The Curse’s Escape

"Not enough," Tyche murmured, her white-glowing eyes narrowing. "Swear upon your own glory—should you break our pact, you shall fall into Tartarus, never to rise again."

Cronus hesitated, his gaze darkening at the Oceanid's audacity. "And what of me ? I must be protected from your betrayal as well."

She smirked. "Then let us bind ourselves both ways. Should either seek to harm the other, they shall share in the fate they fear most."

With solemn finality, they raised their hands.

The waters of the Styx churned above them, sealing their oaths in chains unseen. A weight settled upon their flames—divine and unbreakable.

Tyche wasted no more words. With a flick of her will, she opened the River of Fate once more.

Through its currents, she glimpsed Rhea's fading light, saw Cronus himself cast down with Olympus' fall.

A shudder passed through her. She staggered backward, catching herself against a pillar.

Her voice, when it came, was steady. "Your youngest son shall wear the crown. So long as new children are born, your fate remains unwritten."

Cronus laughed—a deep, satisfied sound. Without another word, he turned on his heel and vanished beyond the veil.

Left alone, Tyche wrapped herself in silver mist, slipping back to her island without delay.

Within her temple, she twirled in silent triumph.

The oath had been sworn. The path had been revealed.

Yet none would question its truth—for she had spoken no lie .

Only half-truths.

Only riddles.

Only the shape of things to come.

And though she sang softly as she wove lilies into garlands, she knew better than to believe victory was hers.

Not yet.

Not until the last move was made.

Back upon Olympus, chaos stirred.

Rhea struck first.

At the sight of her furious blow, Tyche nearly cheered. For years, the Titaness had endured in silence. Now, at last, she fought back.

The gods watched in hushed delight as the Queen of Time lashed out. Her jewels scattered like fallen stars, her hair wild with rage.

"Like a lioness denied her cubs."

Cronus, bewildered by her fury, struggled to defend himself. He could not understand her pain—until the echo of her sorrow reached him through their shared essence.

Then came the moment.

The floodgling love within him stirred—faint, but undeniable. It whispered of old vows, of warmth before betrayal. And for an instant, he faltered.

Rhea seized it.

Her palm struck true.

But even as she did, the tide shifted.

The divine thread between them pulled taut.

Love, buried beneath years of cruelty, still held sway.

He reached for her hand—not in dominance, but in plea.

Themis sighed. Phoebe closed her eyes. Astraea grimaced.

Another stalemate.

Another dance around the inevitable.

Tyche, watching from afar, merely chuckled.

Let them cling to illusion.

Let them believe in mercy.

For soon, the cycle would break—and she would be ready.

She turned her thoughts inward.

There were deeper secrets yet to uncover.

Beyond Olympus, past the Weave of Fate, she sought the depths of Tartarus. There, hidden among the damned, dwelled three who bore knowledge no god dared seek.

The Cyclopes.

Fleeing the endless howls of the abyss, she slipped into darkness, guided only by the flicker of distant firelight.

The giants huddled together, shielding their fragile flame from the void's hunger. Their massive eye, ever watchful, searched the shadows for danger.

Then she stepped forward.

No longer veiled in mist, she emerged—radiant in defiance of despair.

At once, the eldest, Arges, smothered the fire.

"Who trespasses here?" he growled, his voice shaking the cavern walls.

Tyche exhaled, rubbing her ears. "Must you always speak so loudly?"

Seeing no threat in her presence, the Cyclopes edged closer.

"Do not draw attention," Steropes warned. "Tartarus feeds on emotion. You will go mad if you do not hide yourself."

Brontes nodded grimly. "And worse—his monsters hunt all life."

Tyche studied them thoughtfully. These creatures had been cast down unjustly. They had known exile, loss, and silence.

Just like her.

Just like Vivian.

She knelt beside the embers. "I seek a way to escape this prison."

The Cyclopes exchanged wary glances.

"You mean to say... you were not placed here as punishment?"

Tyche smiled faintly. "Not all who suffer were meant to fall."

She traced the scabbard at her side—the relic of a forgotten world. "Tell me... have you seen visions of realms beyond Olympus?"

Arges frowned. "Once. Long ago. Before we learned to shield our minds."

She leaned in. "What if I told you there is a way out?"

A heavy silence followed.

Then, Brontes asked the one question that mattered.

"What do you offer in return?"

Tyche lifted the shard of dead Vivian's power.

"A future," she whispered. "One where you are free."

And in the heart of the abyss, a plan took root.

One that would shake the heavens.

And change the course of fate itself.

The Cyclopes huddled close to their fragile fire, its warmth a rare comfort in the abyss. At Tyche's question, they exchanged uneasy glances.

"Does Tartarus feed on emotion," she mused aloud, "as Gaia did upon her ascent? Does it seek to become something more?"

Arges shook his head slowly. "We do not know why he takes our sorrow. We only know—he does."

His voice dropped lower. "And we know that those who sleep too deeply are lost to him forever."

Brontes shuddered. "Our Hecatoncheires kin were swallowed by dreams. They cry still—but no one hears them."

Tyche absorbed this in silence.

Then, a flicker of realization stirred within her.

If Tartarus consumed emotion , if it devoured will —then perhaps Rhea had been saved not by defiance, but by surrender.

By giving up all feeling, she had become invisible to the abyss.

A chilling thought.

Yet one worth pursuing.

She turned back to the giants, watching them peer at her with cautious wonder.

"You truly came willingly?" Arges asked at last.

"I did," she said simply. "To find you."

That stunned them into quiet awe.

"You would seek us out—not flee from us?"

Tyche smiled faintly. "I need your craft. In return, I will grant you what little aid I can."

She unfurled the veil gifted by fate itself. The silver mist shimmered like captured moonlight.

"This will hide you," she explained. "So long as you do not provoke the abyss, Tartarus shall not see you."

Tentatively, Steropes reached for the fabric. As he touched it, his eye widened.

"Fate's power flows through this."

He looked to her, reverence dawning. "You are Fate herself."

"Not quite," she corrected gently. "Only a thread-weaver among many."

Still, the Cyclopes bowed deeper than before.

"You have given us hope," Brontes rumbled. "Now tell us—what is it you ask of us?"

Tyche lifted the broken scabbard. "This belongs to another world. One beyond Olympus. I wish to restore it—to give it purpose once more."

Arges took it carefully, turning it over in his massive palm. Its form was frail—no longer a weapon, but a whisper of what had been.

"A noble task," he murmuring, awed. "But how shall we shape it anew?"

Tyche met his gaze without hesitation. "With Helios' flame and my protection. Fire shall mend its body. My power shall preserve its soul."

Steropes scratched his chin. "And the hammer?"

She smirked. "Leave that to me."

With a final glance at the trembling fire, she vanished into the wind.

Back on Olympus, she found Keanos chasing wolves along the shore. At her request, he flew swiftly to Helios' temple, returning with a fragment of solar flame cradled in his hands.

The sun-born heat pleased the Cyclopes greatly. With solemn nods, they accepted the gift and began their work.

Flame danced upon anvil and stone. The scabbard melted into a swirling mist, then reformed beneath hammer and divine will. Slowly, carefully, they shaped its new shell—blue enamel kissed with gold, bearing the image of a goddess rising from sacred waters.

"Vivian..."

The name lingered unspoken, yet the memory remained.

At last, the shield was complete.

Its surface gleamed with life—a world reborn within its depths.

Satisfied, Tyche left it behind, wrapped in shadow-woven silk.

The Cyclopes watched her go, their hearts lighter than they had been in ages.

And as she stepped into the light above, she cast one final glance toward the darkness below.

A slow smile curved her lips.

Let Tartarus dream.

Let Cronus believe he had won.

For she had sown the seeds of change.

And soon, the prison would break.

From its ruins, a new age would rise.

One where even fallen gods could find a second chance.

And she?

She would be ready.