After the meal, the leader of Crete sat upright in his home, the excitement from earlier fading as unease crept into his heart. He recalled the Great Offering—and somehow, it all felt too smooth.
Just then, a gentle, fragrant breeze drifted in. His wife, Pyrrha, draped in sheer veils, her milk-white skin still beaded with water, gazed at her husband with eyes soft and alluring, her intent wordless yet unmistakable.
Her whispered words brushed against his ear, and Deucalion felt a surge of heat rise within him, momentarily pushing aside his lingering worries.
Humanity no longer bore the crushing burden of devoting every ounce of energy to serving the gods, and food was abundant. Wasn't such a life good? What was there to fear?
"My dear, let us have more children," Pyrrha murmured.
Deucalion leaned in close to her ear, his breath hot as he whispered in return. The flames of passion burned brightly in their eyes. Their entwined silhouettes swayed in the flickering light before the lamp was extinguished, and in the darkness, the great work of creation began anew.
...
Meanwhile, in the nascent city of Mycenae on the Peloponnese Peninsula, several figures suddenly rushed out into the streets, sensing something. Their brows furrowed as they looked up at the night sky.
The clouds above scattered, and from every direction, fiery streaks of light cut through the heavens like crimson meteors. Each left behind a blazing trail as they swept across the sky, all converging toward Olympus.
A cold wind swept through the streets. Four figures stood beneath the glowing sky, each with a different expression.
Tina blinked her cross-shaped pupils in wonder, her gaze fixed on the celestial spectacle as if she were simply admiring a meteor shower.
Medusa bit her rosy lip gently, glancing first at the humans dwelling in the city, then toward Prometheus's residence, unease clouding her eyes.
Athena's gaze flickered with thought. Raising a hand to her chin, she fell silent, her mind deep in contemplation.
Samael sighed softly, his face weary, an unspoken fatigue weighing upon him.
A quiet murmur rose in the hearts of the four.
It's coming...
...
On Mount Olympus, within the resplendent, gold-clad hall where the sacred flame burned fiercely, Zeus, King of the Gods, sat upon his throne. Thunderbolt in hand and the Aegis Shield resting against his arm, arcs of blue-white lightning coiled lazily around him as he waited.
Soon after, the other gods of Olympus arrived—Apollo, the god of light, driving his sun chariot; Artemis, the goddess of the hunt, her bow and arrows slung across her back; and Poseidon, the sea king, emerging from the waves in his hippocampus-drawn chariot. Each bowed respectfully before Zeus before taking their seats.
"Your Majesty," spoke Ares, the war god, his voice impatient but charged with energy. "To summon us so late, with the sacred flame burning—has something urgent happened? Are we going to war?"
As he spoke, Ares's eyes gleamed with excitement. He licked his dry lips unconsciously, a wild light flickering within them.
Zeus frowned at the sight of his son—handsome and strong, yet radiating unrestrained violence. Though born of Hera and himself, Ares possessed a brutal, twisted temperament. His greatest pleasure lay in donning his armor, wielding his weapons, and slaughtering his attendants within the palace walls.
The spray of blood, the clash of steel, the rush of overpowering the weak—this was the ecstasy he lived for.
Though he bore the authority of the God of War, that very power was inextricably tied to slaughter, ruin, terror, and calamity.
He was not the embodiment of righteous war that shaped the fate of nations, but rather the god of reckless carnage—a brute cloaked in divine power.
In Ares, Zeus saw all the flaws of the ancient Titans—the same arrogance, the same destructive hunger. Even his face and bearing reminded Zeus uncomfortably of his father, Kronos.
Thus, the wise King of Olympus held little affection for this son.
Still, Ares's words spared him the need to open the subject himself.
Zeus's gaze swept across the gathered gods. When the hall fell silent once more, he spoke in a low, measured tone.
"Humans have held a Great Offering, presenting their tributes to the gods. As tradition dictates, I have summoned you all to feast and partake of humanity's devotion."
At those words, Ares furrowed his brow, his initial excitement fading. The other gods, however, let out a quiet sigh of relief, their tense hearts easing.
But the calm shattered the moment the God King summoned the offerings to the table. As he peeled away the glistening layer of fat, the sight of stark white bones beneath was revealed.
The entire hall fell silent. Faces darkened. Rage simmered in the air like storm clouds.
After every Great Offering, Olympus would hold a grand feast, placing humanity's finest sacrifices in the center of the table—symbols of divine favor and reward.
Yet now, the offerings were nothing but a mockery—an affront to the very dignity of the gods. Even the usually serene Hestia, goddess of the hearth, frowned in disbelief, her calm eyes reflecting rare surprise.
"Father," Ares growled, stepping forward, "humanity's offering has insulted you—and all of Olympus! They must be punished! Allow me to teach them a bloody lesson!"
He cracked his knuckles with a wicked grin, bloodlust gleaming in his eyes.
War. Blood. Carnage. Only through battle could he savor the ecstasy of destruction.
Yet none of the gods spoke. All eyes turned subtly toward Zeus, seated high upon his throne, waiting.
"Your Majesty," Hestia finally spoke, her gentle voice breaking the suffocating silence. "In recent years, humanity has sacrificed with all their strength and devotion. They are, after all, mortal creations—fragile and weary. Perhaps, exhausted by endless offerings, they sought a desperate way to lighten their burden."
Her words lingered in the still air.
Then, as if her courage had opened a floodgate, the more moderate deities began to speak. Demeter, goddess of the harvest; Apollo, god of light; Artemis, goddess of the hunt; and Hephaestus, god of the forge—all lent their voices in agreement.
"Indeed," said Demeter softly, "the gods should show compassion."
Zeus sat in thought for a long moment before his frown eased. Slowly, he nodded.
But before the peace could settle, Ares's voice broke through again, sharp and furious.
"So we just let them go unpunished? After such humiliation? If we suffer their insolence in silence, where is the glory of the gods?"
His fiery temper flared, and he glared viciously at the deities who had spoken in defense of humanity.
Zeus's gaze flicked toward him, and his deep voice resonated through the golden hall.
"True enough. Humanity has mocked the gods—they must learn their place. Endless mercy breeds contempt."
Then his tone shifted, calm and deliberate.
"However, there is no need for slaughter. A lesson will suffice. A punishment, measured but unforgettable."
He paused, scanning the assembly.
"Since opinion is divided, we shall decide by vote."
Ares immediately thrust his hand upward. Hera, Aphrodite, Hermes, and several of the neutral gods followed suit. Then, after a brief hesitation, even the moderates—including Hestia—raised their hands in agreement with Zeus's proposal.
Satisfied, the King of the Gods surveyed the room. He raised his own hand to cast the deciding vote.
"Since our feast can no longer proceed..."
His gaze drifted toward one corner of the hall, a faint smile curving his lips.
"Hestia. You will retrieve the fire from the earth. Let no flame rise or burn. Let humanity taste the bitterness of cold and darkness."
Hestia's eyes widened slightly. For a moment, she hesitated, then lowered her gaze, pressing her lips together.
"As you command, Your Majesty."
The gods fell silent once more, their expressions grave as flickers of divine light rippled through the hall.