An Interlude at Othrys

In the moments before Asteria’s seal fractured, Mount Othrys remained as it always was—still and cold. The obsidian walls gleamed under torchlight, glistening black veined with jagged streaks of gold. A sprawling mosaic celebrating the ascent of titans and subjugation of gods and mortals covered the floor. The grout in between the gold and black tiles was darkened with centuries of blood stains. The space was capped in a massive dome of black marble, polished to a mirrored finish and carved with intricate coffers depicting ancient battles. The dome amplified every sound into a cacophony of whispers and the boom of distant thunder.

Amidst those dark walls, Kronos lounged lazily on his gilded throne. He rolled his fingers along the edge of the throne, each tap echoing through the cavernous audience hall like the constant tic-tic-tic of a clock.

In the center of the audience hall, Menotius shivered, his hulking frame crouched in deference, a gleeful grin stretching across his face despite the fear he obviously felt at Kronos’s unhappy mood. The Moirai had been stirring trouble recently, despite Kronos’s efforts to waylay them, and none of the weaklings he had sent out had come back with any information of importance.

“And what shall I do with them, my lord?” He asked, his voice gravelly with constrained excitement.

Achlys, Kronos contemplated. She was an acceptable acolyte, acting autonomously but never to the point of defiance and always with forethought, unlike Menoiteius’s rash instinct.

“The captured Blessed, my lord?”

Kronos lifted his gaze boredly, catching sight of the group of terrified mortals, bound and already cruelly beaten. His golden eyes glowed faintly as they settled on the mortals. The faintest flicker of disdain crossed his features at the sight. The air around them reeked of sweat and blood. They were a pathetic sight, bound together with tight iron biting into their flesh. Blood dripped steadily onto the cold, mosaic floor.

Most were trembling, gaze locked on the ground. In the middle of the crowd, an old, graying man was the only one looking up, and he met Kronos’s gaze defiantly, lips moving quickly in a quiet prayer. To his useless gods, no doubt.

“Set judgment on him who wrongs us, do not forgive his sins, punish his evil.” His voice grew louder. “O’Morai, do not forgive he who has defied fate—” Kronos’s jaws tightened, and he flicked his finger, snapping rapidly, speeding up the end of the old man’s life, cutting off the whispered prayers as he turned him into a skeleton, and then dust.

Menotius grinned as he met Kronos’s irritated gaze. The titan had evidently been distracted and gathered mortals for sport instead of following Kronos’s orders to investigate the sanctuary cities. Menotieus’s beady, dark eyes, only faintly touched by gold, darted back and forth between Kronos and the remaining mortals. Blood was smeared across his hands and arms, drying in streaks.

“And the rest of them, ankylomêtēs?”

Kronos raised a thumb, and Menotieus’s grin twisted into something grotesque, stretching the limits of his face as his dark eyes turned to the mortals. In one slash, the group of five or so were beheaded. Dark blood pooled against the dark marble and sank into the grooves in the mosaic. It soaked up the liquid, as if the room itself thirsted for it.

Menoetius let out a rattling sigh of satisfaction, licking the blood from his palm, before he spat it out in sudden disgust. “Filthy mortals, not a drop of ichor to their blood.”

“And why are you surprised?” Kronos sighed.

Menoetius laughed lowly, his breath misting in the cold air of the chamber. “Sometimes the lower gods get mixed in, my lord. They play-pretend mortal lives after being reborn, thinking they can hide, but their blood reveals the truth.”

Kronos said nothing.

As Menoetius basked in the afterglow of violence, in the same moment Asteria reached a hand up to Rhei’s cheek, and the seal placed upon her splintered, the air in the throne room shifted. It was subtle—a faint ripple through time and space. The only outward expression was a subtle flicker of the torches.

Kronos surged to his feet in one smooth motion. Menoetius flinched backward, his deranged grin faltering. Kronos’s golden eyes burned now, a predatory gleam in them as he stared into the distance, his focus far beyond the confines of the throne room. His chest rose and fell slowly as he inhaled deeply, savoring the ripple that had disrupted the fabric of the world.

The ripples were unmistakable, and there was only one explanation: the tiny little titan who had changed fate. He was sure that if he looked to the night sky above, he’d see hundreds of stars rocketing through the sky in celebration of their lady’s return. His grin widened as a low chuckle rumbled in his chest, filling the hall with a sound that sent shivers down the spines of even the shadows themselves.

He snapped, and in the blink of an eye, his commanders were kneeling before him.

“It seems,” he announced, his voice dripping with satisfaction, “My little quail has finally returned.” He grinned, canines sharp. “Who would like to greet her for me?”