I had faced Titans. I had faced monsters. I had even faced my own siblings. But standing in the waiting chamber, shoulder-to-shoulder with Ra, Poseidon, and—gods curse me—Zeus yawning like this was another of his drunken symposiums, I realized I had no idea what to expect.
This was not a war.
This was something heavier.
Older.
The very air hummed, charged with anticipation. I could feel threads of power winding around me, tugging faintly, testing if I belonged.
And then it came.
A pull, deep and irresistible, like the river Styx itself was hooked into my veins. My vision shattered into black.
When it cleared, I was standing in a place that could only exist outside of time.
A colossal arena spread around me, forged of stone that pulsed faintly with runes I could not read. Tier upon tier of thrones arched upward into the heavens, arranged in a circle around a vast central floor. Overhead, no sky—only a void streaked with shifting colors, like creation itself was bleeding through.
And the gods were arriving.
Across the chamber, a jaguar-headed figure emerged, his imposing form draped in vibrant jade and gold. His throne, carved with intricate Mayan glyphs, radiated an aura of ancient wisdom and power. Eyes like burning embers stared out from beneath the jaguar helm. So that must be Itzamna, the ruler of the Maya
Others followed, some humanoid, others monstrous. A giant feathered serpent-coiled into place as it transformed into the body of a young boy as he sat on his throne, he was definitely Quetzalcoatl. Next to him was Huitzilopochtli, looking like some blue alien.
Each god moved with purpose, their eyes scanning the room, some nodding in recognition of familiar faces, others radiating quiet hostility. The gods around me were beginning to settle into their seats, murmuring amongst themselves. Whispers about my presence, my silence, filled the room. But one voice in particular cut through the noise.
To my left, a tall figure in saffron robes appeared in a gentle lotus of golden light. He had long white hair that was pulled up into a manbun, he looked bored? His eyes, which bore the symbol of a lotus flower, moved as it looked around. At first I didn't realize who he was until it clicked, Buddha.
Opposite him stood Tezcatlipoca, jaguar-skinned and terrible. His muscular frame was draped in the pelt of his sacred beast, obsidian blades gleaming wickedly in each hand. His black hair was bound with eagle feathers that fanned like a crown, and his skin shimmered with streaks of night sky—as though the void itself clung to him. He took his place on a throne of volcanic stone, smoke curling from its cracks, every breath he exhaled rolling through the arena like thunder.
Beside him came Inti, the Incan sun god, radiant beyond mortal comprehension. His golden armor reflected like polished mirrors, so bright I had to raise a hand to shield my eyes. Rays of fire burned from his crown, and a cloak of woven sunlight draped across his shoulders. His throne blazed with living flame, every spark rising like a star into the air.
Then the disc of the sun split open, and through it stepped Amaterasu. She wore a kimono white as new-fallen snow, embroidered with golden chrysanthemums that shimmered as if alive. Her long black hair spilled loose down her back, crowned with a sun-shaped headdress of gilded rays. She sat upon a throne of white lacquer, framed in lotus petals that glowed with perpetual dawn.
Susanoo emerged at her side, loud and boisterous, seawater dripping from his tangled hair and bronze armor crusted with coral. He leaned against a throne carved of ocean-stone, seashells glimmering in its surface, as if the sea itself had hardened to carry him. His laughter echoed, salty and wild.
Tsukuyomi followed last, pale and distant as the moon itself. His robes were silver silk that flowed like water, his hair as dark as midnight, his gaze cool and unblinking. A crescent-shaped blade rested across his knees as he sat on a throne of smooth jade carved into the likeness of a full moon. Shadows clung to him even in the light.
The air stirred, heavy with incense and storm, as the Chinese pantheon arrived. Dragons coiled in and out of clouds that had no source, thunder booming at their passage. At their center stood Yu Huang, the Jade Emperor, clad in robes that seemed woven from constellations themselves—each star flickering with its own light. His beard flowed like white silk, his crown tall and golden, inscribed with sigils of heaven. His throne was a mountain of jade, carved in terraces like the heavens, dragons curling up its steps to guard him.
At his right hand was Guanyin, serene and radiant, dressed in robes of pure white that shimmered with subtle rainbows. She carried no weapon, only a lotus sprouting from her palm. Her throne was carved of alabaster, smooth and simple, but glowing with an inner light as if mercy itself had taken shape.
I saw a man arrive soon after. He was clad in silver Viking-style armor, a heavy fur cloak draped over his broad shoulders. A black raven perched on one side, a white one on the other. His face was marked with deep lines of experience, his gaze a piercing glacial blue. A patch covered his left eye, this must be Odin.
And so many more. Celtic gods wrapped in wild green, Slavic deities with steel eyes, African orishas dancing with drums that played themselves.
The weight of it pressed against me. I was surrounded by the rulers of divine worlds, and for once I felt small.
I slipped into shadow, instinctively, and reappeared at one of the thrones on the lower rows. I let my body relax into it, though every nerve screamed with tension. My eyes roamed, studying faces, strengths, weaknesses. That was when Ra appeared across from me, irritation painted across her otherwise perfect features. She caught my eye, gave the faintest nod, and settled on the throne to my left.
To my right, a shimmer—Yahweh. Her gaze swept the room until it found me, and with quiet certainty she claimed the throne to my right.
She leaned slightly, murmured in a voice only I could hear:
"Try not to look like a nervous rabbit. They'll smell it on you."
I almost laughed. Almost. My lips twitched, and I forced my face back to stillness.
A flare of noise announced Zeus, who stumbled in mid-argument with Poseidon. My brother's beard was unkempt, his tunic loose, and he still reeked of wine. Poseidon followed, cleaner but looking weary.
Zeus immediately slouched into the throne beside Yahweh, flashing her a grin. "Ah, so the stories are true. The famous Yahweh. You're even more radiant than rumor."
Yahweh's expression didn't change, but the air around her bristled. "Do not."
Zeus, predictably, leaned closer. "Do not what? Pay you a compliment? Surely a goddess of your stature—"
"Do not."
Her tone could have split stones. Zeus leaned back, muttering something under his breath about "icy women," while Poseidon took the seat next to Ra, exhaling like he'd just stepped off a battlefield.
I kept my gaze forward. Better not to get drawn into Zeus' antics. Better to focus. Because as the last thrones filled, a shift rippled through the colosseum.
The air thickened, vibrating with a frequency my bones remembered more than my mind. Light fractured. Sound inverted.
And then—he came.
Not a god. Not a Titan. Not even a Primordial as I had known them.
A being of raw existence, radiance and void intertwined, coalescing into a shape barely comprehensible. First a storm of energy, then a body, pale-skinned, hair bound in a shimmering ponytail streaked with pink and gold. A halo spun above them, burgundy flowers woven into it. Their robes shifted like a suit stitched from stars. A gem in their chest yawned like a miniature void.
In their hand, impossibly, a severed head still dangling by its spinal cord, a fetus spilling grotesquely from its mouth.
And yet… beautiful. Terrifying. Whole.
"Greetings," the voice came—not from the figure, but from everywhere, seeping into the marrow of my bones. "I am Chaos. The Originator. The First. The Parent of All."
Every god in the arena shifted. Even Odin leaned forward. Even Ra's jaw tightened.
Chaos lifted the severed head as if it were nothing more than a prop. "I have called you here, my children, to decide the fate of the mortals. This council shall be held each millennium, now it is led by me, but one day one among you will claim my place. That one shall become the King of the Gods. The God Father of the Cosmos ."
The words fell like hammer blows.
Around me, gods whispered, muttered, some laughed, some bristled. Zeus actually perked up, his grin widening.
Chaos' gaze swept the arena, and when those eyes—if they could be called eyes—touched me, I felt my shadow curl tighter, as if retreating.
"So," Chaos said, voice rippling with infinite mirth and menace. "Why don't we begin?"
The silence that fell after Chaos's introduction was unlike any I had ever heard. Imagine a thousand gods in one chamber, each a walking storm of divinity, yet not a single voice dared cut through the heavy air until Chaos gave them leave. It was the silence of the deep, the stillness before the sea devours a fleet.
Chaos lifted one pale hand—the hand that had moments ago been holding that grotesque head—and the void-gem at their chest pulsed like a heartbeat.
"Mortals," they said. Their voices carried across the colosseum like the sky itself was speaking, neither male nor female, but both. "Your children. My children's children. They walk the world now, small and frail, sparks of divine blood diluted into flesh. Cave-dwellers. Hunters. Barely more than beasts. The question before us… what is to be done with them?"
And so began the first Convergence of Kings.
Whispers rolled through the gathered pantheons like waves. Some gods leaned forward eagerly, others reclined as though this was beneath them. Zeus, of course, stifled a yawn beside Yahweh. Poseidon shifted uncomfortably, his restored arm flexing with restless tension.
From across the circle, a Babylonian god—tall, his beard braided with gold, his eyes like burning coals—stood and sneered.
"They are gnats. Vermin. I say we crush them before they multiply."
A Celtic goddess with hair the color of moss snapped back, "And waste the amusement they could bring? Let them breed. Hunt them. Sport for gods is never in short supply."
An Aztec deity laughed harshly, his skin painted with jaguar stripes. "Better still—eat them. Their blood would be sweetened by fear."
The chamber broke into overlapping voices. Kill them. Enslave them. Breed them like cattle. Ignore them until they wander too close. Each voice rang with the conviction of a god, and yet none aligned.
I leaned forward, my elbows resting on my knees. The scale of it made me sick. They were speaking of mortals like one speaks of fish in a pond. A resource. A plaything. A meal.
Then Yahweh rose.
Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise sharper than any blade.
"Why not… let them worship us?"
The murmurs faltered, then swelled into excited whispers.
"Worship?" repeated a Slavic thunder-god, brow furrowed.
"Yes," Yahweh said, her eyes bright, her tone steady. "Mortals crave purpose. Fear. Hope. Give them temples. Let them bow, sing, and sacrifice. Let them pray. Their devotion will feed us more steadily than their blood. Power from belief. Influence from love or fear. Why waste them, when they can serve willingly?"
The colosseum erupted.
I could feel the hunger ripple through the gods—golden palaces rising in their minds, oceans of voices chanting their names, sacrifices piled high. The idea of eternal worship was intoxicating to them.
Even Ra shifted beside me, her golden eyes narrowing in thought. And Zeus… I didn't have to look to know he was grinning like a wolf, already imagining a thousand maidens throwing themselves at his feet.
Chaos tilted their head, smiling faintly. "So. You would have them worship. Do we have consensus?"
Hands raised. Nods spread like wildfire. Even those who had spoken of slaughter now grinned with greedy agreement.
"Then it is decided," Chaos said, the words vibrating the air. "Mortals shall be guided toward worship. Toward religion."
The decree settled over me like a stone. I said nothing. Not yet.
Chaos spread their arms. "Now. Speak. If any among you would raise matters of importance, the floor is open."
The silence returned.
No one spoke. Odin stroked his beard, his one eye gleaming with patient calculation. The Hindu gods whispered among themselves in low Sanskrit, their brilliance cloaked in serenity. The Mayan pantheon shifted restlessly, their obsidian blades gleaming under starlight.
And still—no one stood.
So I did.
"My lords. My ladies." My voice carried, and hundreds of eyes turned toward me. Zeus groaned audibly beside Yahweh, muttering, "Oh gods, here he goes."
I ignored him.
"There is something you must all hear. Something far greater than the question of mortals."
I let the weight of silence return before I spoke again. "The Great Devourer."
Ripples. Unease. A murmur of confusion, of recognition in some, disbelief in others.
I stood taller. "It is real. A being that moves from world to world, consuming all. Devouring gods, mortals, lands, skies, seas—until nothing remains but silence. It is coming."
A Chinese war-god barked out, "Stories! Old myths meant to frighten children."
A Mesopotamian goddess hissed, "Lies. Convenient lies."
I held up a hand. "I saw it. A vision of what will be. One day, all of us will fall for it. In the year three thousand, the Devourer will arrive to claim this world. If we do not prepare, if we do not stand together—there will be nothing left for us, or for the mortals we now claim to shepherd."
The word echoed—together. It left a bitter taste in some mouths, but others looked thoughtful.
The Incan sun god frowned. "If such a beast exists, how do you propose we stop it?"
"By unity," I said. "By forming bonds that transcend pantheon, name, pride. By pooling our knowledge, our power, our armies, our wisdom. Alone, it will devour us. Together, perhaps… perhaps we stand a chance."
And then came the scoffs.
"You ask us to trust one another?" sneered a Norse god. "Impossible."
"You ask us to unite under you?" spat another. "Convenient that it is your vision."
The chamber threatened to turn against me—until Yahweh rose again.
"He speaks the truth," she said.
The air was still.
Her eyes swept the chamber, her voice resonant. "I know because I felt it. I was deceived—ensnared by its will. It made me slaughter my own pantheon. The Sumerians, the Semites… I killed them all under its influence. Do you doubt him? Then hear me: it is real. It is patient. And when it comes, you will not laugh."
Her words struck like thunder. Where mine had been suspect, hers became proof. Heads turned, eyes narrowed. Doubt wavered.
"Yes," I pressed. "Listen to her. She is proof of its reach. We must prepare now, not when it is too late."
For a heartbeat, the chamber leaned my way. Murmurs of agreement grew. Gods nodded, some reluctantly, some eagerly. The tide was shifting.
And then—
Odin stood.
He rose slowly, his ravens rustling their wings. His single blue eye glimmered like ice beneath the northern sun.
"Enough."
The word cut like an axe.
He looked around the chamber, his presence heavy, his bearing absolute.
"This talk of a Devourer is folly. A scare tactic. A lie to bind us together under false pretenses."
Murmurs of doubt returned like a tide.
Odin's voice grew stronger, sharper. "We are gods. We have ruled eons before these mortals drew breath. And now this Hades—this upstart—would have us believe that we must bow to fear of some unseen monster? Convenient that he is the one to bring this tale. Convenient that he speaks of unity when his own pantheon cannot even agree among themselves."
The words landed heavy. Zeus chuckled at that, smug, unhelpful. Poseidon clenched his jaw.
Odin spread his arms. "Have any of you seen this Devourer? Have you tasted its shadow? No. All you have are the words of this one god and the… delusions of another. Are we kings—or children frightened of bedtime stories?"
The chamber roared with approval. Doubt spreads like poison.
I clenched my fists. "You blind fool—"
"No," Odin cut me off, his voice iron. "You blind all of us with your lies."
The gods who had leaned toward me now leaned away. The fragile trust I had sparked began to crumble.
I caught Yahweh's gaze. Her jaw tightened. She still believed me. But belief between two gods was not enough in a sea of hundreds.
Chaos smiled faintly, watching, saying nothing.
And I stood there, the weight of the chamber pressing down, knowing that Odin had turned the tide—and that if I could not salvage this moment, the threat of the Great Devourer would be laughed into myth.