When I entered the throne room, almost everyone was already there.
Most of them avoided looking at me directly, as if that alone could make them ignore what had happened the day before. As if it wasn't real, as if I hadn't stood up to Zeus or unearthed a pact they had chosen to forget.
Even my uncle Hades was there. Wedged into his guest chair with a look that every second he spent on Olympus was causing him an allergic reaction. He didn't usually show up unless he was formally invited… which, in itself, spoke volumes about the gravity of this meeting. He toyed with his ring, spinning it over and over again with measured slowness. The gesture seemed idle, but his eyes were anything but distracted.
Hestia sat on the floor beside the central fire, serene as always, though a furrow in her brow betrayed her. She was the only one of the six who seemed genuinely uncomfortable with the situation. Not out of fear—more out of sadness.
I sat on my throne pretending a calm I didn't feel. I was alert, tense, measuring every glance and every gesture, ready for any word that might be misplaced.
Artemis didn't take her eyes off me from the moment I crossed the door. Her gaze sharp—whether judgmental or concerned, I couldn't tell. With her, it was always hard to read. Etched between her brows, in golden letters only I could see, was a clear "This isn't over." Athena, for her part, gave me a long, thorough look, as if trying to dissect me with her eyes and figure out what internal parts I had rearranged to dare what I had done.
This time, my father chose a less dramatic entrance. No thunder, no blinding light. Just the door opening, and him walking in with an impassive gaze. As if he were just one of many, as if his authority weren't being questioned for the first time in millennia. I wondered if he was trying to appear calm or if he simply refused to give the moment any weight. Then again… with Zeus, appearances always mattered more than intentions.
Hera was the last to arrive.
Dressed in an elegant black gown, she walked in with her head held high, her expression deadly serious, a barely visible crown nestled in her pinned-up hair. She sat on her throne without so much as a glance at her husband. I noticed Zeus falter when he saw her. Just for a fraction of a second—but it was enough.
Then the meeting began.
A speech. Long, predictable, pompous. Full of empty words and hollow metaphors. A desperate attempt to maintain control. I didn't pay attention—I never did. But this time it was different: I wasn't just ignoring him, I was actively listening for the silence, the pause, the hint that he was nearing the important part.
And then he did. Begrudgingly, of course.
He spoke of the pact. Mentioned it with disdain, as if it were some ridiculous relic only a fool would take seriously. But he said it—he laid it on the table—and that was enough.
Hades, who until then seemed more interested in his ring than the speech, straightened in his seat. He raised his head, eyes narrowing, intrigued. It must've been the first time he was hearing about it. Athena frowned. Hermes stopped bouncing his legs. Even Ares paused in sharpening his spear.
Zeus had barely said a few more words when Hades interrupted:
"Excuse me? What pact?" That's when I knew for sure. No one had told him. Not even his own siblings.
"A pact the six children of Cronos made," I cut in, tired of the detours. "An agreement that allows the leadership of Olympus to be reassessed if the majority deems it necessary."
The word majority echoed. Hades narrowed his eyes, Poseidon shifted in his seat, Demeter rubbed her neck with visible discomfort. Only Hestia remained still, staring into the fire. She seemed to know what was coming.
"And you think you're in any position to bring that up?" Zeus asked, one eyebrow raised. "You're not one of the six—you didn't even exist."
"No," I admitted. "But I am in a position to remind everyone here that the agreement exists. And that, by its own terms, it can be enacted if five of the six agree."
An awkward silence fell. And I, without waiting, stood and broke it:
"Vote."
There was a murmur. Doubts, quick glances. But I didn't stop. I was done with detours.
"Who supports revisiting Olympus' leadership?"
Poseidon raised his hand almost instantly. It was like he had decided even before sitting down.
Demeter was next. Not as quick, but just as firm.
Then Hades. His vote was the most unsettling because he said nothing. He just raised his hand slowly, savoring every second, and held my gaze. Still spinning his ring between his fingers.
Hestia hesitated. But only for a few seconds. Then she raised her hand too. Regretfully, but without doubt.
My father paled. Literally. For the first time since I'd known him, he didn't know what to say. His eyes went to his wife. A last attempt. A plea, disguised as confidence.
But Hera didn't return the smile he offered her. Only a cold look, a sneer of disdain. And something else. Something I'd seen a hundred times in my stepmother's eyes. Something that only shone when the wounds had gone too long without healing: A thirst for vengeance.
And then she raised her hand. High, steady. Not looking away from Zeus for even a moment.
The thunder that roared above our heads wasn't summoned—it was a reflection of his fury. The sky itself trembled at what had just happened.
Olympus had made its choice.
And I, from my throne, didn't bother hiding my smile. It wasn't a victory yet—but it was much, much closer.
The thunder was still rumbling when I stood.
I couldn't let that silence stretch out. Not now—not after what had just happened. We had to move quickly, before surprise turned into doubt, before Zeus tried to claw back control with screams or lightning. The next step of the plan had to be set in motion while everyone was still in shock. Strike while the pieces were still falling.
"If I may," I said, raising my voice so no one could pretend not to hear me, "I'd like to propose a way to decide who should take the throne."
A murmur rippled through the room like a wave. Hades raised an eyebrow. Hera settled into her throne, eyes still fixed on her husband—she didn't seem to care about the rest of the conversation. But Athena, ever alert, was the first to respond.
"And what exactly do you propose, Apollo?"
All eyes turned to me. I felt it—focus, judgment, tension. I took a deep breath; this was part of the play I'd rehearsed a hundred times.
"Not a trial," I said. "We know how those end among us. And a battle between gods would be a disaster—no one would win. So I've thought of something else. Something more... fair. Balanced."
Pause. One second. Absolute silence.
"Games."
More murmurs—even Hermes looked intrigued. Ares frowned, probably annoyed that the word combat hadn't taken center stage.
"Not just any games," I clarified, before anyone could imagine a blood-soaked arena.
I looked at each of them calmly. It was now or never.
"Any god who wishes to claim the throne may do so... but they won't fight for it themselves. They must be represented by a demigod. Any one of them. Each god will choose a champion from among the mortals with divine blood. They'll have to convince them to fight for them, guide them, and train them."
Athena narrowed her eyes, assessing the logic.
"And the trials," I continued, "won't be decided by the participants. To ensure it's truly fair, the gods who don't present a champion will be the ones to define the rules, design the tests, and guarantee no cheating."
Hades stopped spinning his ring. He looked at me with a mix of confusion and quiet admiration. Maybe he'd thought I was just a golden, melodramatic, lyre-strumming god. But this time, there was no poetry in my words—only strategy.
"This way," I added, "no god has an advantage over another. It won't matter who's older, stronger, or more feared. The most capable, skilled, and prepared demigod will be the one to win. And their victory will name the new king… or queen."
The room fell silent. But not like before.
This time, it was the kind of silence that announces something has changed.
Then came the reactions. First whispers, then exchanges. Raised brows, knowing looks. Even Poseidon nodded slowly, thoughtful. Hermes smiled, and so did Aphrodite while glancing at her reflection. Hestia said nothing, but a relieved sigh slipped from her lips.
I took a moment to find her among the crowd.
Artemis.
Still seated, unmoving, not yet recovered from her astonishment. She looked at me with an expression I'd rarely seen on her: pure disbelief. As if she didn't recognize the person standing before her. Unable to understand how her twin—the one who played the lyre and goofed around with golden arrows—had just proposed the most complex, impartial, and dangerous system Olympus had seen in centuries.
She didn't look away.
In the end, no vote was needed. The majority nodded, accepting my proposal as the most just.
I allowed myself a moment to relax. I had achieved the hardest part of the plan. At least, the part that was mine.
------
support helps! :)