as though the very mention of Nyx's name had brought a shadow over the council. The other gods shifted uncomfortably, a shiver running through even the most stoic among them.
They too understood the nature of Nyx. In the grand tapestry of the cosmos, she was a thread older and more fundamental than them all, a deity whose powers were as enigmatic as they were boundless.
Athena, the goddess of wisdom, who had remained silent through the heated exchanges, finally spoke. Her voice was calm, yet carried a gravity that drew the eyes of all present. "We must respect the ancient boundaries," she advised, her grey eyes clear and unwavering. "We have our own strengths, our own paths to walk. We must navigate this crisis as Olympians, united and resolute."
In that moment, as Athena's carefully constructed voice joined with the stillness that Ares' command had wrought, there was a palpable shift in the council.
In his grand, ornate chair at the head of the war council's table, Zeus sat with the posture of a weary ruler, his broad shoulders slightly slumped under the invisible weight of leadership and war on the horizon. He looked every bit the imposing god of myth and legend, but in this moment, his eyes betrayed an exhaustion that was far more human than he would like to admit.
"How could Tartarus be breached?" Zeus wondered aloud, his deep voice echoing with genuine perplexity.
He had designed the infernal prison himself, and his brother Hades, meticulous and careful in all matters concerning his realm, had overseen its security.
"I had every assurance, from my own observations and from Hades' meticulous nature, that our great prison was impenetrable," he continued, his voice a rumble like distant thunder.
Ares, god of war, whose very presence seemed to radiate intensity, was quick to reply, pointing at himself and Apollo with a jab of his thumb. "We have rechecked," he assured, "and we found no sign of tampering. Tartarus remains as secure as when it was forged."
Apollo, god of truth and prophecy, nodded in agreement. "The Fates themselves could not unravel its locks," he added.
It was then that Athena, her clear, wise eyes as sharp as her intellect, turned her gaze to Adamantia.
"Could it be," she ventured, "that Adamantia is more than she seems? A spy sent by Cronus, perhaps?"
Adamantia's reaction was immediate and fiery. She scoffed, an incredulous smirk painting her features.
"A spy?" she retorted, her voice rich with disdain. "Please. If I had any intention of serving Cronus, I wouldn't sneak around like a coward. I'd amass an army and kill you all myself."
The room seemed to draw a collective breath at her audacious declaration. Shocked faces turned towards her—gods and goddesses who had lived for eons, rendered speechless by the brazenness of this young, vengeful woman.
Except for Ares. The war god barked out a laugh, deep and genuinely amused. "Now there's the spirit!" he boomed, clapping a strong hand onto Poseidon's shoulder. "I must say, brother, I enjoy your daughter's war-mongering nature."
But it was Hades who interjected next, his deep, steady voice drawing the attention back to the matter at hand. "If she were a spy for Cronus," he mused, "why would he let her live? Particularly when she openly expresses such... disdain for us."
Their suspicions hung heavy in the room, a palpable tension that seemed ready to ignite. Then, unexpectedly, it was Poseidon who came to Adamantia's defense.
When Hermes, ever the messenger and seeker of truths, asked how Poseidon could be so certain his daughter wasn't the spy, Poseidon's answer was simple, yet it landed with the force of a tidal wave.
"Because I am," he confessed, his deep voice steady but laden with sorrow and regret.
In the stunned silence that followed Poseidon's confession, the tension in the room could have been cut with a knife. Every god and goddess in the chamber seemed to freeze, their immortal eyes widening in shock, disbelief painted on their divine faces.
Hades, whose composure was as legendary as the realm he ruled, was the first to find his voice. "What are you saying, brother?" he asked, his deep voice steady but tinged with an undercurrent of incredulity and concern. "You cannot be serious."
Poseidon's eyes, as deep and tumultuous as the oceans he commanded, met Hades' with a profound sadness.
"It was I who walked the halls of tart," he admitted, his voice carrying the weight of his choices. "It was a... miscalculation."
Athena's sharp glare challenged Poseidon. He knew that her shock stemmed from something far more insidious. Her eyes conversed with him, wishing for him to stay quiet and say nothing else. Especially of her own involvement in releasing the King of Titans and the Universe.
"A miscalculation?" she repeated, her voice like a drawn sword. "You have gambled with the fate of Olympus itself!"
Poseidon could gag from the amount of concern Athena feigned. He had enough honor, as bleak as it was, to not drag Athena's name with him but she could spare enough decency to protect his image.
Apollo, God of truth, shook his head slowly, his golden curls catching the divine light of the chamber. "Why, Poseidon? What could drive you to conspire with our father, the titan who sought our end?" he asked, genuine bewilderment in his voice.
Beside Adamantia, Ahmanet's grip tightened, her gold-red eyes fiercely protective as she watched the gods react to her lover's father's shocking admission.
Adamantia, however, remained a steadfast presence, her expression a complex tapestry of anger as she looked to Poseidon. "I could care less of your confession. Do you expect that I can suddenly care about you?"
Adamantia's dark laughter echoed within the chambers meanwhile Zeus, who had been silent since Poseidon's confession, now rose from his seat, his towering figure casting a shadow that seemed to darken the room.
"Enough," he commanded, his voice echoing with the authority that could quell storms and shake mountains. "We are a family torn asunder, at a time when unity is our most desperate need."
Ares's eyes betrayed him, showing concern and a sense of fear for the first time since the meeting began. "What do we do now?" he asked, his voice unexpectedly lost for the god of war.
"Now that I have been made aware that our enemy is not just at our gates, but within our walls. We must punish my darling brother first."
In that charged moment, with Olympus' very survival hanging in the balance, Zeus turned his gaze back to Poseidon, the pain of betrayal etched into every line of his face.
"That," he said heavily, "is the question we must answer. We do not know how many betrayers sit in our midst."
The council chamber, for all its divine occupants, felt in that moment as though it were a mortal court, struck dumb by a revelation that could reshape the very world.
Zeus's tired eyes sharpened into a focused glare, meeting Poseidon's own gaze—a mixture of defiance, resignation, and familial pain—in a silent clash of wills that seemed to momentarily suspend time itself.