Tyche finally found the hall where Sovereign Advisory was convening after spinning around the Main Palace, which was many times bigger than what was seen on the outside and filled with some of the strongest wards on the planet. One of them, however, prohibited teleportation, leading to her current mundane predicament, but of course there were exceptions, privileges. A monarchy couldn't do without little nepotism, could it? And Zeus, of course, was the father of Nepotism.
Tyche reached the colossal doors of the hall, engraved with victories and triumphs of Gods, jubilant and heavenly amidst clouds, their radiant smiles perpetual. Even she was there, young and naïve, attending to her father and mother in between the battles and banquets. Tyche's gaze remained on the murals of the bygone era for a melancholic moment before her heart hardened, setting aside silly emotions and foolish thoughts.
Kratos, the God of Strength and the Might of Zeus, stood sentinel at the doors, and all around her, eyes swarmed in wonder, mouths whispered in emotions beyond count—all not only focused on her but the closed door. Undaunted, she held her head high and walked forward.
Kratos extended his hand in a welcoming gesture, and with it, the doors rumbled open just enough for her entry.
Whispers surged like an eager tide beneath her steps, rising high and low, trying to follow her into the hall, but she was anything but slow, leaving the eyes and gazes in dusts of yearning and disappointment.
The door rumbled closed behind her, and the hall opened up before her eyes, grandiose and majestic and godly. Gargantuan pillars, divine statues, otherworldly paintings, heavenly curtains, saintly decorations, deific ornaments—in the heart of it all, a magnificent silver table gleamed, long and imposing.
Ten golden chairs stood sentinel around it. At the head and foot, one chair each stood tall, while on either side, four more kept watch.
Four chairs on the sides were already taken, occupants arriving even earlier than her. Athena and her father claimed the seats, side by side, right next to the head chair. Ares and Hecate settled in, one in the middle of Hermes' side, to the left, and the other at the far end of Athena's side, to the right.
Tension hung heavy in the air, Athena and Ares likely butting heads as usual. It shattered upon her arrival, met with genuine enthusiasm from her father, who seemed sincerely glad she was here.
Hermes sprang to his feet, before her in a flash, swift as lightning. "Here comes my lucky charm." He spread his arms wide, a bashful grin on his face. "Give your old man a squeeze, will you?"
"Father." Tyche embraced Hermes in greeting, her tone devoid of warmth or affection, a mere gesture of politeness, while her heart cringed at her nickname in his tongue as always.
"Now now," Hermes didn't seemed to be affected by her indifference, his hands boldly reaching for her cheeks, squeezing them with affection. "Give us a little smile. It's such an auspicious—"
"Father!" Tyche protested, snatching his hands almost as swiftly as he'd moved. Her eyes darted instinctively toward the other deities present, who were clearly finding his fatherly antics quite amusing. Her cheeks reddened as she continued vehemently. "Stop!"
Hermes laughed, refusing to release her, and instead, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, guiding her toward the silver table.
Tyche wanted to let loose a string of curses directed squarely at her father, straight into the arms of the Mother of Misfortune herself. She should have pulled away, insisted on some distance. But she couldn't do it. She saw too much, what others might not. It was a double-edged sword. The genuine warmth and love under her father's touch, the hidden concern and regret in his mirthful eyes, spun a million tales that turned her protest into a sigh of exasperation and surrender.
Her father's smile beamed, and they arrived at the silver table. Naturally, her seat was right next to him. It bore her sacred symbol—the Wheel of Fortune—on the back, just like the others. With a single glance at all the emblems, she deduced the identity of the yet-to-arrive members.
As Tyche settled into her seat, Hecate leaned forward, eyeing Hermes with a question. "Old man?"
Hermes explained, "It's an affectionate way of addressing your father."
"It's a rather modern term of endearment among mortals," Athena chimed in, her enthusiasm for sharing knowledge as strong as ever. "Though I advice against its usage. Not everyone would like to be addressed such." Especially Gods, was left unsaid.
"I'm all for it!" Ares boomed boisterously. "I'd wear it like a badge of honour if my kids called me that." He exchanged a look between Tyche and Hermes. "You're one lucky dad, Hermes, to have a daughter who's so openly affectionate." He followed it with a hearty laugh, clearly amused by his own pun.
"Absolutely," Hermes chimed in blissfully, his hands resting over Tyche's. "I couldn't be prouder."
In that moment, Tyche desperately wished she could rewind time and silence her foolish past self from ever calling her father 'old man'.
"Enough both of you," Athena cut in, looking like she wanted to facepalm. "You're just making her uncomfortable."
Hecate looked on with a ghost of a smile.
"It's fine," Tyche felt compelled to interject, hoping to salvage some semblance of dignity. "It's fine. Please don't mind my father's theatrics," she said apologetically, not hesitating to throw him under the bus. "You know how he can be."
Hermes put on a dramatic display, clutching his heart in mock pain. Tyche was determined to ignore him, even though a smile threatened to bloom on her lips, but she refused to give her father the satisfaction.
Thankfully, the topic was dropped there. No one else seemed particularly interested in her, save for her father, who persisted in asking about her recent endeavours while they all waited for the remaining members to arrive.
"So," Ares suddenly cleared his throat, grabbing everyone's attention. "It's confirmed then," he glanced at Tyche. "Apollo has indeed fallen out of favour with the old man, hasn't he?"
"Old man?" Athena shot Ares a dangerous look, not even fazed by his audacious choice of words. "Seriously, Ares?"
"What?" Ares shot back, puffing out his chest. "I don't think Father would mind now."
"I concur." Hermes chimed in, giving Ares a sly wink.
"This isn't a debate," Athena tutted. "Neither of you has any clue whether Father will mind or not. But if you're itching to find out, go right ahead for all intents and purposes."
Ares looked like he wanted to retort, but a stern glance from Hermes shut him up. Even Athena didn't press the matter further, evidently reluctant to discuss their father like this in front of others.
If it weren't for Hecate and me, this might've unfolded differently, Tyche noted. It felt oddly surreal to witness her father and his siblings interact in this manner.
"So," Hermes redirected her attention towards Tyche, persisting in pestering her about recent endeavours. "Tell me, which mortals caught your eye recently? Anybody worthy of your fortune?"
"None worthy." Tyche lied through the teeth, raising her head high with an air of nonchalance.
"So there was someone worthy." Hermes grinned.
"Why do you even bother asking?" Tyche rolled her eyes.
"Tell me his story," Hermes pressed, his enthusiasm tinged with a dangerous glint in his eyes.
"No," Tyche stated firmly. "And it isn't what you're thinking. He is just my blessed."
"Oh?" Hermes raised his brows. "Now I'm even more intrigued."
"He is nothing of importance, father," Tyche swiftly redirected the conversation, not wanting to discuss Charles. "Anyway, what is mother up to these days?"
"Ah, don't think I didn't see what you did there," Hermes caught her, though he didn't press further, looking at her firmly. "Just remember, if you ever need to talk, I'm all ears."
Tyche simply nodded, her heart swirling with silly emotions once more.
"So, about your mother?" Hermes answered her question. "You know how she is. It's the usual. Collecting stories."
The conversation continued in this vein. Tyche listened to some of the stories her mother had recently gathered. As her father had mentioned, it was the same old narrative, however they were interesting as always to Tyche. And can you blame her? Each story may have ended in tragedy. Mortal lovers parting ways in heartbreak and grief and despair, but in Tyche's mind, she envisioned the could-have-beens. From blissful endings to downright catastrophic ones. It was a riot of potential outcomes, never realised but always lingering.
But all of these stories were quite tame compared to the epics Mother orchestrated back in the Age of Gods. Mother had become much kinder and generous since then, for she even blessed a few lucky, heartbroken mortals who had touched her heart with their stories from time to time, giving them the strength to move on and find a love that would stay with them forever.
Other members of the council continued to arrive, weaving in and between of the stories of tragedy and rebirth. First came Demeter, the Earth Goddess, bearing warmth, food, and a smile as she claimed her Seat of Nature at the council. "Have another," she urged Tyche, offering a basket of biscuits. "You should never be stingy with food."
Tyche didn't think twice, snagging an extra biscuit, swept up in Demeter's cozy, motherly grin. Earth Goddess settled in beside Tyche, her golden throne decked out with the emblem—Cornucopia rising from a sea of wheat. She leaned in, adding her own touch to the stories, weaving her warmth into the tragic tales.
Then came Hephaestus, the God of the Forge, gruff and surly as ever. He wasn't one for pleasantries, and no one really minded. He plunked himself down next to Athena and began tinkering with his devices. His seat bore his sacred emblem—Anvil and Hammer.
The next arrival was what stirred everyone, pausing their words in their tongues and gluing their eyes to the opening entrance, from within which Themis entered, signifying her return to Olympus. Everyone immediately greeted Themis in deference, even Ares and Hephaestus, each in their own way.
Even though Tyche had been expecting Themis, the Titaness of Justice's presence still caught her off guard. She had no idea how Zeus managed to coax Themis out of retirement. You've got to understand, in the Age of Gods, Themis held more sway over Olympus than anyone after Zeus and Hera. Her influence even overshadowed the other Olympians. She was Zeus's highest adviser, and her domains basically formed the bedrock of the sprawling Civilization that currently blanketed the world.
After all, she was the embodiment of Lady Justice.
As for her true power, well, it was mostly shrouded in rumours; nobody really grasped the depths of Themis.
The Lady Justice claimed her Seat of Order, brandishing her sacred emblem—the Balance Scale—with a slight nod of acknowledgment in response to all greetings. Then, a heavy and awkward silence fell, as no one seemed willing to break it. It may have been because of Themis, or, more likely, the impending council about to begin for the last two seats, which belonged to none other than—
A streak of lightning slashed through the hall, followed by booming thunder. There stood Zeus, hand in hand with Hera, the King and Queen together, in their youthful forms, no less.
Oh my Gaea! Tyche thought, rising in greetings. Olympus was truly changing! She fixated on the young Zeus, her heart pounding with excitement. But caution still held her, so she gave Zeus a glance through her eyes of Destiny, as discreetly and naturally as possible.
Zeus was, well, there was no other way to put it: there was nothing. Nothing at all. No chaos or disorder powerful enough to tear the tapestry of fate. Just pure nothingness.
Tyche looked away gracefully, not daring to peer further for fear of getting caught. Her findings were far from meaningless; in fact, they were substantial. Her eyes could gaze directly into the nature of Destiny, into the realm of infinite possibilities and probabilities.
Thus, the nothingness of Zeus itself was the most glaring anomaly. Fates of many Mortals and Gods does indeed wind and weave into nothing, but even there paths and threads are present, shining against the blackness of randomness. Nothing shouldn't be possible at all.
Yet there he was, Zeus, stripped of destinies and pathways, an unprecedented aberration. This, however, didn't prove anything ultimately. There lingered the chance that Zeus had transformed to a degree that her eyes could no longer penetrate his mystique. Perhaps some catalyst of change now veiled him from her sight, or maybe Zeus had grown stronger with transformation, enough to shield himself from her scrutiny. The variables were too many, and Tyche loathed her vulnerability once again.
Still, Zeus remained her prime suspect. Destiny wasn't a single thread but a vast, interconnected force, weaving purpose and significance into the fabric of existence. Though Zeus might seem like nothingness, threads emanated from everything around him, potential conduits of influence. And if he truly embodied chaos, then rending those threads would be his calling.
Tyche knew it was time to look up, and when she did, her gaze collided with the electric blue eyes of Zeus. Shit, shit, shit, shit! she cursed inwardly, almost instinctively looking away in panic. But she summoned every ounce of her willpower to maintain the eye contact. Don't look away, Tyche, do not look away! Don't act like you've been caught. Do not. Stay composed! Stay composed!
She maintained her calm facade, locking eyes with Zeus. His gaze lingered for a beat too long, far from a casual glance. He noticed, and her heart raced, ichor rushing through her veins. Yet she summoned the strength to give a deferential nod, still careful not to betray anything. Then, to her immense relief, Zeus looked away as he took his seat at the head of the table, clutching his sacred emblem—the Thunderbolt.
Tyche attempted to steady her racing heart. She glanced around the silver table, reigning in her power completely. Nobody paid her any mind; all attention was fixed on the youthful Zeus and Hera. As the King of Gods settled into his seat, Hera claimed hers at the foot of the table, bearing her sacred emblem—a Blooming Lotus.
That was close, Tyche reeled. So close. Still, caution alone wouldn't suffice anymore. I need to slow down. There's all the time in the world. Don't let excitement get the better of you, Tyche! She soothed herself, yet she couldn't ignore the persistent gnawing in her heart, the lingering suspicion that Zeus might have indeed sensed her prying, however that may be. I needed watch each of my steps from now on. Don't want anyone getting the wrong idea.
Zeus cleared his throat, snapping her back to reality. "I've called you here for something epochal," he declared, a note of grandiosity in his voice. "But before we get into it, I'm sure you're all filled with questions about my transformation." He didn't give them a chance to voice any, of course. "There's not much to say. Change sets off a domino effect. Once it starts, it's a tough thing to stop. So, I reckon it's better for you all to see for yourselves, rather than hear it from me." His electric blue eyes swept the council, and all looked back in varying degrees of acknowledgement.
The King of Gods' voice filled the room with authority. "Then let's begin," he continued, his declaration carrying weight. "This marks the inaugural meeting of the Sovereign Advisory. I've hand-picked each member, carefully selecting representatives of crucial domains in Olympus to be my advisors for governing the West. Matters pertaining to the West will be deliberated and decided here in the Sovereign Advisory. Issues of paramount importance that concern the entire West will be presented to the Olympian Council for voting after their deliberation in Sovereign Advisory, while others can be implemented directly after my approval. This advisory is required to convene once a week, every Monday morning at 10 am EST, unless in the case of emergencies or unforeseen situations. In the rare event of an extraordinary and urgent matter demanding immediate action, with my authorisation, the Sovereign Advisory holds the power to bypass the Olympian Council and make decisions directly."
Tyche digested his declaration. The West is going to shake after the inauguration meeting, she thought, lost in contemplation. The Sovereign Advisory is practically a council in all but name; it's essentially stripping away most of the power from the Olympian Council. After all, out of the ten members, seven also hold seats in the Olympian Council. They will undoubtedly vote in favour of their deliberation there as well. This is a complete restructuring of authority in Olympus. Oh, many aren't going to like this, and by many, I actually mean Poseidon and Hades. Some of the worst possibilities of this situation include the Atlantics and Underworld severing all ties with Olympus; the Sky and Sea and Underworld descending into a full-blown war; the West torn into asunder. But that's just the worst-case scenarios. Nothing to overly fret.
"Any questions?" Zeus asked.
"Lord Father," Athena spoke up, somber and dignified. "Will there be more seats on the advisory?"
"Oh, yes," Zeus nodded. "Each of you has the power to recommend possible new members to me. I will make the final decision."
Of course, Tyche thought. Of course. Everything ultimately comes down to Zeus. Even this advisory council will only strengthen his grip on Olympus.
Zeus scanned the members for any more questions, but none arose. In fact, a solemn mood settled over the council. No doubt others were also pondering the weight of their newfound positions. Yet, there was no overt discontent.
"If there are no more questions, let's address the first issue of the Sovereign Advisory," the King of Gods declared. "The Civil War of Spain." He directed his gaze towards the entrance, issuing a commanding tone. "Kratos, let him in."
The colossal doors swung open. Tyche, along with everyone else, turned to look behind in surprise at the figure entering.
It was none other than Apollo, but he appeared far from his usual radiant self. The God of Light walked into the Advisory Chambers with uncertain steps, his appearance notably youthful—almost too young for the divinity of Olympus. Clad in a well-worn Camp Half Blood jacket, its edges frayed, and trousers that hung a bit loose, he looked more like a lost mortal than a deity. His usually impeccable hair was tousled, and his eyes, though once bright, now held a hint of wariness. Though he attempted to conceal it, the fear was palpable on his features.
All in all, Apollo looked rather ridiculous.
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You can access early chapters in my : /LucienDawn
