The chamber was still ringing with Odin's words when I felt the air inside my chest turn heavy. He had swayed them. Gods who had nodded to me moments ago now leaned away, their eyes shuttered with doubt.
But I could not let it end there.
I rose again, my voice cutting across the noise. "You speak of lies, All-Father? Very well. Then let us speak of the truth."
Odin turned, his one eye sharp and cold.
I stepped forward. "You call me a liar, yet you—Odin, the so-called High One—have ruled your Nine Realms not with wisdom, but with chains. How many did you conquer by blood? How many did you bind by oath under threat of your spear? You demand loyalty, but you give none in return."
Gasps rippled across the colosseum. A dangerous silence followed.
Odin's knuckles whitened on Gungnir's shaft. His jaw clenched.
I pressed further. My voice was calm, steady, but every word carried venom. "You accuse me of fearmongering, yet your paranoia is legendary. You hoard secrets like a miser hoards a coin. You bleed your ravens dry for scraps of foresight and choke your people with suspicion. You cripple them with fear, and call it wisdom. Tell me, All-Father, who truly spreads lies? Who truly sows fear?"
The Norse god bristled and I did not stop.
"You pride yourself on sacrifice. You gouged out your own eye, hung yourself from the tree, all to clutch at knowledge that slipped through your fingers like sand. And still, with all your grasping, you could not see that the reason for everything happening is because you yourself caused them to happen."
Now his eye flared with fury.
"And your cruelty…" I leaned forward, my words a blade. "Your sons walk in fear of you. Your wife—ignored, slighted. Your people—kept in line not by love, but by terror. You call yourself wise, yet all I see is a tyrant in wolf's clothing."
The chamber erupted in shouts. Some gods cheered, others snarled. The air quaked with the pressure of divine tempers colliding like storms.
Odin's face darkened. He stepped forward, voice sharp as steel. "You dare lecture me, child of Cronus? You who was born the eldest of your siblings and yet let your youngest brother rule over you?"
I grinned, flashing my teeth as I gave him the bird. "Oh I dare alright, and although my brother did inherit the throne, that doesn't stop me from taking it back whenever I want.... or I could just take your throne and show the Aesir what a true King would look like."
He slammed Gungnir against the ground. The sound echoed like thunder. "Enough! If you doubt my strength, if you spit on my name, then let us settle this once in for all!"
The chamber went still.
For a moment, I thought he meant it as bluster. Then he turned to Chaos.
"Great One," he said, "is it possible for one god to challenge another, even across pantheons? To prove strength and truth in combat?"
Chaos leaned back on their throne, expression unreadable, the void-gem on their chest pulsing faintly. "It is possible," they said. Their voices filled the chamber like rolling clouds. "But know this: all such duels are bound by the Law of Equal Exchange. Both must wager something of equal weight. Why not call it a Verdictum, divine ruling through combat."
A heavy pause.
Odin turned back to me, and for the first time I saw hesitation flicker in his eye. He had not expected me to stand so firm. He had not expected Chaos to make it binding.
But pride is a cruel master. And Odin was shackled to it as surely as any mortal to their fate.
"I challenge you to a Verdictum, Lord of the Underworld," he declared, his voice carrying across the gods. "Fight me and no half-measures. No holding back. We put everything on the line. My life, my divinity, my realm—against yours."
I felt the weight of a thousand gazes pressing down on me. As Chaos turned to me and raised an eyebrow.
"Alright," I said, my voice sharp and clear. "Let's do it, but don't complain when you lose everything!"
The chamber broke into uproar. Shouts. Cheers. Outrage. Some gods stood, fists raised, demanding blood. Others looked horrified.
Odin's jaw tightened. Slowly, he nodded. "So be it."
Chaos raised a hand, and silence fell once more.
"The challenge is made. The challenge is accepted. The Law binds you both. When the time comes, you will fight—and by my will, the winner will be receiving everything the other has."
Odin drew a long breath, his eye burning into mine. "I'll be generous and give you a year's time to prepare... if you can actually survive until then."
"Don't worry, I'll survive." I responded as I narrowed my eyes.
🙛🙚🙛🙚🙛🙚⯡🙘🙙🙘🙙🙘🙙
We arrived back in the Duat to the smell of lotus blossoms and roasted spices drifting from the palace kitchens. The gardens stretched wide before us, fountains spilling golden water into marble basins, reeds swaying in an invisible breeze. After the madness of the council, after Odin's snarls and Chaos's decree, the quiet felt surreal.
Ra clapped her hands together, the sound like two suns colliding.
"Well!" she said brightly. "What a meeting that was. So much shouting, so much posturing. Makes me hungry."
Poseidon perked up immediately, eyes shining like a child promised sweets.
"You're feeding us? Finally! I thought we'd starve to death in those halls."
Ra tilted her head toward him, grinning. "How does fattaḥ sound?"
Poseidon blinked. "Fatta—what?"
"Fattaḥ," Ra repeated. "A dish layered with rice, crispy bread, slow-cooked meat, garlic vinegar sauce. Rich, hearty, everything a warrior could want after a long day."
My brother's face split into a grin. "You had me at 'crispy bread.' Lead the way!"
Ra laughed, slipping her arm through his as though he were some overeager suitor. Together, they strolled ahead, Poseidon gesturing wildly as he demanded a full breakdown of every ingredient.
I trailed behind them at my usual pace, silent, contemplative. The challenge with Odin still simmered in my chest, but for now the scent of spices and the sound of Ra's laughter softened the edge of it.
Hours later, we headed to the gardens where a table was set.
The table was vast, stretching across the open courtyard beneath the stars of the Duat. At one end sat Ra, her golden eyes gleaming in the firelight. At the other—me. Zeus had complained, of course, but Ra silenced him with one raised hand.
"My palace, my table," she said. "And Hades has earned that seat."
I inclined my head to her in quiet thanks.
To my right, Hecate swirled her goblet. To my left, Hestia passed me a tray of flatbread still steaming from the oven. Across the table, Poseidon already argued with Hera while Zeus kept giving her the look.
And then there were the Egyptians.
Atum and Amun looked like the kind of jocks you'd see leaning against lockers in a high school hallway, smirking at their own reflections. They were identical in build, broad-shouldered and cut from the same mold, but the details set them apart: Atum with his white hair that always looked a little too perfect, eyes the color of a summer sky, while Amun sported black hair that perpetually fell in his face, his silver eyes gleaming like coins under moonlight. Both carried themselves with that same cocky swagger—like the world was their locker room and everyone else was just visiting.
Mut, by contrast, radiated pure regality. She sat straight-backed, her robes layered in red and gold, a vulture crown perched delicately atop her dark hair. Every motion was deliberate, every glance a subtle reminder that she was queen—yet beneath that steel, there was warmth in the way she tilted her head to watch the chaos unravel around her.
Hathor and Sekhmet could not have been more opposite if they'd tried. Hathor, all flowing linen and jingling bracelets, laughed with her whole chest, shaking a sistrum in rhythm to music only she could hear. Beside her, Sekhmet lounged with predatory stillness, golden eyes sharp, her dress torn at the hem as if clawed through mid-battle. Her smile wasn't soft—it was rows of razor sharp teeth.
Bastet perched on the edge of a chair, tail flicking lazily behind her, a fish between her hands that she nibbled at without a care in the world. Her ears twitched at every sound, her smirk quick and knowing, like she was three steps ahead of everyone but too amused to let it show.
Maat was calm in the storm. Her white dress gleamed faintly as if moonlight had stitched them, and the single feather in her hair shone like starlight. She said little, but her silence carried weight—enough to make even the rowdiest god lower their voice when she turned her gaze.
Geb and Nut looked no older than teenagers, though their presence still hummed with divinity. Geb slouched in his seat, a grin tugging at his lips, dirt crumbling from his hair each time he shook it. Nut leaned toward him, laughter bubbling as faint stars flickered in her braids, little constellations sparking to life with every movement.
The two kept inching their chairs closer, shoulders brushing, whispers traded between chuckles. It was harmless, sweet even—until a sudden gust of wind shoved their seats apart, scraping loudly across the floor.
Shu appeared with a long-suffering sigh, robes fluttering around him though no draft stirred the hall. Wordlessly, he dragged another chair between them and sat down, arms folded, jaw set like a guard on eternal duty.
Geb groaned dramatically, slumping even lower in his chair. Nut rolled her eyes, stars winking mischievously as she tried not to laugh. Shu, tall and silent, radiated the exhausted dignity of someone who had been through this a thousand times and knew he would go through it a thousand more.
Taweret fussed over trays of honey cakes, humming as she adjusted them again and again, making sure every sweet was within easy reach. Bes, naturally, ruined her efforts, clambering right onto the table to swipe a handful of dates. His laughter was loud, unashamed, and so ridiculous Taweret could only scold him with a fond sigh.
And then—the children. Gods, the children were everywhere. Babi, the baboon, already had his hands in the wine, chattering and splashing like the world's worst dinner guest. Imhotep sat apart, small and neat, a scroll tucked into his lap as he scribbled notes even while the noise swelled around him. Nefertem toyed with lotus blossoms, weaving crowns he promptly shoved onto whoever sat closest—whether they wanted one or not.
It was chaos. Divine, glorious chaos.
And yet, watching them—hearing the laughter, seeing the squabbles, catching the quiet moments of care hidden in the madness—I felt something stir in my chest. Something I hadn't felt in so long I almost didn't recognize it.
It was family.
The laughter dimmed when Geb sighed, loud and mournful. "I hate this," he muttered. "Always separated. Always apart."
Nut laid her hand on the table, her eyes on him, aching. Shu, sitting stiffly between them, didn't even glance up.
Poseidon leaned forward, frowning. "What's his problem?"
Hera elbowed him, whispering, "Don't be rude."
"No, no," Geb said, waving his hand. "It's fine. Let the sea-king know. It is not a small thing."
Nut's voice was soft, but heavy with memory. "Once, before the world was formed, Geb and I were one. An endless embrace. Nothing existed between us but love."
Geb smiled faintly. "But Ra commanded Shu to part us. Said the earth needed space, the sky needed height. So Shu tore us apart. And now…" He gestured at the gap between them, where Shu sat like a stone pillar. "…this is our eternity."
Poseidon blinked. "So you were… too in love?"
"Too close for creation," Nut said.
I raised a brow. "Why not just separate your divine forms, distance wouldn't matter if you're not bound by physical form."
The table was still. Ra covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. "Thank you, Hades. I told Shu to explain this to them centuries ago and yet those idiots never listened."
"Hold on, we were told nothing about that, Father just said you wanted us apart. Refused to accept our love." Geb argued
All eyes swiveled to Shu. He kept eating, pretending not to notice.
"Shu," Ra said, voice sharp as sunlight, "is this true?"
Shu chewed. Swallowed. Said nothing.
"Shu."
He sighed, finally looking up. "…you know, their kids. They never pay attention."
Geb shot to his feet, chair scraping. "Never pay attention? You told us we could never meet again!"
Nut gasped, covering her mouth. The gods murmured. Shu stared down at his plate, utterly uninterested in the war he had just ignited.
Ra pinched the bridge of her nose. "Get up. Move."
With the reluctance of a child scolded, Shu rose and shuffled to sit beside his wife, Mut. Geb wasted no time, sliding his chair tight against Nut's. The two clasped hands as if afraid the world might separate them again.
Poseidon snorted. "So all this centuries-long heartbreak was just… a father being stubborn?"
"Welcome to the family," Hera muttered.
The tension eased into laughter and food. Servants carried platters of roasted duck glazed with honey, bowls of lentils, lamb stews spiced with cinnamon, and baskets of figs. Poseidon devoured everything in reach. Hestia quietly kept plates filled and wine poured. Bastet batted grapes into Babi's mouth, and he choked himself laughing.
Hours passed in warmth. For the first time in too long, my siblings smiled without shadows.
But then Ra raised her cup, and the firelight shifted across her face.
"One thing troubles me still," she said. "The matter of Typhon."
The laughter stilled. Even Poseidon lowered his goblet.
Ra's gaze slid across us—me, Poseidon, Zeus, Hera, Demeter, Hestia, Hecate.
"You are strong. But strength is not enough. You must learn to become what you were born to be. You must learn to call forth your divine forms."
I stiffened. "…Our divine forms?"
Hestia glanced at me, then at Ra. "We… never mastered that."
Ra leaned forward. "Never? Not once?"
Zeus scratched the back of his head. "I mean, we've got tricks. I can summon storms. Poseidon's got waves. Hades—"
"—commands the shadows and the dead," I finished for him. "But we never… took on our divine form before."
Ra shook her head, disbelieving. "You children fought Titans, toppled Cronus, and never once drew your full divinity into form?"
"We didn't really get the time to learn how," Hera admitted.
Ra's eyes softened, though her voice remained firm. "Then tomorrow, you will. I will teach you. The skill is one of the greatest assets of a god, allowing you to tap into your domains at a far greater level."
Her words sank into me like stones into the Styx. A duel with Odin. Typhon rising. My siblings are untrained in the one art that might save them.
Ra raised her cup higher, smiling again. "But that is for tomorrow. Tonight—eat, drink, and rest. The world will try to break you soon enough. For now, let us feast."
The music swelled again, the gods cheered, and food passed hand to hand. But I could not stop staring across the table, past the laughter and the light, to the shadows just beyond the lanterns' glow.