"Where do you plan to use it?"
Hephaestus furrowed his brow, his expression hesitant.
As the god of craftsmanship, he disliked seeing the creations into which he poured his heart and skill twisted toward dark or cruel purposes.
The chains that bound Prometheus had been forged by his own hands. Out of sympathy for the seer, Hephaestus had grumbled to the Cyclopes during the process. Of course, every word had been faithfully reported to Zeus.
After all, the three Cyclopes and the three Hecatoncheires were all bound by contract to the great King of the Gods.
"Lately, mortals have been offering sacrifices and pleading for Prometheus—lamenting his theft of the sacred fire and his defiance of the gods. Yet by divine law, I cannot release him.
However, in light of their reverence and obedience, I intend to bestow a gift upon humanity. A vessel that will contain all suffering and calamity, all impurity and corruption—so that humankind may continue to survive and flourish."
Zeus spoke with a faint smile, his tone as soft and soothing as a spring breeze.
"Father, thank you for your mercy. I shall follow your command and devote myself entirely to this creation!"
Hephaestus bowed low, resting both hands on his hammer. Without a hint of doubt, he accepted the parchment from Zeus's hand and departed eagerly to carry out his task.
When the honest craftsman finally left the temple and returned to Mount Etna, Zeus withdrew his gaze. The smile on his face slowly froze into something cold and sharp.
A gift? Yes—he would give humanity a gift indeed...
...
Moments later, his expression steadied. Lightning flickered faintly across his body as divine power spread outward.
"Father, what do you command?"
A young god with golden curls and a winged cap darted into the temple, his arrival heralded by a gust of wind. Winged boots carried him effortlessly across the marble floor. He wore a short-sleeved tunic belted at the waist and carried a staff entwined with serpents.
Handsome and graceful, his movements were quick and fluid, yet the ever-present smile on his lips and his relaxed posture gave him an air of mischief—a touch too carefree to inspire confidence.
"Hermes. Where are the others?"
Zeus waited for a moment, seeing no one else arrive, and frowned. By now, most of the family should have gathered. Aside from Poseidon and Hephaestus, nearly all of them resided on Olympus.
The first to arrive, naturally, was Hermes—the god of swiftness, the messenger of Olympus.
Born of Zeus and Maia, daughter of the Titan Atlas, Hermes had been a troublesome child. In his youth, he had stolen Apollo's cattle and nearly paid for it with his life, had Zeus not intervened in time to calm his furious son.
Hermes ruled over boundaries and travelers who crossed them, as well as shepherds and herdsmen, eloquence and debate, poetry and writing, athletics, weights and measures, invention and commerce. Thieves and tricksters often offered prayers to him as their patron.
In the Homeric Hymns, he was described as "cunning and resourceful—a thief, a cattle-stealer, a maker of dreams, a watcher of the night, a lurker at doorways—whose brilliance swiftly shines among the immortal gods."
Thanks to his wit and guile, and with Zeus's backing, this god of Titan blood had been raised to the rank of the Twelve Olympians.
For this reason, Hermes's loyalty to his father was absolute. Many of Zeus's secret affairs—and their aftermaths—were quietly handled by the swift-footed god himself.
Now, when his father questioned him, Hermes hesitated for only a moment before speaking truthfully.
"Aunt Demeter recently went down to the mortal world alone..."
"What business does she have in those filthy places? Isn't Olympus large enough for her to wander?"
Zeus's tone darkened. The thought of his wife—and sister—mingling with mortals clearly displeased him.
"Father, winter has just passed…"
To avoid offending the goddess of agriculture, Hermes reminded him tactfully.
"Winter has just passed?"
"Spring has arrived."
Only when the messenger god pointed to the ground beneath their feet did Zeus finally slap his forehead, his expression turning slightly embarrassed.
He and Demeter, the goddess of the harvest, had a daughter—Persephone—whom he cherished deeply. Yet by a twist of fate, Hades, Lord of the Underworld, had taken a liking to her during one of his rare visits to the surface and carried her off to become his queen.
Though Zeus eventually mediated the dispute, the outcome had been a compromise: Hades would allow Persephone to remain in the Underworld only for the three months of winter, and for the rest of the year she could return to the surface to be with her mother.
But Demeter, devoted to her daughter to the point of obsession, was never satisfied with this arrangement. She wept often and lamented Persephone's fate without end. Every year, as winter drew to a close, Demeter would go to the surface early to welcome her daughter home for their reunion.
Unnoticed, spring had come again this year.
Over the years, Zeus had spent his days chasing lovers, managing Olympus's endless troubles, and maintaining his dominion. Rarely had he taken time to comfort his wife or visit his daughter. Now, he had even forgotten the day of Persephone's return.
Even for one as steadfast as Zeus, a faint guilt stirred in his chest. Clearing his throat, he shifted the topic.
"Where's Hera?"
"Her Majesty is currently admiring the Sacred Garden," Hermes replied.
Admiring the Sacred Garden? More likely still coveting the power of the Earth Mother Goddess.
The wise King of the Gods frowned slightly. He understood Hera's ambitions perfectly, though he also knew it was futile. Gaia, the primordial Earth Mother, was devoted above all else to the laws of life itself. Even when I sought to erase one child, she berated me beyond measure.
And you?
You abandoned your own creation, Hephaestus. You couldn't even tolerate newborn Apollo and Artemis—you sent the serpent Python to kill them. You've persecuted my lovers and illegitimate children time and again.
After all that, you think Gaia would hand over her divine authority to you? Not a chance.
Zeus sighed inwardly and shook his head. Compared to Hera, he thought, perhaps he wasn't such a terrible father after all. A poor standard, but still.
Thinking of Hera's misdeeds made him recall the pair of children who pleased him most.
"By the way, where are Apollo and Artemis?"
"Hestia's been feeling rather down lately," Hermes replied quickly. "The twins took her out for a spring outing."
"So, they've gone wandering on the mortal plane again?"
"Uh… yes, Father."
Sensing the displeasure in Zeus's tone, Hermes hunched his shoulders slightly, offering an awkward smile.
"And what about Ares and Aphrodite?"
The swift messenger hesitated, then coughed lightly before answering in a low voice.
"They're… probably still in bed."
Zeus's face darkened instantly, black as storm clouds. Thunder flared across his body as his gaze turned cold and venomous.
He had just entrusted Hephaestus with an important task, and those two had the audacity to skip the summons for a midday affair?
Clearly, they needed to be reminded of their place.
Sensing that his father's fury had found a new target, Hermes exhaled in relief and glanced discreetly toward the mortal realm.
Brother, that's as much as I can do for you, he thought.
He and Apollo had had their differences once, but they'd grown to be on good terms. And besides, this mess involved three Olympian main gods—the other side only had two, and neither of them could fight worth a damn.
Anyone with half a brain could guess how this would play out.