The Birth of Hecate

Within the eternal radiance of Mount Otryn's temple, Naiads wove through blooming gardens, offering honeyed wine and golden fruits to the gathered gods. Victory had been won, and Olympus celebrated with feasts and revelry.

Yet Tyche, seated among the honored, found little joy in their hollow praises. Forced smiles, empty flattery—these were not her kind of triumph. She endured only for Tethys' sake, who beamed with motherly pride at her daughter's ascent.

It was Astraea who rescued her from the charade, pressing a goblet into her hands with a knowing smirk.

"Dearest friend," she teased gently, "do not let their words sour your victory. You have earned this."

Tyche rolled her eyes but accepted the reprieve. Linking arms with her companion, she excused herself from the feast under the pretense of needing fresh air.

Away from the drunken chorus of gods, they wandered beneath olive trees, speaking in hushed tones.

"You must remain watchful," Astraea warned, her starlit gaze serious. "Aether and Hemera will not relinquish the sky so easily."

Tyche scoffed lightly, plucking an olive from its branch. "Let them try. The laws of existence favor me now. The Celestial Veil stands by my will alone—the sky bends to my command."

She deftly wove the olive sprig into a wreath, adorning Astraea's dark curls with a flourish. A few more blossoms—iris and wheat—added color to the crown before she nodded in satisfaction.

The night goddess laughed, returning the gesture with a similar garland fashioned from thyme. Their laughter mingled like music as they played at being queens among the flowers.

Then came the石榴果.

Astraea reached for the ripest pomegranate, biting into its ruby seeds without hesitation.

At once, pain seized her.

She gasped, clutching the tree for support. Tyche rushed to her side, shielding her with a veil of mist as nymphs scattered in alarm.

Not long after, a goddess emerged from Astraea's form—a child of midnight hair and emerald eyes, wrapped in robes of shadow.

"I am Hecate," the newborn declared, her voice rich with power. "Goddess of sorcery, necromancy, and curses!"

The spirits recoiled, sensing the raw force within her. Astraea, weary yet radiant, leaned on Tyche's arm, gazing fondly at her daughter.

With gentle hands, Tyche draped the young goddess in white silks before dispersing the fog.

Word spread swiftly. Gods gathered, wary yet curious, as Hecate stood unshaken beneath their scrutiny. Even Perses, ever protective, regarded his new niece with measured respect.

Keanos approached cautiously, unused to such cold reception. Yet Hecate ignored him entirely, her gaze sharp as obsidian. He faltered, unused to indifference.

Tyche hid a smile. This girl bore the weight of primordial magic—no need for warmth or charm.

As the divine family departed, murmurs followed.

The celebration had shifted focus—from Tyche's ascension to Hecate's birth.

No matter.

Tyche had never sought their approval. And now, another powerful ally had entered her fold.

Returning to the Isle of Mist, she brought Keanos, Iris, and Arke along. Her nymphs rejoiced at her presence, eager to serve a greater goddess.

While the feast on Olympus grew tiresome, here she could relax—drinking wine, savoring fruit, reclining as she pleased.

Philyra, eldest of the dryads, approached with quiet urgency. "Lady Tyche, three visitors arrived before your return—Erinyes seeking audience with you."

Interest stirred within Tyche. Born from Uranus' spilled blood, these goddesses shared a distant kinship with the dryads—and with Leto's lineage still unborn, they remained among the least favored of deities.

Banished from Olympus, they wandered the earth, unwanted and unseen. But with Uranus gone, they sought sanctuary.

They waited beyond the mists, uncertain whether they would be granted entry.

Tyche did not keep them waiting.

Draped in robes of fate and mystery, she received them upon her coral throne, surrounded by rainbow-winged attendants.

Their forms were fearsome—serpentine locks writhing, bat-like wings folding behind them. Blood-red eyes gleamed with hunger—not for flesh, but for justice.

Alecto, bearer of unrest; Megaera, goddess of jealousy; Tisiphone, wielder of vengeance—they bowed low before her.

"Lady Tyche," Tisiphone spoke, voice rasping like wind through dead leaves. "We seek your protection. We wish to serve you."

Their plight was not unknown to Tyche. While weak in strength, their domains carried untapped potential. Misfortune and retribution—concepts she could weave into her growing dominion. With time, both might rise to match her other spheres.

She studied them thoughtfully.

Though crude in appearance, they possessed value. With a nod, she summoned Philyra.

"Bathe them. Clothe them."

Jewels and fine garments soon adorned the Erinyes, transforming their ragged figures into something resembling divinity. Seated at last, they dined hesitantly, eyes flickering toward the meat before them.

Encouraged by Tyche's nod, they ate.

Only then did they speak their plea.

"We beg you, mighty Sky Queen. Grant us shelter. Let us serve beneath your banner."

And so, they swore upon the Styx, binding themselves to her flame.

With their loyalty secured, Tyche assigned them a dwelling deep within the western yew grove. There, hot springs awaited, and caves carved by her will became their home.

In time, they would prove their worth.

Back in her temple, she turned to the golden basin gifted by Gaia. From its waters rose threads of wealth, delicate yet potent. Wealth was not yet a coveted domain—only minor aspects touched the world.

But she saw what others did not.

When mortals walked the land, commerce would follow. And she would stand ready.

Wealth's fragment joined her flame, merging with fate's design.

Her path forward was clear.

With fortune and misfortune entwined, she would forge a new pillar of fate—one that none could ignore.

And all would come to know the name of Tyche.

The Goddess of Fortune.

Time moved swiftly, and in its passage, all things changed—even the quiet rhythms of life upon the Isle of Mist.

Keanos had grown. No longer a boy with boundless energy but a youth carved by time's hands—his frame lean and strong, his eyes alight with purpose. Under Helios' guidance, he had mastered his divine duties, earning the mantle of Hunter. With Tyche's protection, he had ascended to middle-tier divinity—now no longer merely a child of wind and stars, but Lord Keanos, a god in his own right.

His passions matured with him.

By day, he guided the sun chariot through the firmament. By night, he roamed forests and plains, chasing game beneath the moon's watchful gaze. He tamed a pack of wolves, fierce and cunning like himself, and named them his attendants. His devotion to them was absolute.

Yet this new bond unsettled his old companions.

The dryads, once indulgent of his youthful mischief, now kept their distance. Their flocks suffered under the wolves' hunger. Time and again, they returned to find sheep missing, blood staining the grass. Their patience waned.

"Drive them from the island," they pleaded. "Or we shall perish."

Keanos begged forgiveness, swearing oaths upon fate itself that his hounds would trouble them no more.

Philyra, ever resourceful, sought aid elsewhere.

The Erinyes, having little else to occupy their time, eagerly accepted her request. They patrolled the pastures, their presence alone enough to keep the beasts at bay. A few encounters left the wolves wary—revenge came swiftly when one dared strike against Tyche's servants.

At last, even Tyche intervened. The island teemed with livestock, far beyond what the nymphs could manage. With Sirens too distracted by their songs, she made a decision—she entrusted the herds to Keanos and his wolves.

Thus, balance returned.

The wolves, fed from the flock, ceased their raids. The dryads, relieved of burden, resumed their carefree ways. And Keanos, proud as ever, wore a new golden robe woven from the very wool he now tended.

Yet for Tyche, progress remained elusive.

Wealth's domain lingered at the edge of her grasp. Though Gaia's golden basin granted her glimpses into its mysteries, true mastery evaded her.

She turned instead to creation.

Golden fleece piled high within the temple storehouses, spun into garments of splendor. With Iris and Arke's help, she wove gifts for her kin. Keanos, ever obliging, modeled three robes already.

Her days passed in gentle labor—until Astraea arrived.

Descending in a cascade of starlight, she crossed the rainbow bridge with ease. Tyche welcomed her with open arms, the mists parting just for her.

They embraced, two goddesses bound by fate and friendship alike.

Tyche proudly displayed her work, offering a black-and-gold veil woven from night and gold-threaded mist. Astraea adored it at once—its fabric shimmered with unseen magic, perfect for veiled nights beneath the stars.

Wandering among the lilies, they spoke in hushed tones.

"You seem troubled," Astraea observed after finishing her drink.

Tyche exhaled slowly. "Cronus and Rhea... they do not grieve, nor rejoice. Their indifference unsettles me."

Astraea nodded grimly. "Hera has vanished from Olympus. None have seen her since her birth."

Their gazes met—understanding passed between them without words.

Then, Astraea sighed. "Mother knows of this pregnancy. She avoids Rhea entirely."

Her voice darkened. "I fear this child is no daughter—but a son."

Tyche followed her thoughts easily.

Uranus had fallen. But another awaited.

Fate whispered of a golden-haired boy who would claim the throne. Wealth gleamed in his path, yet darkness shadowed his steps.

"He will be Hades," Tyche murmured, her sight tracing the threads. "God of the Dead—and of Hidden Riches."

Astraea shivered. "Then let us hope he survives his father long enough to ascend."

They fell silent, the weight of prophecy pressing upon them.

With farewell exchanged, Astraea departed, leaving Tyche once more to her solitude.

And so she waited.

Wealth's fragment still flickered in her palm, its potential unrealized. Let Cronus devour his sons if he wished—he would never consume this one. When the time came, she would return it to him, unclaimed.

Let it be a gift. A debt owed.

Peace reigned on her isle—until Iris returned in haste, bearing word from Tethys.

"Your grandmother, Lady Clymene, seeks your audience. She brings Iapetus, desiring an audience with you."

Tyche raised a brow. Clymene, sister to Oceanus and Tethys, was rarely seen these days. Iapetus, eldest of the soul-born gods, had kept to his own dominion.

Now they came—to her.

She did not refuse.

Calling upon the Furies, she halted Keanos before he could slip away to hunt. Then she summoned her attendants, preparing for guests both honored and unknown.

Within the temple, Philyra oversaw the final preparations. Honeyed wine flowed freely, platters of fruit stood ready.

The visitors arrived.

Clymene and Iapetus stepped onto the shore, greeted by Keanos and his retinue. As they neared the temple, Tyche descended from her coral throne to meet them.

Two more threads entwined in fate's loom.

Another alliance formed.

Another step toward the war to come.

And the name of Tyche grew louder still.