The Three Fates

Rhea gazed at Tyche, whose expression was veiled with knowing amusement. The goddess of fate smiled faintly and said, "Kronos and I swore upon the Styx—our secrets cannot be spoken to a third soul. You need only trust that I will not betray yours. If you doubt me, awaken him yourself and ask. As for me… I have no wish to return to the Abyss."

Tyche met Rhea's icy stare with unwavering solemnity. "Let alone facing you in full fury. A woman threefold darkened is no idle threat—I've had quite enough of your brand of madness, thank you."

Carefully stepping through the temple doors, she finally allowed her tense nerves to relax. Rubbing the gooseflesh from her arms, she swiftly opened a portal back to the Isle of the Unseen.

Before departing, she cast one last glance toward the imposing Temple of Time, offering Kronos a silent crocodile tear of pity. In truth, it was his own doing—had this couple learned to speak honestly, none of this would have come to pass.

Back within her sanctum, Tyche's final unease melted away. The power of an oath sworn upon the Styx ensured silence; thanks to Kronos's habitual suspicion, Rhea could only learn from him that she must not kill Tyche. And as much as the deranged queen loathed the idea of her beloved sinking into Tartarus, Tyche's life remained secure.

Reflecting on Rhea's many acts of madness, Tyche sighed inwardly. Now it all made sense—why only one voice ever spoke when the couple appeared together. Rhea's essence was entirely consumed in resisting the temporal corrections imposed by Kronos's presence. Their consciousnesses could not coexist for long. Hence the lie of their shared dominion over time—a fabrication born of desperation.

Rhea's love, twisted by endless suspicion, had become pure possession. Perhaps her understanding of devotion had been flawed from the start, warped by the fear instilled by Ouranos. That fear had birthed a dependence so grotesque.

Tyche exhaled again. Though deeply unsettling, Rhea's relentless obsession commanded reluctant admiration. Had she devoted even a fraction of that passion to defying Ouranos instead of clinging to her husband, the throne of the Sky Goddess might already belong to another.

Fate—so solemn in its tragedy, yet often absurd in its comedy. Her heart churned. One thing was now certain: Rhea had devoured Kronos. Were it not for her desperate defiance of time itself, holding onto a version of him who should not exist, she might well have stood as the most powerful deity beneath the five Primordials.

Still, Tyche kept her doubts. Rhea was the most masterful deceiver she had ever encountered—one could not help but distrust her, even when her words carried truth. Lies laced with sincerity were the hardest to untangle.

But for now, this matter no longer concerned her. With that thought, she turned her attention once more to the rift between abyss and earth.

Under Hypnos and Thanatos's guidance, Nyx's children had settled in, making themselves at home.

Tyche knew Gaia's eyes would not miss what had transpired. Yet the Earth Mother held her tongue—for now. She could not yet grasp Tyche's true intent, and the veiled authority of Nyx served as a deterrent. But Gaia's patience had limits. Should she discover that Tyche aided the Abyss in attaining emotion, enmity was inevitable.

Fortunately, neither the Silver nor Bronze races had yet emerged. Souls returned to the source upon death; none yet knew the boundless potential hidden within mortal flesh.

"My time grows short," Tyche whispered to herself with rising urgency.

After careful deliberation, she made her choice.

Iris, goddess of the rainbow, carried Tyche's summons across the heavens, delivering greetings to the radiant Astraea. Without delay, the starry goddess followed her friend's messenger to the Isle of the Unseen.

Tyche awaited in the temple halls. Her attendants had been ordered away, and she wove vigilant wards with her sky-born divinity, ensuring no prying eyes or ears would intrude.

She managed a faint smile upon seeing her dear friend, though it did little to ease Astraea's concern.

"Tyche, has your wound not healed?" Astraea asked softly.

Shaking her head, Tyche clasped her friend's hand. "Astraea, my dearest, I beg your aid."

The star-goddess understood at once. "You know I will give it. For the sake of the necromantic dominion I hold, I once vowed to assist you thrice."

"I ask you to beseech your mother, Lady Phoebe the Oracle! I offer the dominion of autumn, a fragment of the Seasons, as the price for a single prophecy."

"I will plead with Mother," Astraea promised without hesitation. "I will make her see."

Only then did Tyche allow herself to relax, though under Astraea's worried gaze, she shook her head. "The King of Gods owes me something. I require the aid of the Fates to claim what is mine."

Her friend's worry did not fade. Furrowing her brow, Astraea returned to her temple and soon reappeared beside her mother, the oracle herself.

At their arrival, Tyche immediately presented the Autumn Dominion to Phoebe. But the seer merely shook her head. "I foresaw your intent. To witness and assist is reward enough."

Grateful yet pragmatic, Tyche withdrew the offering without protest.

With a wave of her hand, she opened a portal leading to the chasm below. Under the Abyss's deliberate concealment, the three Fates slipped past Nyx's children and descended to the deepest chambers of Tartarus.

A black-haired goddess awaited them, having already prepared the altar. Sensing the familiar divinity radiating from her, Astraea gasped aloud.

"This is Styx," Tyche explained, "Goddess of Oaths and Necessity."

Styx greeted Astraea with a smile, deepening the younger goddess's astonishment. Her eyes darted between the two eerily similar deities, barely restrained from questioning further until her mother silenced her with a glance.

The four goddesses took their places upon the altar. Phoebe and Styx began circling Tyche, while Astraea provided support from the periphery. Together, they invoked the primal force of Fate.

In response to their call, the River of Destiny surged through the Abyss's barriers, revealing the submerged threads of existence. As the waters parted, a gleaming golden spindle materialized before them.

The Three Fates—Past, Present, and Future—took their stations around the device. Phoebe, the Seer of What Was, handed the spindle to Styx, the Keeper of Necessity. With practiced grace, she drew countless delicate threads from the river and wove them together.

Then came Astraea, the Weaver of Chance, who seated herself at the spinning wheel. Guided by the rhythm of destiny, she threaded the strands into the spindle's many holes. Some unraveled instantly; others entwined, forming intricate knots—some fleeting, some eternal.

Finally, Phoebe, the Prophet of Tomorrow, lifted the golden shears. With a solemn breath, she severed those knots that could not be undone—marking the abrupt end of countless fated lives.

The Three Fates, woven together by destiny's thread, ascended against the current of time to the very origin of all fate.

A surge of primordial Fate essence flooded their divine flames. Empowered by this torrent, Tyche's Dominion of Chance—once hindered by an invisible veil—shattered like snow beneath the sun. It surged past the boundaries of Intermediate Divinity, ascending into the realm of Greater Power.

Even Styx's once-ethereal Dominion of Necessity solidified under the force of the source, leaping swiftly to the rank of Intermediate Godhood.

Yet among them, Phoebe reaped the greatest boon. To Tyche's eyes, the oracle goddess suddenly blurred, slipping beyond perception—as though she had stepped outside the bounds of existence itself.

Phoebe laughed in delight, her divine presence fading as she returned from the unknown. Tyche understood at once—like Rhea, Phoebe had taken the first step toward Primordial Ascension. The absence of her former pressure was proof enough; the two were no longer of the same order.

The Styxian oath binding Phoebe and Tyche dissolved silently, acknowledged by the Fate Source. A wave of relief passed over Tyche, a smile breaking through her tension.

She had not been naïve—she had anticipated the possibility of Phoebe seizing her power and prepared accordingly. The three Fates were interdependent; Styx's Necessity and Tyche's Chance formed the foundation upon which Phoebe rose. Should Phoebe threaten her, Tyche would sever her own Dominion without hesitation—a last resort, yes, but one that ensured survival.

The laws of reality would not allow the Crystal Sphere or the Sky to fall into ruin; they would protect her. Even if she fell, she could rise again through the Dominion of Necessity. But for Phoebe, such a betrayal would mean stagnation—forever halted at the threshold of divinity. Tyche trusted the oracle would see reason.

While the Fate Source still lingered upon them, Tyche turned the spindle, seeking the entangled threads binding Kronos and herself. Before triumph could bloom, however, the knots upon the line vanished into the depths of the Styx.

Her heart clenched. She called urgently upon the Fates.

Before the now-transcendent Phoebe, the lost thread reappeared. The Three Fates joined hands, grasping the knot. With Phoebe and Styx guiding her, Tyche unraveled the intertwined fates—one leading to Kronos, the other to Rhea. The god-killing oath shielded her from backlash as she severed the branch born from their union.

Exhausted, the three goddesses collapsed onto the altar, drenched in sweat. Astraea rushed forward to support her mother, lending her strength until Phoebe recovered. With a final nod to Tyche, the oracle and her daughter vanished.

Far atop Mount Olympus, Rhea felt a strange emptiness—only for it to be swallowed once more by the sight of her husband's furrowed brow.

Styx retreated into her waters to slumber and assimilate her newfound power. Tyche, trembling with both caution and anticipation, clutched the faint glow within her palm. She opened a portal back to the Isle of the Unseen, carefully cradling the nascent consciousness within.

Once more, the rainbow herald departed, crossing sky and sea to summon the radiant god of the East.

Helios arrived beside Tyche. The goddess studied him in silence so long he finally glanced down at himself, unnerved.

"Come, Helios," she said at last.

Within the temple halls, the sun god's gaze was drawn to the radiant core suspended in the air. Frowning, he murmured, "Have you birthed a new deity? I sense the essence of the heavens."

Tyche did not answer directly. "He shall complete the final piece of the Sky's dominion. Perhaps even our futures rest upon him."

She fixed him with a steady gaze. "I need your aid to bring him fully into being. Believe me, you will not regret it."

Helios hesitated, then exhaled in resignation. "If this is your will, Tyche, I shall stand with you."

Leaving word for Kannas that there was nothing to fear, the two Greater Powers secluded themselves within the sanctum, pouring their divine energies into the formless consciousness. Drawn by fate's favor, it instinctively absorbed the power, stirring toward awakening.

Among the idle gods, whispers spread like wildfire. All eyes watched the alliance between the Sky Goddess and the Sun God with fervent speculation. Tethys and Thea, ever eager for celestial offspring, gazed wistfully upon the mist-shrouded isle.

Elsewhere, Selene found herself at a loss when confronted by her mother's inquiries. Seeking answers, she sought out Kannas, only to learn he knew nothing either—only that Helios had entered Tyche's temple and not emerged. Neither had been seen in days.

One hundred dawns passed. The gods grew bored of waiting, shifting their attention to the far more entertaining spectacle of Kronos and Rhea's endless quarrels.

Yet Tyche's earlier prophecy had not gone unheard. Many awaited eagerly the next chapter in the royal couple's drama, wagering on who would emerge victorious in their eternal struggle.

Rhea, no longer bound by pretense, ignored the prying eyes of those who dared interrupt her solitude. The divine court sensed the unnatural tension between the royal pair, mistakenly believing Rhea's fury was nearing its peak.

Just as the gods reveled in their voyeuristic games, and Rhea's temper threatened to lash out upon the nosiest meddlers, salvation came.

Dark clouds gathered across the heavens—an event unprecedented in its suddenness. Thunder roared, followed by lightning fierce enough to shatter mountains. Beasts fled into hiding, trembling before the raw might of the storm.

Lightning danced through the skies, casting eerie illumination upon the world below.

In a distant valley, Prometheus looked up in astonishment. Never before had his prophetic sight faltered—until now. He ascended to the mountaintop, eyes fixed upon the horizon where the storm raged.

For the first time, the mists surrounding the Isle of the Unseen lifted. Rainbows arched above lush cypresses and fruit trees, while attendants hurried across the shimmering bridge to greet their returning mistress.

Within the radiant temple, Helios threw open the doors. In Tyche's arms lay a golden-haired child, his eyes closed in peaceful slumber.

The assembled gods exchanged knowing glances—already assuming the newborn to be the product of Tyche and Helios's secret union.

Swiftly, Thea arrived with her daughters in tow. Delighted, she reached out to caress the child's cheek—only for the infant to open his amber eyes and glare at her with unmistakable indignation.