Beyond the mist that veils the sacred mountain, deep within the lush forests, rises a grand palace adorned with gold and divine stone. Sandstone pillars crowned with Ionic capitals hold up its weight, and the ceiling above gleams with painted visions of celestial order and strife.
Inside, golden furniture rests upon marble floors, while walls shimmer faintly with divine blessing. At the very heart of the hall stands a vast, empty throne, its presence commanding and its silence expectant. A golden table, once stationed nearby, had been moved by unseen servants, leaving the throne bare in solemn majesty.
"Τηισ γρανδ παλαψε... Ι φεελ τηε σπιριτσ ανδ τηειρ μαγιψ. Τρθλυ βευονδ τηε ψομπρεηενσιον οφ μορταλ δεσψενδαντσ." The words slipped from a youthful elf whose beauty rivaled the immortals themselves. His violet eyes roamed the gilded chamber, and his sharp ears twitched with awe. A purple sash marked his station, draped over a pure white chiton that flowed to his ankles.
A low, mocking laugh echoed from the dais. Pyrros leaned forward, eyes burning like coals. The air seemed to thicken around him. "Greetings, young one. I believe you've wandered into the wrong place. Shall I send one of my servants to guide you back to your woods?" His smile was sharp, hungry.
Thales stiffened, a bead of sweat tracing his temple, but he bowed low. "Forgive my intrusion, great lord. I seek only wisdom, not offense." He inhaled slowly, feeling the chill of the hall press against him, and lifted his gaze.
Pyrros' head tilted, amusement flickering across his features. His gaze swept the chamber, lingering on the intricate murals before returning to Thales. "Wisdom? Elves once prized it above all else, yet I remember their screams when fire consumed their temples. Tell me, little scholar, how fares your proud kin now?"
The question cut like a blade in silk. Thales' jaw tightened. His hands flexed at his sides, fingers brushing the folds of his chiton. "We endure," he said evenly. "As the roots of the olive tree endure storms. What is broken shall rise again."
Pyrros laughed, the sound rolling through the hall and rattling the lanterns. He stepped down from the dais, each stride deliberate. The floor seemed to tremble under him. Sparks of crimson fire spiraled from his fingertips and vanished into smoke.
Thales' pulse quickened. He planted his feet firmly, the marble cold beneath them, refusing to step back.
Pyrros leaned closer, voice low and dangerous. "I admire your defiance." He paused, letting the words settle like molten metal. "Few mortals or immortals dare meet my gaze. You must be brave… or foolish."
"Perhaps both, lord," Thales replied, voice steady despite the weight of those burning eyes. He held Pyrros' stare, and for a moment, the hall seemed to shrink around them. "But folly often leads to discovery."
The god's lips curved. "Careful, elf. Discovery and ruin often walk together." He circled Thales like a predator, footsteps echoing. "One misstep, and the mountain swallows you whole."
A taut silence followed. Even the fire in the sconces seemed to hold its breath. Thales' hand hovered near the hilt of a blade he did not carry, his chest rising and falling with measured control.
Pyrros straightened, fire in his eyes dimming to embers. He let out a slow exhale, smoke curling from his nostrils. "Stay, then. Let us see if the court has use for your bold tongue. If not, I will find use for your ashes."
A deliberate cough shattered the tension. Heads turned. Michael stood beneath the archway, and the immortals bowed. His aureole cast light across his features, glimmering on the golden ornament at his ear. He wore a white himation of glistening silk, fastened at one shoulder, and plain leather sandals bound his feet with straps. His presence alone carried the weight of sacred authority.
Behind him, Irene followed, her eyes scanning the chamber like steel. Clad in a grey peplos bound at the waist with a woven girdle, her expression was austere, measured, perfectly suited to the sanctity of the place.
The doors groaned shut. Whispers rippled among the younger immortals. Some glanced at one another, hesitant to break the silence, while others stared openly at Irene. The elders allowed it, patient yet weary. For many, idle rumor was the only diversion in these eternal halls.
Trumpets blared. The assembly entered the inner chamber, eyes widening at its wonders: wrought-iron lanterns burning with steady flame, amaryllises and century plants resting in carved pots of pale stone, and a second-floor gallery encircled by a balustrade.
Michael and Irene took seats on opposite sides of the chamber. The palace, though altered since the reign of the former monarch, still bore its eternal grandeur.
"Council representatives, stand at the fore. Fellow immortals, to the center. The young, to the rear. The court is in session."
Oliver's voice rang out, clear and sonorous. At his command, the assembly moved into place. Papyrus scrolls drifted from his palms, finding waiting hands. Some grasped them eagerly; others hesitated at the unfamiliar script. None dared speak.
Michael read with calm precision, betraying no strain. Once finished, he asked Peter quietly for refreshment and drank jasmine tea in silence.
The younger gods faltered. Days passed in the mortal realm before they admitted defeat, grasping fragments of words but failing to understand. Helios, foreseeing such ignorance, gestured for Oliver to recite the decree aloud.
Oliver drew a deep breath and proclaimed:
"I deeply apologize for the sudden summons. The presence of a foreign guest shall suffice as recompense, though nectar and ambrosia may be granted at the next feast."
All eyes turned to a hooded figure beside Michael, whose aura radiated danger and mystery. He lifted a hand lazily, as though judgment were a passing jest.
"Irene, the Celestial Saint, stands accused of violating the law of the former monarch. Witnesses Peter and Mikhael, God of Archangels, attest she consorted with our enemies."
Oliver's voice grew solemn. "I permit free speech. No influence shall mar the court. Personal grievances shall not be spoken. Proceed."
Silence held the hall.
Then a cry rang out: "The Celestial Saint must have been framed! She has been made the scapegoat!"
Murmurs swelled. Lesser gods echoed the claim, not from blind devotion but disbelief. Irene's days had been plain and measured, filled with prayers, readings, and walks through temple gardens. Treachery did not cling to her path.
Yet envy poisoned others. Spurned goddesses who envied her grace and embittered gods who loathed her simplicity seized the chance to condemn. Still others, sly and restless, stirred the conflict for amusement. Chief among them was Pyrros, who relished chaos as his rightful domain.
"Silence!" Helios thundered. His voice pierced like lightning. Fear chilled every heart. Sweat beaded brows, throats tightened, and heads bowed swiftly.
The Heavenly Emperor's gaze fell upon Michael, who still sipped calmly from his cup. Meeting Helios' eyes, Michael sighed, set aside the vessel, and rose.
His words resounded across the chamber:
"Είμαι ειλικρινά απογοητευμένος με εκείνους της ίδιας ηλικίας με μένα που ενεργούν ανώριμα μπροστά στον Ουράνιο Μονάρχη. Ωστόσο, είδα την αδελφή μου με τον ίδιο τον προδότη."