Five years after his capture.
The myth of the Goddess's Son had already spread beyond the temple walls. It began as hushed whispers, a murmur among the faithful who drank his blood. But in time, those murmurs became sermons, then proclamations, until no pilgrim could leave the temple without hearing the tale.
They said the Goddess of Fate, in her mercy, descended once in the age of mortals. From her union with destiny itself came a son —a being born not of flesh and bone, but of miracle.
Some stories claimed she hid him from jealous gods who sought to destroy her child. Others swore he had been sealed away to mature, his essence too dangerous to be loosed before the appointed era.
And when the temple revealed him, silent and radiant in his glass chamber, the faithful saw the myths confirmed.
The priests nurtured it carefully.
"The Goddess gave us her son," they said. "And from his veins flow her blessings."
To nobles, it was framed as divine providence for their continued reign. To commoners, it was the ultimate mercy: a god's son bleeding for their survival. Children began to sing rhymes about the Goddess's hidden child. Merchants carried charms etched with his likeness, crude at first, then crafted in silver.
And as all myths do, it grew with each retelling.
Another five years passed.
Now, the title "The Son of the Goddess" was more than a rumor —it was doctrine. Priests wove it into scripture, artists painted it across murals, and even rival temples begrudgingly acknowledged it.
His chamber became not just a sanctum, but a pilgrimage site. The faithful wept when they beheld him, some fainted at the sight, others spoke in tongues. Pilgrims left offerings of gold, weapons, or trinkets, believing that even in slumber the Goddess's Son saw and blessed them.
And though Atlas remained unconscious, his presence became the foundation of a myth too vast to unravel. A myth that bound nations together under one story: that the Goddess's Son walked among them, resting, waiting.
[The Prologue]
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The chamber of the Goddess of Fate stretched endlessly, a quiet ocean of shelves lined with tomes that shimmered faintly, as though each held the heartbeat of a life. Beyond the tall glass window, threads of light stretched across an infinite void, weaving in and out like rivers of gold.
At the center of this silent dominion sat the Goddess herself—poised, composed, her hand moving steadily as a quill scratched across parchment.
The sound of footsteps echoed softly as the God of Origins entered. He bowed lightly, not daring to disturb the strange stillness that always hung around her.
"My Lady," he began carefully, his voice low but clear. "There's been an escalation. The mortals at the temple… they've built a myth around Atlas."
The Goddess did not look up from her work. Her eyes followed the moving ink, each stroke precise.
"Atlas," she said, her voice calm, almost indifferent. "What sort of myth?"
"They call him your son," the God of Origins replied. "His chamber has been remade into a shrine. They bring offerings, prayers, and songs. To them, he is no longer just the source of divine wine. He has become a minor deity in their eyes—a nameless godling, tethered to your name."
Only then did the Goddess pause. The quill stilled between her fingers. Slowly, she raised her gaze, her expression unreadable, more watchful than concerned.
"Not a god," she corrected softly. "He governs nothing. But a minor deity, yes—that is what they've made him." She leaned back in her chair, eyes drifting toward the glowing threads outside the window. "And why not? They sought wine and found divinity at the bottom of their cups. If that is where their threads lead, so be it."
The God of Origins shifted, his hesitation evident. "You mean to let this stand?"
"Of course," she replied without hesitation. "I did not order his confinement—it happened. I did not call him my son—yet they did. This was not my command, but it is their belief. Belief is nothing more than another thread in the tapestry. If they raise him as my child and whisper prayers to him, then that is Fate."
Her words, calm as still water, carried no trace of irritation or delight.
The God of Origins lowered his eyes. "Then… what should be told to the others?"
The Goddess finally turned her gaze fully to him, her expression serene, her tone decisive.
"Announce it. Atlas is to be acknowledged as a minor deity—my son, in the eyes of mortals. Tell the others this truth, and let there be no questions, no corrections."
"…Understood, my Lady." He bowed deeper this time, though his stance carried the faint tension of unease.
Already her attention had returned to the parchment before her. Her quill touched ink once more, strokes flowing seamlessly, as though their conversation had never interrupted her work.
"If they worship him, let them. If they crown him my child, let it be so. I won't tug at every thread," she murmured, almost to herself. "I only keep the weave intact. That is all."
The God of Origins straightened, his face unreadable. With a final bow, he turned and departed, his footsteps fading back into the vastness of the chamber.
The Goddess of Fate did not watch him leave. Her eyes remained on the paper, her hand moving steadily, lines of destiny penned in silence—unbothered, detached, as though the birth of a new deity were nothing more than another thread falling into place.
The God of Origins left the chamber of his Lady with steady steps, though the weight of her words lingered on him like a cloak. His duty was clear: to announce to the other divine hands of Fate the acknowledgment of Atlas—not as a mortal, not even as a god, but as a minor deity, the proclaimed son of their Mistress.
He did not need parchment or a messenger. His voice was woven into the weave of creation itself. When he spoke, his words stretched like rivers, reaching into each deity's domain, vibrating in the marrow of their existence.
"By decree of the Goddess of Fate," the God of Origins intoned, his voice deep and resonant, "the mortal Atlas, confined within her temple, is to be acknowledged as her son. His blood has marked him, and through mortal worship, he is regarded as a minor deity. This is not to be questioned. This is the will of Fate."
The words unfolded across realms, and one by one, the gods reacted.
The God of Redemption was the first to stir. In his hall of broken chains and kneeling penitents, his brows furrowed. "Her son? Strange… A deity born not of judgment or penance, but of mortal desperation." He tapped his staff against the ground, chains rattling in response. "If mortals seek forgiveness through him, will they forget me?" The thought lingered, a thorn buried beneath his otherwise calm expression.
The Goddess of Consequences listened in silence as the decree reached her throne of scales, where each wrong tipped the balance of destiny. Her lips curved into the faintest smirk. "So… a child born of her threads, whether intended or not. Every action has its echo. Let us see what consequences arise from this myth." Her hand brushed over the scales, which trembled with a weight yet unseen.
The God of Time did not look surprised. In his chamber of ever-turning clocks, sand pouring endlessly through great glass towers, he simply sighed. "Another ripple on the stream. Another knot in the thread." He raised his hand, and a clock face split in two, revealing infinite paths branching forward. His eyes glimmered, half weary, half amused. "The mortals never realize—they create as much as they destroy."
The Goddess of Free Will burst into laughter when she heard. Her meadow of endless doors, each leading to choice and chaos, shook with the sound. "Her son? Oh, how perfect! Nothing terrifies order more than the freedom of belief. And now belief has crowned him!" She twirled on her toes, arms wide. "Oh, I do hope he grows troublesome. I'd so enjoy that."
The God of Legacy grew solemn. In his marble hall lined with statues of heroes and rulers long forgotten, he frowned deeply. "A son of Fate… what stories will be carved from this myth? What monuments will remain after centuries?" His hand tightened on a chisel he had yet to strike. "Legends shape nations. This one may last longer than we expect."
The Goddess of Love leaned back on her cushioned seat, surrounded by adoring spirits whispering songs of longing. Her lips curled into a playful smile. "Her son, hm? How scandalous." She twirled a rose between her fingers, the petals shifting from white to crimson. "Love and devotion will come for him too, in time. They always do. Mortals can't help but adore what they're told is divine."
The Goddess of Earth and Fertility was not as amused. Her fields of golden wheat bent as if bowing under sudden storm winds. "A son of hers? Born from mortal blood and worship? Dangerous. Creation and seed follow strange patterns when belief becomes nourishment. Will his presence bloom or blight?" She pressed her hand to the earth, waiting for it to answer, but the soil whispered only uncertainty.
And lastly—
The Goddess of Life.
Her domain shone brighter than any other, a vast garden of rivers and flowering trees that never withered. When the decree reached her ears, she stopped at once, hand hovering above a blossom she was about to restore. For a long heartbeat, she did not move. Then her lips parted, and she let out a trembling laugh.
"Atlas..."
Her voice was soft, but it carried warmth, like the first sunlight after winter. She pressed her palm to her chest, the weight of regret loosening from her shoulders. It had been her fault—her mistake on Earth that severed his fragile life. She had expected him to vanish into the silence of death, another thread cut too early. Fortunately, Fate had not abandoned him.
"To think he'd grow to be a minor Deity in less that a decade."
Her eyes brimmed with something close to tears. She turned away from the glowing tree that dominated her realm, leaving her work unfinished. The souls she had been tending to dimmed slightly, waiting, but she paid them no mind. For the first time in a while, her heart raced with anticipation.
If he was now a minor deity, if he was truly to be called the Son of Fate, then she would see him again. She would apologize. She would explain. She would make right what she had wronged.
The Goddess of Life's wings unfolded in a shimmer of white-gold, scattering petals of light across her garden. She did not linger, did not hesitate. She had no intention of waiting until ceremony or decree made it proper. Atlas had become something greater, and she would prepare herself—immediately—to meet him.
And in that moment, unlike the others who weighed power, worship, and consequence, she felt only joy.
The mortal she had once accidentally killed now lived again, and not as a mortal. But as a Deity.