As dusk settled, the tea gathering came to a pleasant close. Both guests and hosts parted in good spirits.
Hestia, Artemis, and Apollo—the three Main Gods—took their leave of Samael and the others, boarding their chariots to return to their respective temples.
On the grassy slope, Themis stood gazing toward Mount Olympus, its towering peaks gilded by the last light of the setting sun. A flicker of unease glimmered in her eyes. Turning to Samael, she spoke quietly but firmly.
"Zeus has been summoning the gods more frequently of late, and many of the discussions concern humanity. Was today's meeting perhaps too great a risk?"
The ancient serpent stood beside the Goddess of Justice, stretching lazily before replying with a faint smile.
"The greater the risk, the greater the gain."
A day of cordial exchange had yielded two priceless pieces of information from their Olympus counterparts.
First, Zeus's attention was currently entangled with the legendary god of opportunity, Polos. Moreover, with three generations of male God Kings accustomed to patriarchal governance, Athena—even if discovered—would likely remain safe under Gaia's mediation.
Second, the gods of Olympus had grown divided in their views of mankind.
Artemis, Apollo, Hephaestus, Hestia, and Demeter looked upon humanity with fondness and curiosity, inclined toward contact and coexistence.
Aphrodite, Hera, Poseidon, and Hermes held neutral stances, shifting with circumstance and convenience.
Ares and Zeus, however—one a blood-drenched warrior, the other a seer of fate—nurtured deep contempt for humankind.
Even so, Zeus could not simply strike at humanity without justification. Any such action required approval through the divine council.
Until the gods wholly despaired of mortals, humanity's survival remained secure.
Thus, the key lay in preventing Pandora's Box from being opened.
And as for the man who had once doomed mankind through his naïve love—Epimetheus, the god of afterthought—he too remained a point of concern.
Samael recalled the young couple, Deucalion and Pyrrha, on Crete: a devoted husband and wife bound by mutual respect. A faint, knowing smile touched his lips.
In history, Pyrrha had been born of Epimetheus and Pandora. But through the serpent's and Prometheus's quiet intervention, Epimetheus had long since wedded a mortal woman instead. Their love was genuine, and their daughter Pyrrha already walked among men.
That flaw had been erased. Zeus would find no easy weakness to exploit through Epimetheus.
As long as Pandora remained unclaimed and the box of calamity sealed, humanity's corruption would not begin—and Zeus would not dare enact a purge upon the world.
If he did, the gods of Olympus—cut off from offerings and faith—would turn against him, openly or in secret.
"I'm still uneasy," Themis murmured, her brow creasing. "Hestia is steady enough, but if those twins speak carelessly, could they draw Zeus's gaze upon us?"
Samael reached out, gently taking her hand to reassure her.
"Zeus forbids the gods from walking the mortal realm or consorting with humanity. Those two only came under the pretext of accompanying Hestia for fresh air. They won't be foolish enough to expose themselves.
Besides," his lips curled, "we have future business yet to discuss."
He gave the parchment scroll in his hand a light wave. It had come from Athena and Chiron, and his grin turned sly.
The document contained nothing more dangerous than an official invitation—from the Academy of Athens—asking Artemis and Apollo to participate in teaching and cultural exchange, with a few lectures already outlined. It was, at most, another polite tea gathering.
Yet both the God of Light and the Goddess of the Hunt had shown unmistakable interest in the proposal.
The Academy's next class of students would include elite humans from across various settlements.
If those humans were personally instructed by the two deities, they could be molded into exceptional priests and devoted followers—disciples who would later spread the worship of Apollo and Artemis across the world.
Faith, after all, was the sweetest nectar the gods could taste.
And in time, the influence of their worship would spread far and wide.
The Delphic Oracle, whose words echoed through all of Greece, and the grand Temple of Artemis, later hailed as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World—these would stand as eternal proof of the reach of the twin Olympian gods.
"Samael, they are Zeus's most beloved children. Can humanity's influence really sway them?"
Themis's tone carried doubt as she let out a quiet sigh.
"It might," the ancient serpent replied, his smile oddly cryptic, eyes gleaming with layered meaning. "But it's worth trying."
"Beloved? Hardly."
As Themis hesitated in confusion, Athena—who was tidying away the tableware—folded her arms across her chest and gave a short, derisive hum. Her eyes flashed with sharp mockery.
"When poor, pregnant Leto was chased across the world by that jealous queen Hera, did you see this 'good father' lift a finger to help?
When her children were attacked by the serpent Pytho, did he appear then?
Wake up. His so-called affection is nothing more than a mask for his own filthy desires."
The ever-fair Themis didn't entirely agree and calmly offered a counterpoint.
"Still, Zeus's affection for Artemis is known across the heavens. He granted her several important divine roles and elevated her to a position second only to the Queen of Heaven. That's a matter of record."
In truth, Themis had softened her view of the King of the Gods in recent years. His efforts to restore order had made him seem, at least for a time, more reasonable.
Athena turned toward her, rolling her eyes and letting out a quiet snort.
"Then tell me—when did this so-called 'extraordinary favor' begin?"
Themis frowned, thinking.
"It was after Artemis swore her vow of eternal maidenhood."
A thin smile curved Athena's lips, her gaze narrowing.
"Exactly. Of Olympus's two virgin goddesses—Hestia, the hearth goddess, and Artemis, the huntress—one enjoys veneration, the other, indulgence. And do you know why?"
Themis's brow furrowed further. Thoughts churned, but no answer came.
"Think of how Kronos fell," Samael interjected with a quiet sigh, leaning in to prompt her.
Themis blinked in realization as two words formed clearly in her mind.
Women.
Zeus had secured his victory by using seduction—directly or indirectly swaying nine of the Titanesses from Mount Othrys to his side. It left Kronos isolated, ensuring his downfall.
Likewise, a powerful goddess, once tempted or persuaded, could become a weapon in another god's hands—altering the balance of power and threatening Zeus's throne.
By swearing herself to chastity, Artemis cut off that possibility, removing herself from the web of divine politics altogether.
"So you mean," Themis murmured, her voice dry, "Zeus dotes on Artemis precisely because she poses no threat to his rule? That all his praise and gifts are just... a form of compensation?"
Athena's tone was soft but edged like steel.
"A woman untouched by a husband's will remains steadfastly loyal to her father. To Zeus, that loyalty is convenient—and easy to reward with what he calls 'love.'
If Hera hadn't pushed her so far, do you really think Artemis would have bound herself with such a crippling vow?
And tell me—what kind of father truly wishes for his daughter to die alone?"
She glanced up toward the cloud-wreathed heights of Olympus, her eyes cold and distant.
"My dear Aunt Themis, divine authority has no place for sentiment. Don't let yourself be fooled by the illusion of warmth above."
Athena's low, scornful laugh faded into the evening air.
Themis, her understanding quietly overturned, could only sigh.
...
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