The Turning

n a surge of radiant power, Gaia emerged—majestic and wrathful. Her patience with the heavens had long since worn thin. War had disturbed her slumber, and now she sat upon her throne with a furrowed brow, her displeasure palpable.

Mnemosyne stepped forward, whispering the events into her ear. When she learned that Cronus had not led the charge against Uranus, nor even appeared in the battle's climax, Gaia's lips pressed into a thin line. With a dismissive wave, she sent the memory goddess away—and turned her fury upon her rebellious son.

"You dare absent yourself before me?" she thundered, voice shaking the very foundations of Olympus. "Explain yourself, little king."

The joy of victory dimmed beneath the weight of her gaze. Silence fell upon the assembly, so heavy it smothered even the sound of breath.

Time stretched unbearably.

Still, Cronus did not appear.

The tension grew unbearable. Gods trembled, eyes lowered in fear. Even the rainbow sisters cowered behind Tyche's seat, shielded by her protective aura. Yet Keanos stood firm—a rare sight among the lesser deities. Though sweat poured from his brow, he refused to kneel, enduring the crushing pressure of primordial divinity without seeking shelter beneath Helios or Tyche's wings.

At last, the great doors parted.

Cronus and Rhea entered, unhurried and composed, as if they had not kept the world waiting. All eyes followed them, but Tyche's gaze lingered longest on Rhea.

Something was wrong.

She moved with precision, yet her presence felt off . As if guided rather than guiding.

Gaia rose at once. "You forget your place, my arrogant son. Do you remember how you became King of Gods?"

A smirk tugged at Cronus' lips. "How could I forget? With the sickle you gave me, I severed Uranus' dominion. He was cast down—not just as father, but as sovereign."

Gaia's fury darkened like storm clouds. "Then fulfill your duty, lest your own child do the same to you."

The curse hung in the air, unspoken for eons—until now.

All gazes shifted to Rhea.

She remained silent, head bowed, unmoved by the anxious or fearful stares of the gathered gods.

Then came the unthinkable.

Rhea rose—on her own —and faced her mother.

"Beloved Mother," she said, voice steady. "Uranus can never reclaim his lost essence. Under your guidance and Pontus' aid, a new deity has already taken root where his power once flowed. His rule is broken forever."

Her words stunned the divine assembly.

"You must be the one to contain him," she continued. "For only your love stirs the sky to return."

Gasps rippled through the chamber. Even Gaia blinked in disbelief.

Oceanus and Tethys exchanged glances. At last, Oceanus spoke. "Have you forgotten what he did to us? We were his slaves—his playthings!"

Tethys followed sharply. "And if the sky returns to earth, all life shall perish in the chaos!"

Cronus scoffed. "Thanks to your beloved daughter, dear sister, Uranus' domain remains incomplete. Climate's intrusion has weakened him—he is no longer untouchable. Together, you can drive him back into exile. It is time to break free from the past."

He added with disdain, "As for mortal lives—let Iapetus remake them after our victory."

Silence.

Oceanus and Tethys sat down, defeated.

Before Tyche could rise, Gaia struck.

With a single slap, she sent Cronus flying across the chamber. Her full might left fractures along his Titan frame, embedding him deep within the temple wall.

Panic erupted.

Gods rushed to his side while Tyche seized the moment, slipping beside Rhea and taking her arm under pretense of aid. Fate's power cloaked her touch as she searched for signs of coercion.

But Rhea surprised her.

She gripped Tyche's hand in return—pressing a fragment of divine force into her palm before letting go. A meaningful squeeze. A knowing glance. Then she turned toward her wounded husband with feigned concern.

Tyche recoiled inwardly, hiding the stolen essence within her grasp. Her suspicions deepened. If Rhea acted freely, then this game had changed entirely.

Now uncertain, she withdrew to her seat, mind churning with questions.

Gaia stormed out, her anger trailing behind her like wildfire. Rhea helped Cronus depart, and soon the rest followed, murmuring of the spectacle.

Tyche bid farewell to Iris and Arke, watching as Keanos rejoined Helios in the sky. Only when she returned to her mist-veiled isle did she retreat to the sacred pool, weaving illusions to conceal her actions.

Alone at last, she examined the hidden message woven into Rhea's divine fragment.

What she found made her breath catch.

This was no prisoner.

This was a player more cunning than any god suspected.

Rhea had orchestrated everything.

She had allowed herself to be consumed—not fully, but partially—to gain access to Cronus' thoughts, his plans, his weaknesses. She had spoken out of turn, drawn attention to herself not as a victim—but as a threat.

A warning wrapped in betrayal.

And now, she had passed the key to Tyche.

Staring at the divine shard, Tyche exhaled slowly.

She had planned to expose Cronus today.

Instead, she had been handed something far greater.

A weapon.

A path.

A war.

And she would not waste it.

Tyche could not decide whether to laugh or weep at the revelation. With a weary sigh, she extinguished the divine fragment within her palm—its message clear, its burden heavy.

The first half of the tale unfolded as she had feared: Cronus had indeed sought to consume Rhea, and he had acted upon that desire with ruthless precision.

What surprised her was Rhea .

She had not been an unsuspecting victim—no, she had seen through his feigned affection long before he struck. When Cronus made his move, she had already braced for it, meeting him force for force. The two primordial deities clashed in a desperate struggle, tearing into each other's essence in a battle neither could afford to lose.

And then came Tyche's intervention.

Her timely discovery of Hera's peril had forced Cronus to divert his attention. The sudden awakening of Uranus shattered his dominance over Olympus. Gaia's fury sealed his downfall. In the end, he had no choice but to strike a bargain—his time-bound power would remain shared, entwined with hers. Their fates were now one; what wounded one would wound both.

Tyche exhaled slowly, shaking her head in reluctant admiration.

Well played.

Though absurd beyond reason, the outcome was not without merit. Let them entangle themselves in their own war—she had no interest in meddling further.

A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she returned to her temple, light-footed despite the weight of recent events. Cronus had brought ruin upon himself. Only pity remained for the sky domain she had relinquished—Uranus had been a rare feast, one unlikely to repeat itself.

She would have to demand compensation from Rhea later.

As if summoned by thought alone, Rhea emerged from the golden sands of time.

Tyche arched a brow, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Shall I call you King or Queen today?"

The temple curtains stirred without wind, shielding them from prying eyes. Rhea met her gaze with wearied detachment—the fire in her soul all but extinguished.

Tyche sighed, conjuring a seat with a flick of her wrist. "Sit."

Rhea obeyed, collapsing like a dying tree—its last leaves fallen, its roots severed.

"You always knew this would happen," Tyche murmured, almost gently. "At least now, he cannot harm you. Your fates are bound—he will suffer your wounds as his own."

For a long while, silence reigned.

Then, softly, Rhea spoke. "I have lost my children... I could not bear to lose my throne as well."

The words sent a chill through Tyche. Her fate-sight reached instinctively for the veil-woven garment gifted to Hera—but found only emptiness.

Her voice sharpened. "Where is Hera?"

"In him." Rhea lifted her hollow gaze. "I could not fight him. Not when his hunger outweighed even his love for me."

A bitter smile touched her lips. "Now, I can do nothing."

Tyche's expression darkened. "You mean to say... you allowed this? You still claim to love your children?"

"I did not wish to see him cast into Tartarus," Rhea whispered. "Even now, I felt his sorrow when our essences merged. He still loves me..."

Tyche turned away, disgust curling her lip. "Enough. Every god must answer for their choices. Tell me why you are here."

Rhea hesitated, fingers digging into the gilded throne. Then she met Tyche's gaze directly. "Swear to keep this secret."

Tyche scoffed. "I care little for your affairs. Be assured—I shall not speak of it."

She gestured toward the exit. "If that is all, you may leave."

But Rhea did not rise. Instead, she pressed a pale fragment into Tyche's hand—a white shard of history's dominion.

"Take this," she said quietly. "Payment for your aid."

Without thanks, Tyche accepted the offering, weaving it into her divine flame. "No oaths upon the Styx, I hope?"

Rhea flinched but said nothing.

Tyche's voice rang coldly through the chamber. "Pitiful goddess—you should never have weighed love against survival. One day, you will pay dearly for what you have abandoned."

With those final words, Rhea vanished into the currents of time, leaving behind only echoes of regret.

"Lovers' folly," Tyche muttered, shaking her head. "There are far more important things than devotion. I only hope you do not come to rue this choice, Rhea."

The matter settled—for now.

Though Cronus' downfall had been delayed, the leverage she held had diminished with Rhea's unexpected maneuver. Yet Tyche was not left empty-handed. History's domain granted her vision into the past, and with fate's guidance, none could hide their sins from her sight.

Lighter of heart, she stepped onto the shore, welcoming Keanos as he returned from the skies. A gentle breeze parted the mist as his steed landed, hooves thundering against the sand before slowing to a trot. Before the stallion halted fully, Keanos leapt down, his youthful grin undimmed.

He chattered endlessly about his role in tracking Uranus, and Tyche listened with patient warmth, praising his efforts with genuine pride.

Then he paused, turning serious. "Grandmother Theia sends her regards. She wishes to speak with you."

Tyche blinked, momentarily startled. "Tell her I await her visit upon the Isle of Mist."

Keanos nodded, leading his steed to the stream for grooming.

Watching him, Tyche smiled faintly—her troubles dissolving beneath his innocence. But before relief could settle, Keanos asked the question she had dreaded.

"Was Helios my father?"

His gray-white eyes searched hers, steady and knowing. He already suspected the truth—the resonance between their divinities did not lie.

Tyche hesitated, then knelt before him, cradling his face in her hands.

"You were born from the union of my essence and his," she admitted. "But I was not ready for you when you formed. Forgive me, Keanos. Your birth was not part of my plan."

Disappointment flickered in his gaze—but only briefly.

Then, hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around her. "May I call you Mother?"

A lump rose in her throat. She held him close, voice thick with emotion. "Of course, my son."

The wind carried laughter across the island once more.

And for the first time in ages, Tyche allowed herself to believe in something greater than fate.

Love , flawed yet enduring.

Even among gods.