"Listening to the two of you is nothing but a waste of time," Helios said, his tone hard as stone. "I will not repeat myself. Am I clear?" His words rang with finality, like a decree carved in marble.
Two hours meant little to immortals, especially to gods who had endured countless centuries. Yet Michael and Irene, sharp of mind though rebellious at heart, understood the weight of their father's words.
They lowered their heads in silence. Silence, however, never lasted long.
"You always twist matters in your favor," Irene muttered, bitterness in her voice. "You think Father always sides with you."
Michael's eyes narrowed. He paused before speaking, letting each word land. "I earn his favor through obedience, not reckless pursuits. Meeting with your lover when duty calls—do you take your station so lightly?"
Her hands curled into fists. She breathed heavily. "You speak of duty as though you alone understand it. I only wished for a moment of freedom."
"Freedom?" Michael's voice cut like a blade. "Or indulgence? You disgrace yourself and burden us all."
Her cheeks flushed with fury. "Do not pretend you are blameless, brother. You preach discipline, yet you cannot even look me in the eye without contempt. You've despised me since the beginning."
Michael stepped closer. His words were sharp, deliberate. "I despise not you, but your weakness. You cling to desires that chain you. I bear the weight of this family with steadiness."
"And you think that makes you greater?" Irene's voice rose, cracking like thunder. "Father's chosen heir, the flawless son. Yet you cannot see how blind you are to your own pride."
The tension thickened. Their words clashed across the chamber like swords. Neither yielded.
Then the air shifted. Cold dread swept through them as the great doors opened. The Celestial Goddess entered. Her gaze alone could silence storms. Her beauty was shrouded in wrath, her presence more fearsome than armies.
Michael swallowed hard. Irene shut her eyes, whispering a desperate prayer.
"Why so quiet now?" Callista's voice rolled like distant thunder. "Where is that fire you hurled at each other moments ago?"
Both averted their eyes. Beads of sweat slid down their cheeks.
"Speak," she commanded.
Michael drew a breath, his voice low. "Irene strayed to meet her lover. I rebuked her. She defied me, and we quarreled. I… accept blame, Mother. Forgive me."
"Wha—Mother, it was not as he says!" Irene cried, desperation breaking through her fear. "He would not hear me. He scorned me. The fault lies with him. He kindled this quarrel!"
Callista's glare sharpened, silencing her daughter instantly. Irene's shoulders sagged. "…I apologize, Mother," she whispered.
Callista's voice softened, though disappointment lingered. "You are no longer children. You are gods, honored in the eyes of many, yet you test my trust with petty strife." She studied their faces. "Tell me, what am I to do with you?"
For a brief moment, Michael and Irene believed mercy might be theirs. Relief flickered and vanished.
"What shall I wield against you?" Callista's eyes glowed, her tone terrible. "The rod that has broken defiance or the lash that leaves no forgetfulness?"
The siblings froze, neither daring to move.
Callista turned at last, crossing her arms as she faced Helios. "Regarding the other matter, not Irene, how did the Council respond?"
Helios inclined his head. "No reply has been given. Nor has any motion been made."
"Understandable." She sighed, glancing back at her children. Fear still bound them. Though she longed to strike discipline into their hearts, she thought, If I am always their punishment, they will never learn to govern themselves.
A heavy stillness hung over the chamber. Helios finally spoke. "What matters now are affairs beyond this quarrel."
"And as for the punishment owed to the unfilial," he said, his voice iron, "you will stand trial."
"Understood, Father," Irene whispered.
*
*
*
「Helios, God of the Sun」
My subjects would have wondered, though none would dare ask aloud, why their ruler allowed his temper to flare over what might seem a trivial matter. Only a fool would call it trivial to my face.
Why would a disheveled messenger dare provoke the commander of the legions, whose severed head now rests in a vessel for all to behold?
Two possibilities present themselves. Either the messenger was no mortal, but a puppet whose strings were drawn by some hidden hand, perhaps a demon cloaked in subtlety. Or this is no accident, but a design intricate as a spider's web spun across the heavens.
Were I surrounded by advisors worthy of my trust, I might have unburdened my thoughts, lowering my guard for counsel. Yet even those closest to me remain silent.
Troublesome. Irene is but one thorn, yet the roots of discord grow deeper. Legends remind me of what has come before. Ancestral Father Uranus ruled unshaken, untouched by politics or mortal toil. Supreme Father Chronos, in contrast, faltered beneath the weight of a prophecy, whose shadow still clings to his bloodline.
I have nurtured Michael with caution and affection, shaping him for the throne. Should he ever turn against me, it would be the greatest betrayal.
Yet such musings matter little. My desires and doubts are as dust against the winds of duty. I am the Supreme Lord, the Heavenly Ruler, the monarch whose crown is bound to the cosmos itself. Personal sentiment cannot sway my reign.
"Oliver." I set down my quill and read the letter once more, each word a seal upon the order of worlds.
Two measured knocks. The door opened. An elf entered, tall and composed, his white chiton draped with blue as if the sky itself had lent him its hue. He bore a stack of documents, high and precarious, yet carried with a grace that belied their weight.
"My Lord," Oliver bowed, his voice reverent. "You summoned me."
I allowed a faint curve of amusement at his burden. "Send word to our allied Lords. Bid them join me on a tour of the borderlands. I have waited long enough. Then arrange a council where two matters must be spoken of."
"I will appoint a proxy to see it done," Oliver replied swiftly.
I inclined my head. "Good." I dipped my quill once more, returning to my work. Silence stretched until Oliver asked softly, "Do you have further commands, my Lord?"
"None," I said after a pause. "You may depart."
He laid the documents upon the table and withdrew.
Six hours passed as I bent over parchment and wax, the slow turning of the hourglass marking time's ceaseless flow. Letters, decrees, commands—all bore my hand, each a tether to authority. What mortals call hours, to me, felt as mere ripples upon an endless sea.
Even I feel the weight of power's chains. None speak to me with ease; all voices bend beneath fear. This throne is no seat of glory, but a place of ceaseless burdens, the endless signing of petitions, treaties, and decrees.
Still, such is the crown I bear. A ruler's life is not meant for ease or delight.
At last, the final seal was pressed. I summoned attendants, and they clad me in a white himation fastened with golden clasps, sandals bound with leather cords, ornaments of purest gold laid upon wrist and brow. The garment left part of my chest exposed, but such things mattered little. I had no need of vanity, only presence.
Outside, Oliver awaited beside a chariot drawn by four white stallions, their manes glimmering like threads of light.
"Are they assembled?" I asked.
"Yes, my Lord."
"And the representative you appointed?"
"A young elf of the Glyn clan," Oliver answered.
I inclined my head in approval. "If he is of that line, then he is not without worth. I look forward to meeting him."
I stepped into the chariot. With a cry of command, the horses surged forward. The heavens opened before me, the path to destiny unfolding in silence and splendor.