Hermes

On a quiet night, hidden within the sacred caverns of Mount Cyllene, Maia, the eldest of the Pleiades nymphs, lay in the shadows, far from the eyes of Olympus. She had kept her pregnancy secret, away from the gaze of the gods, for she was not a goddess of war or power—she was a child of nature, content with the silence of the wilderness.

But her lover was not just any god—Zeus, King of Olympus, had fathered the child growing within her womb. Though their union had been brief, Zeus had left behind a divine spark within her, one that would shape the fate of Olympus forever.

And so, beneath the soft glow of Artemis's moon, Maia gave birth to a child unlike any other. Hermes, the god of speed, trade, travelers, and trickery, opened his eyes to the world, his infant hands already reaching for something unseen.

Maia, exhausted from labor, cradled him close, believing he would sleep like any newborn. But Hermes was not like other children. His mind was sharp, his body filled with an energy no newborn should possess.

The moment Maia closed her eyes, Hermes stirred. He would not be bound to one place. He would not wait for fate to guide him. He would carve his own path.

Before the first rays of dawn could shine upon him, Hermes slipped away from his mother's embrace, crawling out of the cave with a purpose beyond his years. His tiny feet left no sound, his presence barely a whisper against the earth. He had a mission—though he himself could not explain why.

His journey took him far, to the golden fields where the sacred cattle of Apollo roamed, their hooves gleaming beneath the starlit sky.

A lesser god would have been awed. A mortal would have been terrified.

But Hermes, barely a day old, only saw opportunity.

He stole them.

Not all of them—just enough to cause trouble. And as he led them away, he disguised their tracks, making them walk backward so that even the gods would be fooled. With a cunning grin, he hid the stolen cattle deep within a hidden valley, where no eye—mortal or divine—could see them.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he returned to his mother's side, curling up as though he had never left.

But Olympus was not blind.

By morning, Apollo discovered the theft. The sun god, known for his calm wisdom, was furious. His golden chariot tore through the sky as he descended to the earth, his eyes burning with divine rage.

"Who dares steal from me?" his voice boomed across the land.

The wind carried whispers of laughter, the kind that only a mischievous god could possess. And so, Apollo followed the sound—to the quiet cave where Maia lay, her newborn child resting in her arms.

Maia awoke to the sight of Apollo standing before her, his golden presence illuminating the dark cavern. She gasped, shielding her son, but Hermes only smirked, his tiny fingers wrapped around a lyre he was given by a mysterious man known as Bellerophon, an incarnation of Hephaestus.

"I have done nothing," Hermes said with a voice too smooth for an infant. "I am but a helpless newborn."

Apollo's fury faltered, his golden eyes narrowing. This was no ordinary child.

"Return what you have taken," he demanded.

Instead of answering, Hermes plucked the strings of his lyre, and music—sweet, divine, and unlike anything the gods had ever heard—filled the cavern. It was music that told stories, that wove illusions, that turned anger into laughter.

Apollo, despite himself, listened.

By the time Hermes finished, the sun god sighed. "Clever child. You are no ordinary thief."

And so, rather than punishment, Apollo offered Hermes a deal. The cattle would be returned, but in exchange, Apollo would take the lyre, a gift too valuable to refuse.

Thus, the first trade in the history of Olympus was made, and the two gods, who once stood as enemies, became bound by fate.

Zeus, upon hearing of his newborn son's cleverness, could not contain his amusement. He called a gathering of the gods, summoning the Twelve Olympians to witness the child who had outwitted Apollo himself.

Among them sat Themis, the Titaness of divine law and order.

For ages, Themis had guided the gods, her wisdom shaping the early days of Olympus. She had watched over justice and fate, ensuring balance in the heavens. But as the world changed, so too did the needs of the gods.

Zeus, seated upon his great throne, looked upon Hermes and declared, "A god like this cannot remain in the shadows. Hermes, my son, you shall take your place among us."

A murmur spread through the divine council. Some gods accepted this easily—change was inevitable. Others questioned whether one so young could stand among them.

But Themis, ever wise, merely closed her eyes.

"Justice is not merely law," she murmured. "It is balance. And balance requires change."

She rose from her seat, stepping down from her throne with neither bitterness nor regret. Her time as an Olympian had passed.

And so, with laughter echoing through the halls of Olympus, Hermes ascended, taking his place as one of the Twelve Olympians.

The Messenger of the Gods.

No longer just a trickster, Hermes became the herald of Olympus—the one who could traverse realms with unmatched speed. He became the bridge between gods and mortals, the underworld and the heavens, merchants and thieves alike.

Yet even as he took his throne, he never lost the spark of mischief that defined him.

With a knowing smile, he whispered to himself, "The world is much more fun when the rules are flexible."