Part 1 – The Storm Gathers
The skies over Olympus had been restless for days. Clouds swelled like bruises, lightning veins crackling across their surface, and thunder rolled with a temper that had every satyr and nymph keeping to the shadows. Even the wind dared not breathe too loudly. The king of the gods was in a foul mood.
Zeus had called a full council—every throne filled, every god summoned, no excuses tolerated. That in itself was unusual. The Olympians preferred their squabbles in smaller cliques, grievances handled with pettiness disguised as formality. But this was different. This was about the storm that had been building ever since whispers spread across Olympus and the mortal world alike: Artemis and Athena had chosen a mate. The same mate. And not just any figure, but Percy—an ancient power, a god outside of fate, whose dominion over time itself made him both invaluable and unnerving.
The air in the council hall tasted of iron when the gods gathered. Hera sat stiffly beside Zeus, every wrinkle of her gown smoothed into severity, eyes blazing with anticipation for scandal. Apollo plucked nervously at his lyre, strumming out chords that rang strangely flat, as if prophecy itself had lost its rhythm. Poseidon leaned against his throne, his sea-green eyes dark, unreadable, though his trident glowed faintly with agitation.
Even Dionysus looked sober, and that alone said everything about the tension in the air.
"Where are they?" Zeus' voice boomed, rattling the marble columns. His beard crackled with static, every hair practically humming with stormlight.
"They'll come," Hestia murmured gently from her modest hearth in the center. Unlike the others, she seemed calm, her small flame steady.
"They'll come flaunting it," Hera hissed, her nails drumming the armrest of her throne. "Two maidens—once paragons of virtue—parading their shame like trophies. And with him of all creatures."
A murmur rippled through the room. Aphrodite tilted her head, a smile curling at her lips. "Shame, Hera? Or envy? It has been a long time since love has looked this… radiant."
Hera shot her a glare sharp enough to cut marble.
The heavy bronze doors groaned. The sound echoed like the heartbeat of Olympus itself. The murmurs hushed, the air stiffened, and every god straightened on their throne.
They entered together.
Percy walked at the center, calm but unyielding, his cloak shimmering faintly with threads of starlight. Power moved with him—not noisy, not boastful, but in the quiet inevitability of a tide. His presence unsettled the very air, the marble beneath his sandals thrumming as if remembering every step he had ever taken through the ages.
To his right, Artemis moved like moonlight given flesh. Her bow was slung casually at her shoulder, silver eyes daring anyone to call her less whole for the choice she had made. Wolves padded at her heels, spectral yet solid, their growls low and warning.
On his left, Athena strode with measured precision, her armor gleaming with a polish that reflected both torchlight and thunderbolt alike. Her grey eyes, sharp as blades, flicked over the assembly not with apology but calculation. She had weighed this council before even stepping foot inside.
Above them, Kaal soared in vast circles. The great phoenix's wingspan eclipsed the sunlight, each feather a shimmer of black edged with burning gold, like a midnight sun caught in eternal eclipse. His cry split the air, ancient and unsettling, making even Zeus' storm pause for half a heartbeat.
The trio did not falter. They walked the length of the hall as one.
Not Artemis stepping two paces behind, not Athena choosing distance, not Percy striding ahead. Together.
The whispers began.
"They dare—"
"Unthinkable."
"Beautiful."
"Dangerous."
By the time they reached the foot of the thrones, even the gods who had scoffed were leaning forward, unwilling to miss a single breath of what was about to unfold.
Percy stopped, his gaze sweeping the hall. He did not kneel. He did not bow. Artemis folded her arms, chin lifted. Athena set her hand lightly on Percy's sleeve, as if reminding him that the storm before them was nothing compared to the eternity behind them.
For a heartbeat, Olympus held its breath.
And then Zeus rose, lightning gathering in his palm.
"This ends now." His voice cracked the air, thunder splitting through the pillars. "Artemis! Athena! You—" he stabbed his finger toward Percy, stormlight burning in his eyes—"whatever you are. This is corruption. This is arrogance. A mockery of law, of vow, of Olympus itself!"
The chamber quaked. The nymphs hidden in alcoves shrieked and fled. Apollo's lyre snapped a string. Poseidon's grip tightened on his trident until the metal screamed.
But Percy did not flinch. Artemis' lips curved in the ghost of a smile. Athena's eyes shone, not with fear, but with the anticipation of words sharpened like spears.
The storm had broken.
Part 2 – The First Challenge
Zeus' thunderous accusation still rang in the marble chamber, echoes bouncing off golden domes and vanishing into the dark rafters above. The Olympians were used to spectacle, but this—this had weight. The storm crackling in their king's palm was not metaphorical. It was judgment poised to fall.
Artemis was the first to move. She took a single step forward, her wolves pressing against her legs like shadows come alive. Her silver eyes gleamed with a defiance that was neither rash nor reckless—it was the calm certainty of the huntress who had already loosed her arrow.
"No vow is broken here," she said, her voice carrying easily, without the need of thunder. "I remain maiden, as I have always been. But maidenhood does not mean solitude. It does not mean emptiness. It means freedom from chains."
Her gaze flicked toward Hera, sharp as the crescent moon. "I am not owned. Not by Zeus. Not by Olympus. Not by vow twisted to serve pride."
Hera surged to her feet, her gown flaring like a storm cloud, emerald eyes sparking with outrage. "You dare redefine what the gods themselves decreed?" Her words lashed like whips. "You dare twist chastity into… into this blasphemy? A man between you? Both of you?"
Athena rose in turn, her movement less dramatic, but her presence no less commanding. She placed her hand on Artemis' shoulder, a gesture of solidarity that rang louder than any lightning bolt. Her grey eyes locked with Hera's.
"Wisdom is not static," she said, each word precise, sharp enough to cut marble. "It is not a brittle law carved in stone. Wisdom grows. It adapts. It asks: what does choice mean, if choice is bound in chains? I vowed sovereignty, not sterility. Knowledge cannot flourish without freedom."
Apollo had been silent, his lyre held loosely across his lap. But now his golden eyes widened as though struck by a vision. He leapt to his feet, plucking frantic strings. The hall filled with dissonant chords as prophecy struggled to surface.
"I see—" he stammered, his voice cracking, "I see three flames, bound not in destruction, but in spiral… time folding… stars bending—" His voice faltered, his fingers fumbling uselessly across strings that refused to play the future. He gasped, stumbling back. "It— it won't hold. The Fates—"
"They cannot see him," Athena said quietly, gesturing toward Percy. "That is why your song breaks."
All eyes turned to Percy at last.
He had been silent until now, a steady anchor while thunder and outrage clashed around him. His cloak of stars shifted faintly in some wind only he could feel. When he finally spoke, it was not with volume, but with weight.
"Time does not bow," Percy said, his voice calm, yet carrying to every ear in the chamber. "It does not kneel to vow, or fear, or storm. It flows. It binds. It frees. You cannot forbid a river from reaching the sea. You cannot forbid the sun from rising. You cannot forbid what already is."
The hall trembled, not from Zeus' storm this time, but from something deeper—the recognition in the bones of every god present that his words were not boast, but truth.
Poseidon's knuckles whitened on his trident. His sea-green eyes flickered between awe and unease. At last, he spoke, his voice rough as breaking waves. "You… are no son of Olympus. Not Titan, not Primordial. You walk outside our laws. Yet—" His voice dropped, almost reluctantly. "I feel the sea in you. I feel kinship. And it unsettles me."
Zeus' hand still blazed with lightning, but his fury faltered, replaced by calculation. Even storm-kings knew when a strike would not land. His gaze raked across Percy, Artemis, and Athena—together, unshaken, their unity like a wall even thunder could not breach.
The murmurs swelled again. Hephaestus rubbed his beard, muttering, "Unbreakable, that's what it looks like." Dionysus swirled his goblet and shrugged. "And here I thought I was the scandalous one." Aphrodite leaned forward, chin on her hand, eyes sparkling with delight. "Oh, it's love, and it's stronger than lightning. How marvelous."
For the first time in centuries, Hera had no ready retort.
The storm still rumbled overhead, but the first cracks in Olympus' outrage had begun to show.
Part 3 – The Blessings
The silence in the council chamber was thick enough to choke. Zeus' storm still growled faintly in his palm, but it no longer roared with certainty. Hera's fury burned hot, but without the easy chorus of assent she was used to. The Olympians were unsettled. None wanted to be the first to yield—and none wanted to be the first to stand against what they could not understand.
The sound that broke the stalemate was not thunder, nor the twang of Artemis' bowstring. It was the soft crackle of flame.
Hestia rose from her modest hearth in the center of the hall. She was small compared to the grandeur of the others, her gown plain, her presence quiet. Yet every eye turned. There was something about Hestia that demanded no thunder to command attention.
Her flame flickered warmly as she approached Percy, Artemis, and Athena. For a moment, the hall seemed to breathe easier, the storm receding.
"You speak of vows," Hestia said gently, her voice like embers glowing in the dark. "You speak of shame and law. But what I see before me is no corruption. I see a hearth newly kindled."
She placed her hand on Percy's, her palm small but steady. The cloak of stars around him shimmered faintly in response, time itself pausing as if to listen.
"You," she said softly, "are keeper of hearth's time. Every flame burns because you grant it a moment. Without time, no warmth endures. Without choice, no fire lives. I bless this bond. May it burn steady, not consuming, but sheltering."
Gasps rippled through the hall. Hera sputtered, half rising from her throne. "You dare bless this mockery?"
Hestia did not turn, did not raise her voice. "I dare recognize what is already flame."
Before Hera could strike again, another figure stirred.
Demeter rose from her throne, green-robed, her eyes the color of rich soil after rain. She moved with the slow certainty of the earth itself, every step deliberate. When she stopped before the trio, she looked not at Percy first, but at Artemis and Athena.
"You have been called barren for your choices," she said, her voice carrying with quiet strength. "Maiden. Sovereign. Wisdom locked behind walls of vow. They said you could never grow, never nurture, never create."
Her gaze softened, almost tender. "They were wrong. Fertility is not only of womb. Legacy is not only of blood. I see it in you already—power entwined, love made whole, something new that even the Fates cannot measure. I bless your union as seed. It will bear not children, perhaps, but change. And change is the most fertile ground of all."
Artemis blinked, for once caught off guard. Athena's eyes glistened faintly, though her face remained composed. Percy inclined his head, gratitude plain in his expression.
The chamber erupted in murmurs. Some approving, some shocked, but the shift was undeniable. With Hestia's flame and Demeter's earth both blessing them, Olympus could not so easily dismiss the triad as blasphemy.
Hephaestus scratched at his beard, muttering, "Flame and soil both in their favor… hard to argue with foundation." Dionysus drained his goblet and slouched back, smirking faintly. "Looks like the vineyard won't be enough scandal anymore."
Aphrodite rose just slightly, her eyes glittering with curiosity. "Love that remakes Olympus itself," she murmured. "Even I did not weave this. Perhaps that is why it endures."
Hera's fury boiled, but for the first time, she looked cornered. Zeus' hand still glowed with lightning, but it wavered, flickering with indecision. The storm that had begun with certainty now crackled with doubt.
And Percy, Artemis, and Athena stood together—silent, but unshaken.
Part 4 – Mortal Reverence
If Olympus had been divided, the mortal world had no such hesitation.
The first rumors spread like sparks leaping from a dry log. Sailors whispered of three figures seen walking the shoreline at dawn: one cloaked in stars, one crowned in silver, one robed in bronze light. Farmers claimed that their fields grew richer overnight if they left three cups of wine beneath the olive trees. In Athens, a poet woke with verses already burning in his mind, praising "The Three Crowns who walk together, who bend neither to fate nor fear."
And mortals, as mortals always did, took rumor and turned it into ritual.
By midsummer, festivals bloomed across Hellas. In Delphi, they painted murals of Percy standing with Artemis and Athena beside him, a hand resting on each of theirs. Children sang hymns about "the Hunter, the Thinker, and the Keeper of Time." Even kings began invoking their names together before battle, praying for clarity of mind, accuracy of aim, and moments enough to strike true.
Temples rose at a pace that startled even the other Olympians. In Sparta, a shrine was carved into the cliffside, where an eternal flame flickered beside a pool of stars reflected from above. In Thebes, marble columns rose high, etched with constellations said to be of Percy's making. And in Athens itself—the city of wisdom—priests and priestesses wove garlands in pairs of three: silver, gold, and black, hung above the altar as offerings.
For the common folk, the union was not scandal but salvation. Lovers clasped hands more boldly in the streets. Wives argued with husbands without shame, citing Athena's sharp tongue. Young hunters swore Artemis guided their arrows, even when they had never stepped foot into her sacred groves. And men and women alike looked to the night sky, watching the constellations shift ever so slightly, whispering that the Keeper of Time walked among them.
Not all voices were joyful, of course.
In the crowded markets of Corinth, some muttered that Artemis had been corrupted, that Athena had been ensnared. Old men shook their heads, muttering about vows broken, about traditions crumbling. Priests of Zeus raged from their pulpits, declaring that no triad should usurp the order of Olympus. But their words had the brittle sound of reeds in the wind, easily bent, easily ignored.
For every denunciation, there were ten praises sung louder.
At night, the air itself seemed thicker with devotion. Hymns rose from mountaintops and valley floors, from seashores and city squares. Wherever three torches were lit in a circle, mortals claimed the trio might appear, walking among them in disguise. And sometimes, perhaps, they did.
One autumn night in a village on the edge of Arcadia, three cloaked travelers sat beside a fire. The villagers offered them bread and wine without question, whispering blessings. In the morning, the fields were heavy with grain though no rain had fallen for weeks. The travelers were gone, but the villagers swore they had seen stars in the man's cloak and moonlight in the women's hair.
The stories spread, carried on lips and in hearts. And with every tale told, the power of the union deepened. For gods are not only made by their own strength, but by belief—and the mortal world had chosen.
Part 5 – The Open Bond
Olympus had never been a place of restraint. Feasts thundered with laughter and song, revelries often spilling into scandal, and rivalries sparked without warning. But the presence of Percy, Artemis, and Athena together at every gathering gave the mountain a new rhythm—one that unsettled as many as it enchanted.
It began subtly.
When they entered the council chamber, they no longer stood apart. Percy's cloak of stars draped not only over his shoulders but often around Artemis or Athena, as though even the fabric of time bent to include them. Artemis, who once would have sat with her huntresses at the fringes, now sat beside Percy, silver eyes sharp as ever but softened when they fell on him. Athena, who had always demanded her throne, now leaned casually against Percy's arm, her bronze wisdom tempered by affection that no one had thought her capable of.
The gestures were small, yet deliberate. A hand brushing against another. A kiss to the temple when words failed. Fingers intertwined during moments of silence. To some gods, these were simple signs of devotion. To others, they were daggers.
"Blatant," Hera spat one evening, loud enough for half the table to hear. "Flaunting indecency as though it were virtue."
Dionysus, wine dripping from his beard, only smirked. "Or perhaps it is virtue, and the rest of us have been pretending."
At feasts, the dynamic drew eyes no matter where it played out. When Apollo strummed his lyre, Percy would tilt his head back, Artemis' hand resting idly on his chest, while Athena debated philosophy with Hermes between sips of dark wine. When sparring tournaments erupted in the courtyards, Artemis and Percy often fought side by side—arrows of moonlight streaking past while Percy froze entire moments of battle to tip the scales. Athena, watching from the balcony, would laugh softly, calling out strategies to both, her words somehow reaching them even through chaos.
It wasn't just the intimacy—it was the ease.
For centuries, Olympus had thrived on competition, on suspicion, on uneasy alliances held together with brittle vows. But here was something else entirely: a bond without secrecy, without shame, without apology. It was so rare on Olympus that some gods could not comprehend it, and others could not stop staring.
And of course, the gossip burned hotter than any hearth.
In corridors and antechambers, whispers spread like wildfire:
"They say Artemis hunts only with him now."
"Athena lets him into her libraries—into her mind."
"He gives them his cloak at night. Do you know what that means? Stars themselves hiding them."
Not all whispers were cruel. Aphrodite's priestesses sighed about the poetry of it, weaving songs of "the eternal triad." Some gods, jealous of the steadiness Percy offered, found themselves wishing they could barter away their own loneliness for a fragment of it. Others, less generous, muttered that Artemis and Athena must be scheming, manipulating Percy for his wealth, his magic, his impossible dominion over time.
Yet gossip could not deny what eyes saw plainly: when they walked together, Olympus itself seemed to steady. The skies cleared. The winds calmed. Even Ares, ever ready for a quarrel, found his challenges to Percy deflected with humor and patience instead of violence—though not without the occasional spar that ended with Percy pinning him, Artemis' arrow at his throat, and Athena's dry commentary echoing from the stands.
Still, resentment festered in corners. Poseidon, often silent, drank more deeply than usual. Hera simmered, her fury only sharpened by the sight of Percy's tenderness toward women who had never been meant for any man. Zeus' lightning hand twitched more often now, though it struck the air rather than the trio themselves.
But there was no denying it anymore: the union was not hidden, not whispered, not fragile. It was lived.
And it was changing Olympus.
Part 6 – The Eternal Accord
The call for a full convocation rang across Olympus at dawn. The great bronze horns echoed through the mountain's marble halls, summoning every god and goddess to the council chamber. Even minor deities, nymphs, and spirits of the winds crept in, eager to witness what promised to be a reckoning.
The chamber itself seemed taut with anticipation. Thunderheads pressed against the skylights above. The hearth's flame flickered unusually bright, as though Hestia herself leaned close to listen. Every throne was occupied—Zeus at the head, Hera beside him, both grim as stormclouds.
And then the doors opened.
Percy walked first, his cloak of stars flowing like a river of midnight, Kaal perched silent and watchful on his shoulder. Artemis was at his right, silver circlet glinting, eyes sharp as a drawn arrow. Athena was at his left, bronze robes shimmering, a scroll and spear in hand. Together, they seemed less like mortals and gods, and more like inevitabilities—time, hunt, and wisdom bound into one stride.
Murmurs rippled as they took their places not at the fringe, but in the center of the chamber.
Zeus rose, lightning gathering in his palm, his voice booming.
"Olympus has endured for ages because order is upheld. Yet now, order trembles. Three thrones where one should be. Vows shattered, domains twisted. Tell me, why should Olympus not tear you asunder where you stand?"
Silence.
Then Percy spoke, his tone even, calm, almost gentle.
"Because Olympus is not weakened by what stands here. It is steadied. Look to the mortal world—are they rebelling? No. They build temples, sing hymns, live boldly because of what they see in us. Look to your own hall—are we sowing war? No. We feast, we spar, we speak plainly. What you call tremble, I call shift. Olympus does not fall, Father of Storms. It changes."
Zeus' hand tightened. Hera leaned in, whispering sharp words in his ear. His jaw worked, indecision flickering across his face.
Before he could answer, Hestia rose again, flame steady. "The hearth already blessed this union. Deny them, and you deny the very fire that warms this hall."
Demeter's voice followed, low but firm: "The earth grows where they tread. Deny them, and you deny growth itself."
Even Aphrodite stirred, lips curling with interest. "And love—rare, unbroken love—has already chosen them. Deny them, and you deny me."
Murmurs rose like a tide. Hephaestus nodded gruffly, muttering about craft and foundation. Dionysus raised his goblet lazily. "Frankly, I'm tired of the bickering. Let them be crowned and let's drink to it."
Zeus' storm crackled, uncertain. He turned at last to Poseidon, seeking alliance. But Poseidon only stared at Percy—at the cloak of stars, at the god who had walked beyond the sea and returned stronger than any tide. Poseidon did not nod, did not shake his head. He simply said, "The boy is beyond us. Best to set him where he cannot be ignored."
The chamber shuddered. The tide had turned.
Zeus' thunder flared once more, then dimmed. Slowly, heavily, he extended his hand. A crown of bronze and silver flame flickered into being, forged of lightning itself.
"Then Olympus will bind what it cannot break," Zeus declared, voice edged with reluctant thunder. "Percy, Keeper of Time and Earth, Cloak of Stars. Artemis, Huntress Eternal. Athena, Wisdom Unyielding. Together you stand, together you will be seated. Olympus recognizes your bond—not as scandal, but as accord."
The crown split into three, each fragment hovering above them before descending gently: silver flames settling on Artemis' brow, bronze fire on Athena's, midnight fire on Percy's.
The hall erupted. Some cheered, some scoffed, some muttered darkly. But none could deny the sight. The Three Crowns were no longer whispers, no longer defiance. They were law.
Percy turned, pressing a kiss to Artemis' temple, then to Athena's brow, in full view of Olympus. His voice, though soft, carried.
"We are not here to replace. We are here to remain. And Olympus will be stronger for it."
For a moment, even Zeus could not speak.
Part 7 – After the Storm
The council chamber emptied slowly, like a battlefield after ceasefire. Gods drifted away in clusters, some muttering, some jubilant, some silent in thought. Thunderclouds dissolved over the peaks, leaving Olympus strangely clear, the sky washed of storm.
Percy, Artemis, and Athena did not linger. They slipped from the marble halls and ascended a narrow stair cut into the mountainside. Few ventured here; it was a place of solitude, where the cliff fell sheer into the valley below and the stars seemed close enough to touch.
Kaal wheeled above them in widening arcs, a streak of silver-black fire against the night. Hedged in by silence, Percy's cloak rustled faintly, starlight folding over Artemis' shoulder as she leaned into him. Athena walked at his other side, not speaking, only brushing her hand against his knuckles as though to remind herself that this moment was real.
When they reached the cliff's edge, the three stood together. Below, the mortal world glittered with firelight: villages celebrating, temples burning incense, hymns drifting faintly on the wind.
"It is done," Percy said at last, voice low. "Zeus has spoken. Olympus has bent."
Artemis exhaled, long and steady, her silver circlet glinting in moonlight. "Bent is not broken. He will try again."
Athena's gaze lingered on the horizon, thoughtful. "Yes. But not now. Not openly. Too many eyes. Too much fire in the hearts of mortals. He knows he cannot fight that tide, not yet."
They fell quiet again. The stillness was different than in the council chamber—it was not silence born of tension, but of release. The air smelled of pine and stone, the night cool against their skin.
Percy sank onto a flat boulder at the cliff's edge. Artemis slid down beside him, resting her bow across her knees, her head tipping against his shoulder. Athena settled on his other side, tucking one leg beneath her, her hand resting lightly on his chest as if listening to the beat of his heart.
For a while, none of them spoke. Kaal descended, wings folding, perching behind them with a soft rumble that shook the stone. The great phoenix lowered his head, one burning eye fixed on the trio, as though standing sentinel over their quiet.
At last, Artemis broke the stillness. "I swore I would never share my path. That no man would ever walk beside me." She tilted her face up to him, her voice softer than the moonlight itself. "And now I find I am glad I was wrong."
Athena's lips curved faintly, wry but tender. "I swore I would never let love cloud judgment. That my mind must remain untangled by desire. And now—" she glanced at Artemis, then Percy—"now I find my judgment clearer than ever."
Percy looked between them, stars reflected in his eyes. "And I…" he hesitated, rare for him, before smiling faintly. "I swore nothing. I only endured. But in enduring, I found both of you. And for the first time in an eternity, I feel not just eternal, but alive."
The words hung in the air, simple yet heavy.
Artemis reached for his hand. Athena covered it with hers. Fingers twined, steady, unbreakable.
They stayed that way until the horizon lightened with dawn. The valley below awoke, smoke rising from hearths, shepherds calling to their flocks. The trio did not move, content in their shared silence, their union no longer shadowed, no longer questioned.
And as the first sunbeam touched the peak of Olympus, the Three Crowns sat together at the cliff's edge, bound not by decree, but by choice.