Above the mountain, Olympus reveled.
Golden goblets overflowed. Laughter echoed. Gods danced. Their eyes, once sharp, were dulled by wine and leisure.
But not hers.
Far from the feast, where no light reached, Hecate, Minor Goddess of Magic, stepped quietly into the darkness.
...
In a gloomy cave, veiled in dust and webs, hidden from the eyes of gods and mortals alike, three crones huddled together. They wore filthy, tattered robes with deep hoods. Wisps of thin, ragged grey hair hung from their heads, obscuring their faces like trailing cobwebs. Before their hunched forms sat a cauldron, its smoke coiling into the still air; yet their eyes remained locked on the image within.
A voice echoed from the mouth of the cave.
"Even with my powers, it was difficult to find you three. Why have you summoned me and with such secrecy too?"
Bathed in the flickering light of her torches, Hecate stepped into the cavern. Pale, beautiful, and ageless, she wore a black sleeveless gown - its fabric seeming to ripple like ink spilling into water.
"A prophecy." Their combined voices flowing with power.
The cloaked figures finally turned their gaze from the cauldron, sharp eyes, glinting beneath shadowed hoods, settled on the Goddess before them. But there was no reverence in their gaze, no fear, only calm authority. For they were the Moirai, the Fates - sisters who wove the tapestry of destiny. Even Zeus, King of Olympus, spoke carefully in their presence.
Before Hecate could respond, Clotho, the Spinner, spoke her voice dry as old parchment, yet echoing with the weight of forgotten truths, a whisper carried on the stale air:
"Born of dusk and whispered flame,
Of secret root and veiled design,
Shall rise when gods refuse to see,
A path that ends divine decree.
The marked shall climb through death and flame,
To raise the lost from dust and name."
Silence hung heavy.
For a heartbeat, Hecate saw something behind Clotho's eyes. Something older than the Titanomachy. Something... else.
Hecate stood still, shaken. Few things unsettled a goddess of her age, but these words did.
'...end divine decree... raise the lost...'
Her thoughts spiraled. War? Was it Titans? Or the Giants?
Was a rebellion to occur?
No, not yet. But the seed was there. A seed of imbalance, buried beneath marble thrones.
Even now, she sensed the shift, the dismissive glances of Olympians toward their allies. The same looks once cast by Titans.
"Why tell me this? Do you mean to test allegiance to the Gods? To Zeu...?"
Her tone shifted - uncertainty giving way to frustration. But before she could finish, Lachesis, the Measurer, snapped:
"Silence!"
Her voice hissed like flame over oil.
"We did not go through such lengths to remain hidden just for you to summon that tyrant's attention!"
Atropos, the Cutter, added coldly:
"And as for servitude… scoff."
Hecate blinked, momentarily thrown off-balance.
"Then why?" she asked, the question more breath than voice.
The sisters exchanged a silent glance, no words spoken, but decisions made all the same. Then Clotho spoke once more:
"The prophecy speaks of your child... and the changes they will bring."
She said no more than what fate allowed, offering only fragments. What she withheld was not her decision, it was the demand of the Tapestry.
Hecate's lips parted in a silent gasp. Tears welled in her eyes, but she closed them, breathing deeply. When she opened them again, her expression had hardened, though a shadow of a smile still lingered.
"I understand now," she said, voice steady as steel. "But what of him? He will see it. He will know. And soon… all of Olympus will too."
The Fates nodded gravely. Apollo's gift of prophecy was a danger they could not ignore.
"We will hide it," Lachesis said, "veiling it through fate itself. Twisting the thread beyond his sight."
But Hecate was not convinced that would be enough.
"Then I will lend you my power. I shall bury the prophecy in the Mist, deep within the shadows where no light dares wander. Let it become a secret whispered only by silence."
With their combined authorities they hoped to cloud the visions of all who could witness the prophecy, at least until it was too late.
When Hecate felt her power waning, she knew dawn approached. Best to leave before the sun stirred and eyes turned. With one final glance around the cave, she noticed the cauldron still smoking.
Within the curling vapors, a pair of onyx eyes glimmered behind a strange mask.
Looking straight at her.
...
Revelry and sin. That's all Hecate saw upon her return to Olympus. Especially from the new rulers.
Zeus, indulging in wine, bragged loudly that it was by his might the Titans had fallen all while his eyes wandered the bodies of minor goddesses and muses.
Poseidon partied beside him, ego driving him to boast alongside Zeus, and though his gaze was less lecherous, it too lingered on the muses.
Dionysus slumped atop his throne, drowning himself in nectar.
Aphrodite perched upon Ares' lap, whispering sweet things into his ear.
Hephaestus was absent, no doubt in his forge, avoiding celebration and perhaps plotting against his wife and her lover.
Artemis, too, was missing. Her time was better spent hunting, maintaining balance.
Demeter had already left, for today marked the brief season she could spend with her daughter, Persephone.
Hera sat high on her throne, glaring coldly at any who drew Zeus' wandering eye.
Hermes zipped through the air, pouring drinks and cracking jokes.
Apollo played his harp in a far corner, charming muses with soft words and music.
And Athena remained upon her throne, eyes scanning the crowd with no interest in joining it.
Hecate, seeing all as it was, released a breath of relief believing her absence had gone unnoticed.
She underestimated the gods.
Hera's gaze was immediately drawn to Hecate. Though she knew not why, a queen's instinct stirred.
Athena, ever watchful, narrowed her eyes. Something had shifted.
Apollo soon stopped playing and flirting, something Hecate didn't notice. His brow furrowed, sensing something just beyond his grasp. A dream, a vision - but whenever he reached for it, it slipped into the Mist, retreating from his Sight.
...
Elsewhere…
In the depths of Chaos, where existence thins and time has forgotten, a grey mist coiled, its movement was subtle. Amid the swirling haze of mist stood a radiant door, carved with runes and mosaics older than even the Titans, their meaning long lost to all but the Firstborn of Creation, The Primordials.
Above it hung a cocoon, suspended by a single silken thread, shimmering, delicate, absolute.
Then, as the final word of prophecy was spoken by the Fates, the thread snapped.
The sound, a soft chime, distant yet piercing echoed across the void. The cocoon fell, striking the mist as though it were solid, and slowly began to unravel.
Inside, there was no form.
Only a single, worn tarot card, glowing faintly in the darkness.
The Fool.
A ripple spread, subtle, spiritual, across creation. Beings older than gods stirred. From ancient shadows, they lifted their gazes and turned toward the mist.
Chaos. Nyx. Gaia.
They did not speak.
They did not move.
They only watched.
He has awakened.