Chapter 12

The tension in Zeus's war room was electric, a storm of emotions mirroring the thunderstorms that Zeus himself could command. Hades and Ares, the god of the Underworld and the god of War, stood with their swords pointed dangerously at Poseidon's neck. Their faces were hard and unyielding, showing the weight of this most severe and intimate betrayal.

Zeus, the King of the Gods, paced back and forth like a tempest, his fury as palpable as the crackling energy in the air. He came to a stop in front of his brother, Poseidon, whose expression remained impassive despite his dire circumstances.

"Why?" Zeus demanded, his voice a low and dangerous rumble, like the promise of a coming storm. "I do not understand, why have you betrayed not only me but all of Olympus, Poseidon?"

Poseidon's deep blue eyes, reminiscent of the vast ocean he ruled, shifted and locked onto his daughter, Adamantia. She stood still as a statue, her face a canvas of nonchalance. She was just glad that the accusation connecting her to Cronos's escape was shed from her shoulders.

Beside her, Ahmanet, her lover, reached over to take her hand. Ahmanet's touch was a steady anchor, a silent promise of support that Adamantia desperately needed in this moment.

"It is your rule I take issue with, brother," Poseidon confessed, his voice steady as the tides as he tore his eyes away from his daughter. "You have allowed humanity to forget us. They pillage the Earth, the seas — our domains — under your watch. You do nothing as they are free to tarnish and ruin. Your hand, once firm, has become lax and weak."

He paused, letting the weight of his words hang heavy in the air. Ares's eyes had widened, ever so slightly and Poseidon knew at that point that he spoke of the truth. Even Ares had felt that of course, he wouldn't be affected by it because the God of War thrived on conflict and humankind was exceptionally well at the process of imploding themselves.

"Under Cronos," Poseidon continued, "a new age will dawn—an age where the gods are not forgotten playthings but revered and feared as we once were."

Zeus's eyes narrowed dangerously, his divine power almost visibly sparking around him. But within that tempestuous gaze, there was also a deep, piercing pain — the raw wound of a brother's betrayal.

Adamantia scoffed. She could care less as to what Poseidon was spouting. She knew the reality of it all, he just wanted the Gods to regain their former glory and by former glory, a world where they could suppress humankind and be revered again.

A world where tyrants were respected and allowed to create destruction without prejudice. Ahmanet seemed to think on the same spectrum because she suddenly spoke up, letting her presence be known amongst the Greek Pantheons.

"Then am I right to assume that you just want to be revered again? Walk the mortal realms, parading as their rightful Kings? Doing whatever you please to do without prejudice. You already don't answer to anyone. Matter of fact, no God has answered to any force except for their own."

The underlying gist of Ahmanet's words also targeted the Egyptian Pantheon.

In that charged moment, Hades, ever the composed and calculating deity, calmly interjected. His dark eyes, cold as the deepest recesses of the Underworld he ruled, fixed on Ahmanet.

"You," Hades said softly, yet with a sharp edge that could rival the finest blade, a deadly warning to those around him to not test his patience nor his temper, "should not speak on the matters of the Greek Gods."

Poseidon, amidst this tempest of words, remained as still as the eye of a storm. His intense gaze was focused solely on Athena, the goddess of wisdom, who had remained conspicuously silent since his confession. In a low and gravelly tone, as deep and foreboding as the ocean's depths, he spoke, but his words were for everyone in the room to ponder.

"It is Zeus's weakness," Poseidon murmured, "his frivolous dalliance with the humans, that has led us to this precipice."

Enraged, Zeus's stormy eyes flashed like lightning, and his voice boomed as thunder. "I have shown compassion! A heart for those we are sworn to oversee! We are not tyrants to rule through fear, but guides to lead with love and wisdom!"

He turned, searching the room, and his eyes landed on his daughter, Athena. He looked to her not as a father seeking validation from a child, but as a ruler seeking counsel from his most trusted advisor.

"Athena," Zeus implored, his voice softening, "speak your wisdom."

Yet Athena, the embodiment of wisdom and strategy, maintained her silence, her grey eyes inscrutable. In her silence, a profound statement was made, leaving the room colder than the harshest winter wind.

"Yes, Athena. Impart your wisdom on the Gods! Why don't you tell them about the defenses that you have construct against Cronos?"

Poseidon barked, his laughter echoing in the chambers ominously. The participants looked to each other and then at Poseidon who continued to laugh as if he was drunk on Dionysus's wine.

"Athena….?" Zeus's eyes, which were once confident, began to waver. "Tell me, daughter of mine, daughter of Divine Wisdom. Cronos will not enter Olympus."

Zeus, lord of the sky and king of the gods, stood with his fists clenched, lightning bolts flickering in his eyes. When Athena remained silent and unable to meet his electric gaze, he walked off, his arms flailing in the air as if he were slaying the very idea of Cronos.

"Cronus cannot breach these walls. Olympus is impregnable; our defenses are unbreakable! My daughter made sure of that!"

Poseidon, God of the Sea, leaned against his trident, waves seemingly crashing in his oceanic eyes. "Impregnable, you say? Like the sea can't be sailed or the sky can't be flown?"

Athena, goddess of wisdom, sat quietly at the side of the table, her eyes fixed on a scroll she was reading. Her armor, wrought with divine skill, shimmered with an ethereal light.

Poseidon smirked and looked toward Athena. "Why don't you tell your father, my niece, how easily defenses fall—especially when betrayed from within?"

Zeus's eyes widened further, his aura pulsating with raw energy. The celestial map on the table shimmered and swayed, as if rocked by his emotional turmoil.

"You speak as if you have not been by my side, defending this realm and guiding its destinies."

Athena clasped her hands in front of her. "I've stood by you because it is the order of the cosmos, not because I condone your actions. Our enemies use your flaws against us, Father. Cronus knows this. Poseidon knows this."

Poseidon, chuckling, looked to Hades and Ares who were distraught by the scene unraveling before them.

"Ah, the sweet taste of irony. The king of gods, undone by his own blood. And, mind you, Athena was born from your head, Zeus. What does that say about you?"

Zeus looked as if he had been slapped. His gaze moved from Poseidon's mocking face to Athena's stern visage. "Is this an uprising then? A mutiny within these hallowed halls?" His arms opened wide as if he was about to turn into an avian creature.

"No," Athena shook her head. "It's a reckoning. An opportunity for you to right what has been wronged. Cronus, despite his malevolence, is a catalyst—a mirror showing us our own vulnerabilities. It's not just you who must reflect on this, Father. All of us should."

Her words lingered in the air, heavy with a wisdom that even the eternally youthful gods of Olympus could not easily ignore.

From a distant corner of the room, a shadow moved. It was Hades, lord of the Underworld. He had been silent all this time, a spectator in the affairs of the gods of the sky and sea. Now, he stepped forward, the aura of the Underworld clinging to him like a cloak.

"Athena speaks the truth. It is not I who thinketh so, it is the dead, my dear brother." Hades intoned, his voice carrying the chill of the realms he ruled. "The dead whisper secrets, and even in my dark dominion, I hear the rumbles of a world in chaos. Our very existence is threatened not just by Cronus but by our own follies. Zeus."

Zeus sank deeper into his celestial throne, his visage a labyrinth of conflicting emotions. Anger, betrayal, and humiliation were etched on his face, but beneath them lay another expression—one rarely seen on the countenance of the king of gods. It was the dawning realization of his own fallibility.

"You all speak as if the heavens themselves are falling," Zeus muttered, almost to himself. "If the king is flawed, then what becomes of his kingdom?"

Athena took a step closer, her eyes meeting her father's. "A flawed king can either bring his kingdom to ruin or lead it to redemption. The choice is yours, Father."

The gods in the room—Poseidon, Hades, and even the ever-watchful Athena—waited, their celestial forms tense with the weight of millennia and the uncertainty of the future.

For the first time in eons, Zeus felt the burden of his crown and the enormity of the heavens and the Earth that hung in the balance. And so, within that celestial war room, surrounded by gods and governed by Fates, Zeus contemplated not just the defense of a kingdom, but the redemption of a soul. Zeus looked stunned, as though struck by his own lightning. "I have never thought—"

"That's the problem, Father. You haven't thought. But now, you will be relieved of further thinking once Cronos enters Mount Olympus."

Poseidon chuckled. "It seems wisdom didn't fall far from the tree, even if it skipped you, brother."

Athena sat back down, picking up her scroll as if the earth-shaking confrontation was but a brief interruption.

"Strong walls and grand armies mean little if the king is weak," she said, writing something onto the parchment. "We must look inward before we can defend from outward threats. That is the wisdom of war."

Athena's eyes narrowed as Apollo and Artemis, her half-siblings and masters of the bow, nocked arrows and aimed them in her direction.

Apollo spoke first, his voice like a shard of sunlight, "Athena, the voice of wisdom has surely faltered if you'd betray us to the Titans."

"And what would you have us do, Apollo? Continue under the illusion that Father's choices haven't put us in peril?" Athena's eyes didn't waver from the arrows aimed at her heart.

Artemis, wild and untamed as the moon she governed, spoke up. "You've confined us here, in Olympus, like sitting ducks. For what? To make a point?"

Athena shook her head. "Not to make a point, sister. To make a stand. With Olympus's defenses now locking us in, we are forced to confront what we've long ignored. Cronus is coming, whether we bicker among ourselves or not."

Just as the tension reached a boiling point, a voice—powerful and unyielding as the metal it represented—filled the room.

"Enough!" Adamantia shouted out. Her presence, which was overlooked, now felt as strong. Posiedon eyes sparkled with pride but within them there was also guilt and perhaps, loss.

All eyes turned to her, and even the nocked arrows of Apollo and Artemis lowered ever so slightly.

"What the fuck are all of you doing! Let's be honest. Cronos gives a rat ass about everyone. Be it God or human, he hardly even cares about his own brethren. He just wants one thing!"

She points towards Zeus, who was sitting in his throne, a tardy reflection of royalty.

"You may quibble amongst yourself and point fingers and weapons, but you lose sight of what truly matters. This is bigger than us," Adamantia's eyes swept over the room, locking with each god and goddess present. "If Cronos takes over Olympus and kills Zeus then no one will survive. Mark my words, your dumbasses just caused an apocalypse and there will be no Underworld nor Elysium waiting for anyone once Cronos draws his new realm."

The room went silent. The arrows of Apollo and Artemis returned to their quivers, and even Zeus seemed humbled. But, as long as Zeus stood, there will always be order. May it be a shattered version of it.

Zeus sighed, leaning forward in his throne. "There may be discord present in our ranks but let it be known that the Grecian form of Law will not be overlooked."

The clouds overhead began to growl and rumble as Zeus stood from his throne. He looked to Artemis and Apollo then gestured for the doors.

"Artemis, Apollo. Make sure to take Athena and Poseidon to the dungeons, their punishment will be decided after we have taken care of Cronos."

Manacles of celestial energy formed around the wrists of Poseidon and Athena to which Poseidon smirked. "Too late for that brother. Even if you sacrifice us, Cronos will reach Olympus."

Hades stepped back into his shadowy corner, though his eyes lingered on Zeus. "The Underworld is always open for the traitors. Remember that, brother."

As the gods began to prepare for their departure, the celestial map at the center of the table shimmered and quivered one final time, its stars rearranging as if they had become angry hornets.

Ares, God of War, rushed to the table, his eyes scanning the celestial movements. "Father, something's happening. The stars—look at them!"

Zeus's eyes widened as he stared at the quivering map. "It can't be. He's here."

The atmosphere of the room became palpably tense, charged with divine energies and apprehensions.

Adamantia and Ahmanet, looked at each other in shock yet a sense of readiness. Adamantia's hands gripped her axes which she conjured from immortal magic, while Ahmanet held a staff entwined with the energy of the angered dead.

"Prepare yourselves," Zeus thundered, his voice tinged with a fear he hadn't felt in eons.

"Fucking knew something like this was going to fucking happen. Fucking gods always screwing shit up!" snarled out Adamantia in a low and dark tone as she had the strangest of all feelings, she was going to have to utilize both her demigod side and her gorgon side…fucking hell this was going to be a nightmare.

Artemis and Apollo notched arrows once more, this time not aimed at a family member, but at the grand door that served as the entrance to the war room. Hades summoned a shadowy blade, while Ares hefted his spear, eyes gleaming with both excitement and trepidation.

Then, they heard it—the distant, blood-curdling screams of Olympians, followed by the unmistakable sounds of structures falling. Even in their lofty chamber, they felt the Earth below them tremble.

The doors burst open with a resounding crash, and there he was. Cronus.

"How sure are you about not waking Nyx?" hissed Artemis under her breath as she swallowed hard as her jeweled eyes landed on the one being they all feared…even Zeus feared him though he would never breathe a word of it.

Cronus exuded an aura of malevolence as he stepped into the room, his presence a dark cloud that seemed to consume the light around him. He was tall and lanky, but his thin frame belied the immense power he held, a force as ancient as the universe itself. His skin was an ashen gray, as if all color had been drained from him eons ago, leaving behind a lifeless hue that could unsettle even the bravest soul. His attire was regal yet austere, composed of fabrics that shimmered like the night sky, devoid of stars—a tapestry of eternal darkness.

His nose was thin, a sharp ridge that descended to a contemptuous sneer, reflecting a millennia-long disdain for everything and everyone. His lips were almost a straight line, expressionless but somehow still replete with derision. The straight, coal-black hair that cascaded down to his shoulders framed his face like a twisted halo, emphasizing the abyss that were his eyes.

They were not just black; they were a void, ageless and impenetrable, a darkness that no light could reach or escape. Looking into them was like staring into the yawning expanse of a black hole, ready to swallow entire galaxies. They were wells of eternal, unfeeling darkness that promised the end of all things. Those eyes didn't just look at you; they peered through you, into the very fabric of your being, laying bare all your secrets, fears, and vulnerabilities.

Even the air seemed to bend around him, as if reality itself recoiled from his malevolence. He exuded an almost palpable field of entropy, a promise of decay and degeneration. The room grew colder, the very walls seeming to shudder in dread as if Olympus itself was aware of the profound corruption that had invaded its sanctum.

Cronus was not just another god or Titan; he was an entity that transcended those categories, embodying the primordial aspects of time, chaos, and the inevitable decay that awaits all things. He was a walking paradox, a being of immeasurable power and unimaginable emptiness, a cosmic nightmare made flesh.

Cronus's gaze moved lazily over the assembly of gods and goddesses before landing on Hermes, who lay sprawled in the center of the room. Bruised and battered, the usually agile messenger god grimaced as he tried to rise, his wings drooping, his caduceus lying a few feet away from him.

"You wretched Titan!" Hermes spat, wincing as he clutched his side, likely bruised or broken. "You may have breached Olympus, but you'll never break its spirit!"

Not seeing his words had some of them wanting to take off his head for trying to provoke the Titan in front of them.

Cronus ignored him. Instead, his eyes met Zeus's, locking into a stare as heavy as the weight of millennia. The air seemed to thicken around them, charged with an animosity that had its roots in an ancient betrayal, the overthrow of the Titans.

Zeus, for the first time in a long while, found himself at a loss for words. It wasn't just the audacity of Cronus's attack, but also the implication of his arrival—that a god, no matter how powerful, was not beyond retribution. In Cronus's ageless, black eyes, Zeus saw a reflection of his own past failings and the potential downfall of everything he had built.

"You seem perturbed, Zeus," Cronus finally said, breaking the silence but never breaking eye contact. "Is it so unsettling to see your father? Have you forgotten me during your little escapades in the mortal realm?"

Zeus clenched his fists, lightning flickering around his knuckles. "I overthrew you once, Father. I will do it again."

"But at what cost?" Cronus's voice was low, almost a whisper, yet it reverberated throughout the chamber. "Look around you. The seeds of discord have been sown. Even if you manage to cast me down, the roots of division have already dug deep into Olympus. Can you truly say your house is in order?"

His words hung heavily in the room, and the gods shifted uncomfortably. Adamantia tightened her grip on her axes, while Ahmanet's staff pulsed with ethereal energy. The tension was palpable, and for a moment, it seemed as if Olympus itself held its breath, waiting for what would come next.

Finally, Zeus spoke, his voice edged with a fury and resolve that had been absent earlier. "You won't get away with this, Cronus. Olympus will stand long after you've been thrown back into the void."

Cronus laughed. "Will it? Your own blood turned against you. How sure are you that Olympus will stand, especially when its foundations are so deeply flawed?"

Ares stepped forward, his eyes steely. "You may have breached our home, but you'll find that breaking us is not so easy."

The Titan looked around at the gods and goddesses surrounding him, their weapons drawn, their eyes ablaze with celestial fire.

Cronus smiled, dark and malevolent. "Well then, let the endgames begin."

For a moment, all was still—the calm before a celestial storm that would determine the fate of gods and mortals alike. In that pregnant pause, the gods looked to one another, aware that whatever came next would forever alter the fabric of myth and reality. And then, with roars and cries that shook the very pillars of the world, they charged.

Thus, amid shattered stars and broken oaths, commenced the battle for Olympus and Earth—a battle that would be sung and unsung, known and unknown, for as long as the concept of eternity dared to exist.