They say Delphi was the navel of the world. A place where sky and stone met in a breathtaking embrace, where whispers echoed through the rustling leaves of ancient laurel trees, and mortals, driven by hope and desperation, dared to seek truth in the enigmatic breath of prophecy. I remember it all—every marble step worn smooth by countless pilgrims, every flicker of laurel-scented smoke curling towards the heavens, carrying with it the weight of untold destinies. I was there when the Oracle spoke, her voice a chilling echo in the heart of the temple, but before that, I was simply Callista. And she was Thalia.
We were girls once, running wild and free through the sprawling olive groves that blanketed the slopes beneath Mount Parnassus. Just human girls, shaped by the same myths and memories that breathed life into the very stones of our world. While I was always the more impulsive, the one prone to laughter and quick decisions, there was always something in Thalia's eyes—a profound stillness, a quiet depth that hinted at hidden knowledge, as if she possessed an innate understanding of things the world hadn't yet spoken aloud. But I was the one they said was destined for greatness. The one chosen by fate, perhaps by forces beyond our understanding, to one day inhale the sacred vapors and speak with the voice of prophecy, guiding the fates of men and nations. I was the one meant to become the Oracle.
But love, in its infinite wisdom and unpredictable nature, has a way of redrawing the lines of fate, of rewriting the very fabric of destiny.
I remember that day, not so long ago, I had been chosen to become the Oracle. I had been summoned to Apollo's chamber in the temple, and he told me that Zeus himself had decreed the Oracle's role, and I was chosen to fulfill it. The moment I heard those words, my mind was consumed by thoughts of my lover. I was speechless, breathless. I stumbled out of Apollo's chamber, fled the temple, and collapsed onto a bench outside. Time seemed to lose all meaning until Thalia's voice snapped me back to reality. She asked what Apollo wanted. I choked out the words: "They want me to be the Oracle." Tears streamed down my face, uncontrollable. She gently wiped them away, her expression a mixture of concern and understanding. "Why are you so sad, my dear?" she asked softly. I threw myself into her arms, sobbing, "I can't do this... I can't do that to him." I cried and cried, and she held me, her soft hands framing my face as she looked into my eyes. "Don't worry," she said, her voice firm yet soothing. "I will take care of it." And with that, she turned and walked towards Apollo's chamber. The next day, I was told that I was no longer destined to be the Oracle. Relief washed over me, so profound it was almost dizzying. I was free to be with my lover. But then the question struck me: who would take on this immense responsibility? "Thalia," they said. I ran to find her, eager to share the news. When I told her, she couldn't quite meet my gaze, but she always seemed to have a deep connection, a hidden relationship with someone special, someone I didn't know.
Today is day of oracle, the sun spilled its golden light through the chamber carved deep into the mountain's heart, illuminating the chamber with an ethereal glow. We sat in silence, surrounded by towering white columns that seemed to stretch towards the heavens, and frescoes, their vibrant colors faded by the relentless passage of centuries, whispering tales of forgotten heroes and long-lost ages. Pomegranates, symbols of abundance and mystery, overflowed from a bronze bowl on the cedar table, their crimson seeds gleaming like precious jewels, and the wind from the distant Gulf of Corinth, carrying the scent of salt and the promise of faraway lands, whispered secrets through the delicate, gossamer curtains. I pinned the laurel into her hair with trembling fingers, the leaves cool and fragrant against her skin.
"You have such beautiful hair," I told her, my voice barely a whisper, filled with a mixture of admiration and a profound sadness. "Like the threads of sunlight, woven together by time itself."
She offered a faint smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes, those eyes that held so much more than girlish dreams. The room itself seemed to hold its breath, as if the very stones were aware of the momentous decision that hung in the balance. So did I.
Thalia, always the quiet one, the introspective one, the girl the Pythia watched with an unreadable expression, a gaze that seemed to penetrate the very depths of her soul. And me—Callista—chosen, trained, prepared for a role that would elevate me beyond the realm of mortals. I had walked the Sacred Way in dreams, my bare feet tracing the path of countless pilgrims who had sought wisdom and guidance before me. But when the time came, when destiny beckoned with an outstretched hand, I found myself unable to take that final step. Because I loved someone. Not just anyone, but someone whose presence filled my world with a light brighter than any other, a warmth more comforting than any sacred fire. My lover.
They were no mythical being, no celestial entity descended from the heavens, no ethereal spirit of the air. Just human, like us, bound to the earth by the same joys and sorrows, the same hopes and fears. A soul shaped by the gentle light of the river that flowed through our valley, and a quiet devotion that spoke of a love that transcended even the will of fate. I loved my lover with every fiber of my being. And I couldn't bear the thought of giving them up. To become the Oracle meant surrendering everything that made me who I was—every cherished memory, every shared laughter, every whispered secret, every dream of a future together. It meant sacrificing every tomorrow, every name, every identity, even the faintest echo of the memory of love. I chose them.
And Thalia, in an act of selfless love that echoed through the ages, chose me.
She stepped into the void I had left behind, accepting a fate that was never meant to be hers. She took my place without a single word of complaint, without a moment of hesitation. She never said a word about it. Not once did she betray the weight of her sacrifice, the enormity of what she had given up. I don't think she ever would have, if I hadn't, in a moment of desperate need, asked her about the first memory she could recall, seeking a glimpse into the heart of the girl who had become something more. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was like mist, thin and ethereal, as if she were recalling a dream half-remembered.
"We were in a field of wildflowers," she whispered, her gaze drifting far beyond the confines of the chamber, "under an endless sky, a canvas of blue stretching to horizons unknown. Some of us were born of humble villages, our lives intertwined with the rhythm of the earth, while others… Others were born of myth, their veins carrying the blood of ancient tales. We laughed, our voices like the tinkling of wind chimes, carefree and in Her lips curved into a soft, wistful smile, her eyes still distant, lost somewhere between memory and dream.
"But it wasn't always storms and stars," she said, her voice gentler now, touched by something warmer, more human. "The first time I saw him… I thought the sun had forgotten where it belonged and decided to walk the earth instead."
She laughed, just barely, a fragile sound that shimmered in the still air. "His hair—golden, unruly—caught the morning light like it had been spun by the gods themselves. But he wasn't a god. Just a man. A man with rough hands and grease beneath his nails, who spoke to his ship like it was a living thing, and smiled like he carried sunlight in his chest."
I watched her, mesmerized by the way her entire being softened, transformed by the memory.
"He didn't descend from the sky. He climbed out of the engine hold with sweat on his brow and a song under his breath. And yet, I knew." Her gaze met mine again, and in her eyes I saw that same unshakable certainty she'd spoken of before. "I knew the way you know the tide will turn, or the stars will rise. That my life would be tangled with his. That loving him would be no act of worship, but an act of defiance. Of choosing this world, not the one of legends."
She blinked, and a single tear slipped free, not of sorrow, but of something quieter. Reverence. Devotion.
"He smelled like salt and steel, like home. And when he looked at me—really looked—it was like every myth I'd ever believed unraveled and resolve itself into something real. Something possible. He made the impossible feel ordinary."
The wind stirred again, brushing past us like a curious spirit.
I leaned in, our foreheads almost touching. "And he loved you?"
She nodded, slowly. "He loved me like I was the only thing real in his world. And I loved him like he was the last star left in mine."
nocent. Then he came."
With a trembling hand, I brought her the ceremonial robe, woven from threads as white as moonlight and stitched with patterns of fire and stars, symbols of the power and mystery that now enveloped her. She wore it like it had always been hers, like a second skin, a tangible manifestation of her new reality. I watched her reflection take shape in the polished bronze mirror, and I could see the transformation taking place before my very eyes. The girl I knew, the girl who had shared my laughter and my tears, was slowly fading away, replaced by something more… something ancient, something powerful, something that both terrified and fascinated me. She was no longer Thalia, the girl I had grown up with. She was the Oracle the world had waited for, the vessel of divine will.
Then, a knock echoed through the chamber. "Girls," Apollo's voice called out, "it is time. Everyone is waiting for you."
And we walked together, hand in hand, towards the precipice of destiny, towards a future that was both glorious and terrifying. As we moved, I watched with the side of my eyes and saw Ares stood in silence, arms crossed, clothed in dark red armor without helmet. His eyes were shadowed, ever watching. Beside him stood Poseidon. The weight of the sea was in his bearing. His hair was thick and wind-tossed, threaded with streaks of grey like foam on storm-tides. He wore a sleeveless himation of deep green and indigo, belted in knotted rope, the hem damp as though it had touched the waves themselves. At his side rested a tall, weathered staff of driftwood crowned with bronze—its form reminiscent of a trident, yet shaped for signaling and command. His gaze swept the chamber like one who had charted coastlines and commanded fleets, steady and calculating. He stood slightly apart but always within reach of the others, his presence like thunder over a distant sea.
Athena stood with quiet vigilance. She wore a simple yet elegant white peplos belted in bronze, her grey eyes sharp beneath a helm adorned with owl feathers. A spear rested upright beside her.
in very front I saw Zeus stood at the head of the semicircle—tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair streaked with silver, wearing a deep blue himation over a tunic embroidered with lightning motifs. Beside him stood Hera, composed and statuesque, her garment a deep crimson, fastened with bronze brooches shaped like peacocks. Her hair was intricately braided, and she held a polished staff topped with a lotus flower.
Hermes stood just to the right of Zeus, as though by instinct. Her youthful face bore a look of alert ease, and her light champs was pinned at the shoulder with a brooch shaped like a hawk in flight. The fabric rippled as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. Her winged cap rested low over unruly curls, and her fingers spun the caduceus—two ribbons entwined around a slender rod—as if it steadied her thoughts while keeping her poised for the next word or signal from Zeus., and a slender staff with entwined ribbons tapped gently in her hand.
We gave our respect to them, then I saw Apollo standing near the Omphalos Stone, his posture composed and steady. His golden-blonde curls framed a face marked by solemn focus, and he wore a pale chiton embroidered with laurel leaves and flame motifs, signifying his sacred office. A bronze belt circled his waist, and around his shoulders was draped a ceremonial himation of deep gold. Though a lyre hung at his back, his hands rested on a carved staff of olive wood—the symbol of his role as high priest and guardian of the rites. His eyes, thoughtful and unwavering, watched every motion within the chamber with purpose.
I could not watch directly. I shielded my face, only peering through a narrow opening between my fingers.
She swayed, her body trembling under the weight of the power that coursed through her veins. Her eyes fluttered, then opened, glowing with an otherworldly light, a radiance that seemed to emanate from the depths of her soul.
Then, she spoke. Her voice was no longer the voice of Thalia, the girl I knew. It was the voice of the ages, the voice of the earth, the voice of forces beyond our understanding.
"Born of stone and shadow's plight,
A flame arose and drowned in light.
Its crown beneath the ocean lies,
Yet still it speaks though none replies,"
her voice echoing through the vast chamber, each word a brand upon the listener's soul. Then, her body convulsed, and she collapsed to the ground.
I didn't wait for further instruction. I ran to her, my heart pounding in my chest, my fear for her momentarily eclipsing the awe and wonder of the spectacle I had just witnessed. Her limbs trembled beneath my touch, her body radiating an almost unbearable heat. Her eyes, still glowing with that otherworldly light, seemed to see something far beyond the confines of this world, visions of futures yet to be, of destinies intertwined and unraveling. I gently placed a piece of my cloak over her still form, then held her close, cradling her in my arms, offering her what little comfort I could provide. Her body was shaking, and I called for the other Pythia to help me carry her out.
We passed through the chamber in silence, the weight of the Oracle's pronouncements hanging heavy in the air. No one dared speak, no one dared break the spell that had been cast. The figures themselves seemed subdued, humbled by the power that had been unleashed.
Behind us, the others prepared to unravel the threads of fate, to interpret the cryptic pronouncements of the Oracle,
But I had already seen the most sacred truth of all, a truth more profound than any prophecy, more powerful than any decree.
She was not alone. And neither was I. She had taken my fate, not out of duty or obligation. And I had never known that devotion could be so powerful, so selfless, so willing to sacrifice everything for the sake of another.
The great bronze doors creaked open. I rushed forward, my only thought to get Thalia out of there, away from whatever this oracle was. I didn't care about its meaning, its purpose, or its pronunciation. All that mattered to me was her well-being.
The silence that followed the Oracle's pronouncement was heavy, thick with the weight of unspoken questions and mounting unease. The assembled beings of immense power and ancient wisdom exchanged uneasy glances. The cryptic words hung in the air, their meaning obscure, yet undeniably significant.
Zeus, his brow furrowed in thought, was the first to break the stillness. "What... what was that?" he rumbled, his voice echoing through the chamber. "What did she say?"
Hera, ever composed, stepped forward. "It was a prophecy, my husband," she stated, her voice cool and measured, "a riddle woven in the mists of time."
"But what does it mean?" Apollo interjected, his usual radiant confidence replaced by a rare uncertainty. "'Born of stone and shadow's plight... a flame arose and drowned in light...' It speaks of a birth, and a death, but whose?"
Athena, her expression sharp and analytical, fixed her gaze on the spot where Thalia had collapsed. "The stone and shadow... perhaps it refers to the Oracle herself, to her origins, to the trials she endured to become the vessel," she mused. "The flame that arose... her power? Her destiny? And its drowning in light... a tragic end?"
Poseidon, his gaze distant, as if he were listening to the murmur of the deep, spoke, his voice a low rumble, "And the crown beneath the ocean... that is my domain. Does it signify a literal crown, lost to the depths? Or is it a metaphor? A kingdom? A power?"
Hermes, ever quick-witted, tapped his staff against the marble floor. "And the final line, 'Yet still it speaks though none replies...' That's the most perplexing. How can something speak if no one answers? Or listen?"
Zeus turned to face them, his eyes flashing with concern. "We must decipher this. This prophecy... it feels significant, ominous. It speaks of a great destiny, and a great tragedy. We must understand it, to prevent whatever doom it foretells,
Poseidon stroked his beard, his gaze fixed on the middle distance. "The ocean hides many secrets. Perhaps this 'crown' is not a literal object, but a power, a lineage, lost to the sea. Something that will rise again."
Apollo frowned. "But the flame... the flame that drowned in light. That sounds like a violent end. A life cut short."
"Perhaps we should consult the ancient texts, the scrolls of fate. There might be other prophecies, other stories, that shed light on this one."
Hera placed a hand on his arm, her touch surprisingly gentle. "Patience, husband. We will unravel it, piece by piece. We have faced cryptic prophecies before. We will do so again."
" he paused, then added, "There is time, but I must go to Mount Etna, to the forge of Hephaestus."
Athena, however, pressed the issue. "Mount Etna? Hephaestus? What urgency takes you there? Surely this matter concerns us all."
Zeus's expression hardened with determination. "Hephaestus and those with her will show me something. It is imperative that I speak with her directly. This is not a matter for debate, Athena. I understand your concerns, and your desire for clarity. But this matter with Hephaestus is of paramount importance. The fate of everything may depend on it. I sense a darkness gathering, a storm on the horizon. And I fear this prophecy is the first crack of thunder."
Suddenly, a powerful figure strode into the chamber. Ares, of Zeus's armies, his presence radiating strength and authority, addressed the gathering. "Zeus and Hera. The royal carriages and royal carriages are ready to move them to the next city. We await your final orders."
Zeus nodded, his expression grave. "Very well, Ares. We will meet again in three weeks' time, in Olympus. By then, you must have answers regarding the Oracle's prophecy." He turned his attention to Poseidon. "Poseidon, return to Atlantic. I need you to dispatch a naval force There are reports of attacks on our merchant ships. Find out who is responsible and put an end to it."
Zeus then turned to Athena, his gaze sharp and commanding. "Athena, in addition to assisting with the deciphering of the Oracle's words, you must also deal with the Centaur horde gathering near Thebes, on Mount Cithaeron. Their numbers are growing, and they pose a threat to the region."
"Make sure they are dealt with swiftly and decisively, Athena."
Zeus turned back to Apollo. "Apollo, speak with the girl who served as the Oracle. See if she can provide any further insight, any detail, no matter how small, that might help us understand the meaning of the prophecy."
Hera, ever the pragmatist, stepped forward, her voice ringing with regal authority. "Indeed, we must delve into this matter with all haste and diligence. Let us consider the key elements, the recurring themes, and the possible interpretations. We must approach this like a complex tapestry, weaving together every thread of meaning until the complete picture reveals itself." She looked at the others, her expression serious. "We must be thorough, and we must be quick."
Hera lets go
In Lycia
The royal carriages rolled through the smoking hills near Mount Olympos, a place seething with volcanic energy. As they arrived at the massive iron gates of the forge, Ares dismounted and barked a sharp command. "Announce the arrival of Zeus and Hera!"
Daedalus, rushed to greet them, bowing deeply. His robes were singed from his work, and soot streaked his hands and face. "My Lords, welcome to the Forge of Hephaestus. Please, come inside."
The factory within was a vast, thunderous marvel, like an immense assembly line powered by the forces of the earth itself. Brontes, one of the mighty Cyclopes, led a team forging thunderbolts, each one crackling with raw power. Nearby, Steropes assembled golden and silver bows and arrows, his massive hands astonishingly deft. Further down, Arges commanded a team working tirelessly on the Aegis, the legendary shield of Zeus, its surface shimmering with shifting images of terror and majesty.
Zeus surveyed the scene, his eyes gleaming with pride and approval. Hera, ever composed, allowed a small smile to touch her lips at the discipline and precision on display.
As Brontes raised a newly-forged thunderbolt into the air, a crack of light illuminated the vaulted ceiling. Steropes meticulously aligned arrows that gleamed like starlight, while Arges hammered runes of protection into the Aegis, each strike sending echoes of power through the air.
Meanwhile, Ares remained outside with the royal carriages, overseeing the guards and ensuring the security of the divine visitors.
Daedalus led Zeus and Hera deeper into the forge, toward a side chamber where Hephaestus waited. Inside her office, surrounded by intricate blueprints and half-completed marvels, Hephaestus looked up from her workbench. Her powerful, scarred hands paused over a model of a grand new weapon as she rose to greet them.
The goddess-smith's expression was grave. she said, inclining her head. "We have much to discuss."
The forge roared around them, a symphony of fire, steel, and destiny.
Daedalus bowed once more and, with a few quiet words of parting, left them alone in the chamber. The heavy door swung shut behind him, muting the roar of the forge outside.
Zeus strode forward without hesitation. He moved behind Hephaestus's sturdy, soot-darkened chair and, with a casual but deliberate motion, settled into it, the chair creaking slightly under his weight .
Hephaestus arched an eyebrow at the boldness of the gesture but said nothing, wiping her calloused hands on a thick cloth as she turned to face him.
Zeus leaned back, steepling his fingers before him. His voice rumbled with the gravity of command, yet carried a rare note of curiosity.
"Tell me, Hephaestus," he said, his keen gaze fixing her, "what do you make of this:
'Born of stone and shadow's plight,
A flame arose and drowned in light.
Its crown beneath the ocean lies,
Yet still it speaks though none replies.'"
The words hung heavily in the forge-scented air, their echoes swallowed by the dull roar of furnaces beyond the thick stone walls. Hephaestus's eyes darkened with thought. She did not answer immediately. Instead, she crossed to a nearby shelf cluttered with ancient relics, as if the physical movement might stir her mind. She ran her fingers lightly over a piece of cooled obsidian, her face illuminated briefly by the flicker of a forge's flare through a high window.
When she finally spoke, her voice was slow and deliberate, like molten metal poured with careful hands. "Stone and shadow," she mused aloud. "Those are the ingredients of hardship, of creation born from struggle. Perhaps it speaks of a being forged in suffering... or a forgotten legacy shaped in darkness." Hephaestus paused, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. "Where does this word 'Oracle' come from? It is not a word I use in my work." Hera stepped forward, her voice calm and authoritative. "The term 'Oracle' originates from ancient times, referring to a sacred source of prophecy or divine counsel. It signifies a vessel through which wisdom or foresight is revealed, often in cryptic or symbolic language."
She turned back toward Zeus and Hera, her eyes sharp.
"A flame that arose... a power born to challenge fate. Yet drowned in light—" she paused, frowning deeply, "—I... I do not know the answer to that, my zeus. The mists of time obscure its meaning from even my sight. It is not my place to know of words, but of things, and how they are made." She glanced at the heavy shield of Aegis hanging on the wall behind Zeus, then added, "The crown beneath the ocean..." Hephaestus paused, choosing her words carefully. "Crown... leader. Beneath ocean... death." Her voice was low, each word deliberate and weighted with a deeper meaning she chose not to reveal.
Finally, her voice grew even lower. "And a voice that speaks though none replies..." She shook her head slowly. "That is the most dangerous sign of all. A warning that goes unheard. A prophecy that no one can—or will—answer in time."
Hephaestus let the heavy silence settle, the weight of her words like iron upon the anvil.
Across from her, Zeus's face remained carved from stone, though Hera's brow furrowed with the same unease gnawing at her husband's heart. Outside, the rumble of the forge and the clatter of the cyclopes' labor continued, indifferent to the storm quietly gathering within the office Zeus leaned forward, his voice a low growl of impatience.
"So, Hephaestus," he rumbled, "what have you forged for me to face this Oracle... and the shadow that stirs behind her words?" Hephaestus gave a small nod, as if she had been expecting the question. Without a word, she crossed the chamber to a heavy iron door that led to her workshop only accessed from her room. Inside lay a single, massive Thunderbolt — unlike any Zeus had wielded before.
Hephaestus spoke, her voice steady but grave. "This is no ordinary thunderbolt, my zeus .
It is a Titanbolt — a weapon of last resort. If thrown with its full power, it will not merely strike a foe... it could lay waste to an entire city based on the number used .
Its fury is magnified a hundredfold over the thunderbolts you have hurled in battles past.
" Zeus rose from the chair, drawn forward as if by unseen forces, his hand hovering just above the weapon's surface while say change name to Thunderstrike. I like it better
Hera moved beside him, her expression a careful mask of concern and calculation. "How You would dare forge such destruction?" she murmured, eyeing Hephaestus keenly.
Hephaestus inclined her head. "I would, and I have. Because the enemy you face may not fall to lesser blows. This Thunderbolt is your answer to the darkness foretold.
But I warn you—" her gaze hardened— "use it with wisdom. Unleashed recklessly, it could doom as much as it saves.
Zeus, his hand tightening on the Thunderstrike, asked, his voice a low growl, "Let me understand you. One Thunderstrike can destroy a city, you mean?"
Hephaestus met his gaze, her expression unyielding. "What city are we speaking of, my Zeus?"
Hera recoiled, "What about a city the size of Heavenport, Hephaestus?
Is this some sick joke? The angels will destroy us if we do that, and you know it!" while her hands flying to her head. Turning to Zeus, her voice was filled with horror and disbelief. "I cannot be a part of this."
Zeus's face hardened, his eyes flashing with divine determination. He slammed his fist on the table, the Thunderstrike vibrating with barely contained energy. "We are not joking, Hephaestus. The threat is dire, and we must be prepared to face it." Hephaestus turned back to her scattered scrolls and blueprints, her voice low but full of meaning. "The Oracle's prophecy speaks of a flame drowned in light. Let us not become the very flood that drowns what we are sworn to protect.
Hephaestus , I understand your reservations," Zeus said, his voice sharp and commanding, "The angels have withdrawn most of their forces from terrestrial conflicts. Most of their forces stay on Celestia. This conflict could exhaust them entirely, leaving Gaia vulnerable to us, focusing their strength on Celestia instead. They did that after their last war on Gaia. By seizing Heavenport and their colonies, we would gain a decisive advantage—perhaps even dominance—in this region, and potentially, the world. High risk, yes, but the reward is absolute control."
Zeus, rubbing the back of his neck, asked, "Where will we get all that Aether? We do not have enough soldiers."
"Even if we get that number physically, it is impossible to channel that Aether to the Thunderstrike," Hephaestus said.
Hera, her shoulders drooping, asked, "Why is that going to be so difficult?"
Hephaestus said, "Aether dissipates over time. If the Thunderstrike is not discharged soon after gathering enough Aether, we may need to use even more Aether than I initially calculated."
"It is impossible, then why did you build a weapon we cannot use anyway, Hephaestus?"
"It is a prototype, Zeus, and I did not design it to destroy the biggest city on Gaia."
"Then make one we can use. You have less than three weeks before the Olympus meeting. By then, I hope you find a solution for this challenges for your own sake, and I will take care of the Aether problem myself."
Zeus, I think you ask a lot in this short time. I think it is not possible. I wish I had told him that, but I could not, so instead I said I will try my best, my Zeus. When I said it, I felt like a lump was in my throat.
"Great. Actually, ten thousand soldiers' Aether is too much. Reduce it while you are at it. War is inevitable, so ramp up the amount of weapons we make. We need everything made double."
"Hera, let's go. I have a nation to run."
I showed my respect, then I asked Daedalus to escort them to the royal carriages. I could not handle any more of Zeus's bullshit. He asks for the impossible. Once he left, I sat down, tired, on my chair. I want to shout, "Fuck you, Zeus!" but his Dolon are everywhere. I cannot trust anyone, not even my own Cyclopes.