The Hunted God

Astraea, though bound to the stars, had never held Pallas in high regard. His nature—wild and bloodthirsty—was a blemish even among war's kin.

Once, Crius had rescued him from the abyss of his own mind, pulling him back from the brink of total annihilation. Since then, Eurybia had refused to welcome her son home. Cast out from Olympus, Pallas wandered the earth, raised by his brothers but shaped by beasts.

In solitude, he learned strength—but not restraint.

The wilds granted him power, yet it was a fragile balance. With time, slaughter overtook instinct. He lashed out at those who had once nurtured him. Perses, wounded and weary, sought Astraea's guidance—hoping fate might offer a path to redemption.

It did not.

Instead, it led him to Keanos.

Now, seven goddesses emerged from the portal—Tyche at their center.

Her gaze settled upon her son first, searching for wounds. Though minor, she traced her fingers along each mark, letting water's essence mend what little damage remained.

She turned to Selene and Helios with gratitude before stepping toward the warring siblings.

Astraeus and Perses released their hold on Pallas at Tyche's silent command. Yet the moment they did, the god tensed—ready to flee.

Too late.

With a flick of her will, Tyche tore open the fabric of fate. Threads wrapped around Pallas like unseen chains, binding him fast.

He roared in defiance, but Iris and Arke wove illusions so deep they drowned his senses in endless night.

Tyche reached into his flame, probing its depths. A sharp cry escaped Pallas as divine threads unraveled within him—tearing through layers of madness.

"You are not lost," Tyche murmured, withdrawing her hand. "Not yet."

Pallas trembled, half-conscious. "I found peace in the hunt... I used survival to temper my hunger."

Astraea exhaled, impressed. "Truly, you have seen much."

Tyche nodded. "And yet, he must still learn restraint."

With a whisper of magic, she reshaped his form—not into a beast of burden, but into prey itself. Wool replaced flesh, hooves took the place of hands. Before he could scream, he was sheep —helpless and hunted.

From the shadows, the wolves stirred. Their eyes gleamed with understanding.

"Run," Tyche whispered. "Or be devoured."

Awakening in terror, Pallas bolted into the underbrush, bleating in panic. The pack surged after him, fangs bared, instincts sharpened by centuries of chase.

Above, the gods watched in silence.

"This is mercy," Astraea observed, admiration in her voice. "To teach him through pain rather than death."

Tyche smiled faintly. "He sought to claim me through fate. Now he shall know what it means to be claimed by it."

Perses and Astraeus exchanged glances. They understood—their brother had been spared only because Tyche saw potential in him. To challenge her would have ended far worse.

"I accept your judgment," Astraeus said at last. "Let this be his trial."

With a final nod, Tyche opened a portal home. As she departed, she cast one last glance at Helios.

"To reward kindness with kindness," she said softly. "You have always guided Keanos well."

Helios met her gaze, golden eyes unreadable. He gave a slow nod before turning away.

Back upon her mist-veiled isle, Tyche dismissed her attendants. Even Hecate returned to her mother's side, leaving her in solitude.

She sat before her loom, spinning golden fleece into thread. Hibiscus juice stained the strands crimson, weaving warmth into every fiber. When complete, she draped the robe across her shoulders—a mantle of sunfire and sacrifice.

Gold and red intertwined, the sacred emblem of Helios woven into its hem. She fastened it with a branch-wrought clasp of pure gold, satisfied at last.

The attendants carefully stored the garment, while Tyche herself wandered beyond the temple walls. She reclined by the pool, trailing her fingers across the surface.

Then came a call from the Veil.

Beyond the world's edge, something stirred.

A relic drifted between Chaos and Creation—an ancient scabbard caught in the barrier's grasp. Its blue enamel shimmered faintly, fractured yet pulsing with quiet life.

Drawn by unseen force, Tyche reached forward.

This was no mere artifact. Within lay a world frozen in slumber—its people long gone, its flowers blooming in vain.

At the heart of the lake slept a goddess, long extinguished. Only remnants of her divinity lingered—yet they called to Tyche all the same.

A reflection of herself?

Or a warning?

She knelt beside the waters, fingertips grazing the surface.

And fate whispered back.

"Another self, another choice."

The past had tried many paths.

Some had failed.

Others had merely taken different forms.

But now, a new thread unfurled—one that neither ran nor fled.

One that chose .

And Tyche, the Goddess of Fortune, prepared to weave it into her design.

The divine essence from the lake yielded willingly to Tyche's touch, as if longing for recognition after eons of silence. Its consciousness had long since faded, but echoes of memory remained—fragments of a forgotten world.

She beheld them with awe.

This goddess had once been revered in the lands of ancient myth—Avalon , the Lady of the Lake , Morgan le Fay's kin . A deity of fate and water, she had ruled over rivers and prophecies alike.

Yet when her age fell into ruin, she fled her dying domain, seeking refuge among the stars. Her journey ended in failure—drained by Chaos' endless void, she perished before finding sanctuary.

Tyche traced the remnants gently, heart aching at the familiar landscapes within the vision—sacred groves bathed in moonlight, bonfires dancing through misty glades, lovers whispering beneath starlit skies.

And then came the darkness—the howling horrors that pursued her even beyond death.

Tears slipped down Tyche's cheeks.

So close.

Another piece of her lost world, found adrift in the void. She pressed the shard to her chest, letting its sorrow become her strength.

Hope stirred within her once more.

Returning to the Isle of Mist, she moved silently past her attendants. None saw her burden, none knew her grief.

Within the sacred pool, she placed the fragment, weaving her power around it. Though broken, it would mend. Perhaps one day, it would bloom again.

Keanos returned at dusk, his laughter trailing behind him like wind through leaves. His eyes gleamed with triumph—Pallas had learned his lesson well.

Yet as he approached, he sensed the shift.

"Mother?" he asked cautiously. "Are you unwell?"

Snapping out of her trance, Tyche smiled weakly. "Come, my son. See what I have found."

He knelt beside her, drawn instantly to the scabbard glowing faintly beneath her fingers.

"Where did this come from?"

She hesitated. "From a place beyond Olympus. A relic left behind by another fate-weaver."

Fascinated, Keanos turned it over in his hands. He admired its craftsmanship, lamented its damage—but said nothing further. Something in Tyche's tone warned him not to ask too deeply.

Then came word from Theia.

Helios' ascension was near.

With a final glance at the pool below, Tyche departed, arriving swiftly upon the eastern peaks.

Eos greeted her warmly, offering the hawk-drawn chariot for her return. Theia herself stood waiting, radiant in anticipation.

Helios emerged from the spring, hair damp and golden, each strand catching the light like molten sunfire. With a nod, he mounted his carriage, Keanos riding beside him.

Above, the sky shifted.

Stars refused to vanish, lingering in silent witness. Coeus granted passage, and Astraea wove their path across the firmament. Direction bound the heavens together, forming a celestial bridge between dawn and dusk.

Hermes' old route faded—replaced by something greater.

Helios released the reins.

The horses followed instinct alone now—guided by Keanos' unseen hand.

Yet still, the law withheld its blessing.

Theia's expression darkened. Eos and Selene exchanged uneasy glances.

Tyche whispered to her son. "Run, Keanos. Run faster!"

His hands trembled on the invisible threads. Sweat beaded on his brow. He was young yet—his power paled against Helios'.

But fate had chosen him.

And so, she nudged the course just slightly.

Keanos obeyed, twisting the path into a circle. The horses faltered, confused by the change—but followed.

At last, the cycle completed itself.

Time wove seamlessly from east to west, the sun no longer bound to chariot or beast. It soared free, tracing the arc of its own will.

Eos cried out in joy. Selene clapped her hands. Theia wept with relief.

But Tyche merely closed her eyes, exhaustion overtaking her at last.

Behind her, Keanos slumped forward, barely holding onto his steed.

They had done it.

The sun had risen anew.

And so had the age of fate.