I'd been preparing for this for months.
Not just what I was going to say, but how, when, and in front of whom. Every word, every pause. Every memory that had led me here. Like a composer tuning the final notes before a concert… only this one had more to lose than a bad review.
And at last, the winter solstice arrived.
The meeting, Olympus, the same old theatre.
I was already seated when most of them arrived. Artemis came in shortly after, light as a snowflake's breath. I gave her a smile; she threw me one of her classic looks—something that said: "Please, Apollo, don't make anything explode today." Poor her.
Hermes was clinging to his caduceus as usual, Ares and Athena were arguing about… something, and Dionysus had already conjured a cup (which eventually turned into a Diet Coke) before Zeus even showed up.
Then, like every year, thunder announced his entrance. The air thickened, charged with electricity. Zeus descended cloaked in light, drama, and authority. His gaze swept the room as if it belonged to him. I suppose, technically, it did.
The meeting began the usual way: how the Mist is failing, how demigods don't pray anymore, how the temples are empty.
"And it's not just that," Ares added. "They don't even fear us. Not anymore."
"Or seek us out," said Demeter, with a touch of sorrow.
I waited—not long.
"Maybe… we shouldn't blame them," I said, calm but clear.
Heads turned toward me. Some surprised, others annoyed. Hera didn't flinch. She remained on her throne, her gaze lost in some corner of her own indifference.
"I don't blame them," I continued. "Sometimes I think I wouldn't have prayed to myself either, if I were still mortal."
That dense, uncomfortable silence settled once more.
"I'm not just talking about you all," I clarified. "I'm included. We've been absent. Deaf. Turning away while demigods bled for us.
I did it too… before. But since I walked among them, since I became one of them, I've learned to listen. To respond. To be present."
I felt their stares shift. Athena no longer looked annoyed—she was studying me like one studies a battle plan.
My sister… still silent, but now she wasn't warning me—she was watching me. Probably thrown off by the fact that I was speaking like this. You know, without something blowing up or breaking into a haiku.
"What are you implying?" Poseidon asked, voice deep but without fury.
I turned to him.
"That we've become the very thing we once despised. That the leadership of Olympus has failed. That you, Father, broke the Pact of the Big Three. That we were late to the war against the Titans because you insisted on ignoring the problem. That you forbade the gods from speaking to their children during the Gigantomachy, and that nearly cost us eternity."
I took a breath. Let them hear everything.
"And that if we're still sitting on these thrones today, it's not because of your leadership or order—it's because Hera disobeyed you. Because despite everything, she chose to help the demigods. Because without her intervention, the Greeks and Romans would never have united. And without that unity, we would have lost."
Silence. Only the distant crackling of the hearth fire.
It was said. And there was no going back.
I wasn't sure what had shocked them more: that I'd told the truth, that I had challenged Zeus… or that I had defended Hera. Probably a mix of all three.
Zeus straightened on his throne, every muscle charged with storm.
"Are you blaming me?" he thundered. Not as a question, but a demand for immediate denial.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Artemis tense in her seat. She shot me a look with the full weight of a sister who does not want to sweep up your ashes after. Something like: "What are you doing? SHUT UP AND BEG FOR MERCY!"
But it was already said. And backtracking was never really my style. Besides, it wasn't just about me.
"You're not entirely to blame, Father," I replied, with a tight smile. "But you are largely to blame."
The tension in the room thickened—if that was even possible. Lightning hadn't struck yet, but I could smell ozone in the air. I pushed forward before his anger could turn into electricity.
"But it's not just that," I said, raising my voice slightly. "I came across an old agreement. A pact signed by the six who overthrew Kronos: you, Hestia, Hades, Hera, Demeter, and Poseidon. A pact sealed to prevent power from corrupting any of you the way it corrupted your father."
Silence. Utter silence. The gods didn't breathe as Olympus itself seemed to lean into my words.
"A pact that foresaw exactly this. If the leadership of Olympus became a problem… if one of the Six fell into the same arrogance as Kronos, there would be a way to challenge their rule."
And without further delay, I recited:
"If the crown weighs heavy and Olympus trembles,
and five of six gods agree without rebellion,
the king's throne may be challenged,
by judgment, by game, or by combat."
The echo of that ancient pact hung in the air like frozen lightning.
"Lies!" Zeus roared, rising to his feet. "Where did you get that? A mortal's ignorant fiction!"
"Is it?" I asked, turning my gaze to the others. I was speaking to them now, not him. "Because it's not me who should remember it. Six of you signed that pact. Not me, nor any of my siblings. You."
The gods glanced at each other. Hermes had stopped staring at his caduceus. Aphrodite frowned for the first time in centuries. Even Ares seemed to be out of comebacks.
Then, Poseidon's slow, gravelly voice broke the silence.
"I think I remember something…" he muttered, hand to his beard.
Athena turned to him like she couldn't believe what she was hearing.
"What do you mean you think, you overgrown sea donkey!?"
A few stifled laughs escaped, but no one looked away. Zeus's glare could have incinerated a forest, but he could no longer ignore the growing murmur.
And then, the most unexpected response.
"It's true," said Hera, her gaze still lost in the void.
Zeus looked at her like she'd just betrayed him with another man. Ironic.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Telling the truth," she replied, firmer now.
"I remember too," said Demeter, crossing her arms. "It was right after we locked him in Tartarus. Hestia proposed the pact, and we all agreed. You included."
The murmur grew louder. I knew this was it—the all-or-nothing moment.
"I'm not here to impose anything," I said, raising my voice just enough. "But if that pact exists—and there's no doubt now that it does—then there's a procedure.
I propose that the Six be summoned, and that each cast their vote. If five of the Six agree, according to the pact… the king's throne must be contested."
A new, much heavier silence followed.
The kind that comes right before the earth shakes.
I stood tall. Every piece… finally in play.
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:)