The oak doors groaned as they swung open, their weight dragging against the stone like an ancient beast stirring from its slumber. A gust of stale air rushed past, carrying the scent of burnt ozone and old power.
The single overhead light flickered violently, casting jagged shadows that twitched with every pulse of electricity. For a moment, darkness swallowed the chamber whole—then the bulb buzzed back to life, sickly and uncertain.
One by one, figures emerged from the gloom. They moved with an unnatural grace, their footsteps eerily silent against the marble floor. No one spoke. No one needed to. They simply took their places around the enormous table that ruled the room.
Taranis exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Not another one of these damn meetings. He sat tall in his chair, back straight, his brooding face partially covered by stray strands of dark hair.
He would much rather be enjoying himself in a casino in Vegas—well, he would if the entire world didn't roam his territories without care, as if he couldn't do anything about it.
The worst part was that he actually couldn't do anything about it.
As the last member entered, the doors shut, sealing them in eerie silence. The newcomer bounced to his place at the head of the table.
Short and chubby, his round face was only made worse by his bowl cut, and his beard—styled in what he called a 'hulihee'—didn't help either. Taranis grit his teeth.
"How far he has fallen," he sneered, but the man didn't react.
"And what does that say about your character?" a tall woman with what she liked to call "porcelain skin" and dark hair interjected.
Before he could answer, a voice thundered,
"Stop it." Then, as if flipping a switch, he regained his goofy smile. "Please," he added.
Taranis could only hope this meeting wouldn't drag on.
"We're here to conduct your semiannual review," the man intoned seriously before spinning his chair. "Meng, care to go first?"
The woman who had interjected earlier stood, her black hair contrasting sharply with her milky skin. Her deep, dark eyes traveled across the table.
"In the past six months, this one has undertaken thirty-two missions. Most were private matters I was entrusted to resolve. There is no urgent news to share, but I advise caution when approaching the New World Continent." She hummed slightly, bowing her head before sitting back in her chair.
"Tsk" he couldn't stop himself from clicking his tongue. They were gods and what were they reduced to, HR meetings…
Before Taranis could start his own review and get out of there as soon as possible, Ogmios was already on his feet, his long coat of lion hides draped over his massive frame. He stood over two meters tall, every centimeter of his body was as muscular as the warrior he was.
"I've managed to fulfill twenty-two missions, most of them diplomatic. I'd encourage surveillance of Iraq and their gods. They're going to face a hard time in the next few months."
'America and Iraq, huh?' Taranis analyzed the new information. 'Are the Mayan and Aztec gods testing the Mesopotamians?' He couldn't help but wonder why and what they could gain from it.
His gaze drifted to Marduk, one of the Mesopotamians at the table, sitting across from him.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, the world shrank down to that single point of contact. The flickering light overhead did little to soften Marduk's features—sharp, weathered, utterly still. His expression didn't shift, but his eyes spoke volumes.
There was no worry nor glee. Not even curiosity, only utter indifference.
As if they were discussing matters of total strangers and not his brothers, sisters. He shouldn't be surprise seeing the time they've estranged, the first pantheon…
They've had more than enough time to realize anyone of their own pantheon was insufferable.
Marduk blinked once, slow, deliberate. An acknowledgment.
Taranis looked away first.
By reflex, Taranis stood to speak.
"I've done fifty-two quests, and I don't have squat to share. Can I go now?" he said, already moving toward the door.
"That's perfect, thank you," the man at the head of the table said, his bowl cut bouncing as he spoke.
Before the words had even finished leaving the speaker's mouth, Taranis was already in the hallway.
"Finally free," he muttered, stretching. "Vegas, I'm—" He stopped dead. His fists clenched.
His expression darkened—brows furrowing, jaw tightening, a slow sneer creeping onto his face. A low crackle of static hissed in the air around him, his skin flickering between ashen gray and an eerie, storm-tinted purple.
"You picked the wrong day," he said, voice disturbingly calm. "And the wrong domain."