On a gentle, grassy slope, the breeze carried a soft warmth across the afternoon sun. Small groups sat scattered over woolen blankets, enjoying tea, wine, and easy conversation beneath the open sky.
Apollo drank deeply from a cup of chilled wine, his golden hair catching the light. Beside him, the centaur sage Chiron shared a spirited exchange. They spoke of medicine, plants, and archery—one idea flowing into the next, their laughter ringing across the meadow whenever they found common ground.
Drawn by curiosity, the nine Muses gathered around them. Some took notes on wax tablets, others strummed light melodies on their lyres to accompany the discussion. A few even interjected now and then, adding their insights from their own fields. The mood was lively, filled with the kind of intellectual joy only gods could sustain for hours.
Not far off, Artemis sat stroking the golden fawn trembling in her lap, listening with rapt attention as Athena explained tracking techniques and the training of her personal guard. When enthusiasm overtook her, the goddess of wisdom gave several short commands.
At once, under the watch of twenty battle nymphs, the children of Typhon—who had been lazily sunbathing in the grass—leapt to their feet and fell into formation. They shifted ranks and positions with practiced ease, moving as if they were one body, one will.
Even monsters could be trained into disciplined troops... how incredible.
Artemis couldn't help but admire the sight. Her gaze then drifted toward her own attendants, standing stiff and pale. The battle nymphs grimaced; they already knew what that look meant. Their Main God was displeased with their earlier performance. They could look forward to a long lecture and twice the drills later.
During a lull in the gathering, both Apollo and Artemis found their eyes wandering toward the three figures seated together on the central blanket.
The dark-haired man turned slightly, catching their glance. He smiled and winked. The twin gods immediately snapped their heads away, faces twitching as they tried not to grimace.
Who would've thought that a casual hunting trip in the Peloponnesian mountains would lead them into this kind of company?
And worse—these weren't just strangers. They were family.
The blindfolded goddess of justice, Themis, one of the Twelve Titans, was technically their great-aunt. The centaur Chiron, seated nearby, was of the same generation as their father, Zeus.
The goddess who had earlier quarreled with Artemis over the prey—Athena—was Themis's foster daughter. By bloodline, she was their aunt.
And Apollo's earlier opponent? Themis's husband. So when he called them his great-niece and great-nephew... he hadn't been joking.
Even the monstrous beings lounging in the grass were students of Chiron, Themis, and Samael—their seniority clearly above that of the two Olympians.
(Children of Typhon and descendants of Gaia... if you value your life, you keep your mouth shut.)
After all that, aside from the twenty low-blooded battle nymphs, the Apollo-Artemis pair were the youngest in the entire gathering.
Then again, losing to Titans of such ancient blood wasn't exactly shameful.
But still—why couldn't they have said something earlier?
Apollo and Artemis exchanged helpless glances, equal parts embarrassed and exasperated.
Said something? Please. Without flexing a little muscle first, who would even listen?
Samael caught the twins' fleeting expressions. He raised his cup in a friendly gesture, though a cold amusement flickered behind his eyes.
Apollo's scandals were endless, but even Artemis—whose reputation was cleaner—wasn't exactly pleasant company. The huntress goddess was notoriously vindictive; anyone who offended or neglected her in worship often paid with their life.
Take King Oeneus of Calydon. During a divine offering, he accidentally forgot Artemis's sacrifice. She sent a monstrous Calydonian boar to devastate his lands in revenge. That very beast later drew heroes like Atalanta to the famous Calydonian Boar Hunt.
Or Niobe, Queen of Thebes, who mocked Leto for having only two children—Apollo and Artemis—and boasted that her own father dined among the gods, forbidding others from offering prayers to Leto.
Furious, Leto ordered her children to punish the blasphemy. Apollo and Artemis drew their bows, and one by one, Niobe's fourteen children fell—each slain by a single arrow, without hesitation or mercy.
When the Trojan War broke out, Agamemnon, King of Mycenae, incurred Artemis's wrath by killing a stag meant to be sacrificed in her honor. As punishment, his fleet was trapped by headwinds at the port of Aulis. To appease the goddess, Agamemnon was forced to offer his beloved daughter as a sacrifice to Artemis.
Fortunately, Artemis did not truly kill the girl. Instead, she made her a priestess and later allowed her to return home safely.
More interestingly, the future hero Heracles, under orders from his uncle, once hunted Artemis's golden-horned deer and wounded it, earning the goddess's fury. Yet after Athena mediated and healed the deer, Artemis's anger subsided, and she chose not to hold the offense against him.
So, in the end, everything depends on who you are—and more importantly, how strong you are.
Had it not been for that earlier incident, there's no way these two proud Olympian deities would be sitting here, drinking and chatting peacefully.
After all, in Greece, bloodlines and divine kinship aren't shields—they're amplifiers. Revealing one's lineage often adds "bonus damage." Many gods possess hidden affinities for striking down their own kin.
Forget distant relatives—if a father can't suppress his son, he'll still cut him down without hesitation.
Of course, both Athena and Samael were far too clever to let things spiral out of control. They allowed the battle to play out precisely because they knew Themis was nearby with Hestia, ensuring a safety net.
As the saying goes, no fight, no friendship.
With equal strength and this newly affirmed familial bond, Athena generously yielded the prey to Artemis—who adored taming golden-horned deer—earning her favor in the process.
At the same time, Samael smoothed over the incident, covering for Apollo's impulsiveness by presenting the clash as a "friendly spar," saving the God of Light's pride.
Only then did the twin deities accept the invitation, showing polite and gracious manners toward their so-called elders.
Samael watched the harmonious gathering, then shifted her gaze toward Hestia, who was laughing softly beside Themis.
Through subtle cues from the Goddess of Justice, the Hearth Goddess casually mentioned recent happenings on Olympus.
For example, Zeus—the King of the Gods—had been making increasingly frequent trips to Mount Caucasus, and each time he returned, his expression grew darker.
It seemed Prometheus was finally reaching his limit.
Samael, Chiron, and Athena exchanged brief glances and nodded in quiet understanding.
"Your talents are exceptional," Chiron remarked, lifting his cup toward Apollo. "It would be a waste if you didn't take to the lectern and guide new minds. After all, light exists to dispel ignorance."
The compliment stirred something in the radiant god, who always took pride in his brilliance.
"These are peaceful times now," Athena added with a gentle smile. "Conflicts among the gods have become rare. To hone our craft and share experience, we've built a fine platform for mutual study and exchange."
She leaned closer to the still-curious Artemis, gesturing subtly toward the Typhon offspring sprawled across the grass. With a conspiratorial wink, she whispered, "See them? They and I were graduates of the last session. If you're interested, you should visit. You might find it... rewarding."
Artemis glanced at the uneasy battle nymphs nearby, then back at Athena, recalling the goddess's flawless combat prowess. Her interest was clearly piqued.
"What do you call this... place of exchange?" she asked.
The ancient serpent looked toward the distant north, her lips curling into a faint, knowing smile.
"The Academy of Athens."