The morning air above Black Mansion was cold and crisp, as if the universe was holding its breath. Tension coiled through the hedges and rooms like a tightly drawn bow: the goddesses had summoned a meeting. This time, they would not force their way in; they wanted to invite Harry and Teddy to Olympus for a discussion.
Harry was uneasy about invitations that carried such heavy implications. However, he understood the consequences of retreating from the mountain: a war ignited by silence. When Hera's golden emissary—radiant in human form—arrived at the doorstep and spoke with authority and comfort, Harry listened closely.
"Hera requests your presence at the Council," the envoy informed him. "She asks that you bring the child. There will be guards, oaths, and discussions." Her impossibly patient gaze met Harry's. "She desires peace foremost."
Harry crossed his arms. "You assure me Teddy will return unchanged?"
"On my word," the envoy replied. This assurance was more than mere etiquette; it hung in the air like iron.
Harry breathed out, glancing at Teddy, who was seated at the breakfast table, his legs swinging and his cheeks charmingly dimpled with remnants of toast. The boy's world was still safe and warm: Percy had opted out of practice to create a toy ship; Kreacher fussed over breakfast crumbs; Andromeda hovered anxiously nearby. None of them would want this—none of them—if it could be avoided.
"Hera owes me," Harry finally stated. "I'll go because of her vow, but I will set conditions."
The envoy nodded. "Name them."
Harry's voice was calm, as if preparing for a storm. "No weapons on the dais. No surprise summons. No gods lurking in the shadows. Hera must guarantee her protection before we even enter. And if the meeting sours, I will leave—with Teddy. No Olympian can touch him without my consent."
"Agreed," the envoy affirmed, and when Hera appeared in her eyes, it was more than agreement; it was a promise.
They set off within the hour. The goddesses did not arrive en masse; Hera, Athena, Artemis, Aphrodite, and Hestia accompanied them partway before ascending to Olympus to prepare the Hall—an olive-wood chamber lined with concentric thrones where the world's judgments closed and opened like breathing. Hephaestus, uneasy since his last visit, sent a blunt metallic message indicating he would not attend if Zeus sought violence, but would ensure a safe ascent.
Harry's conditions had been accepted, though not without murmurs and displeasure among the gods on Olympus. Zeus himself reluctantly agreed—publicly—fearing that a refusal would appear cowardly and paint an already terrified father as a martyr. Politics often showed its mercy.
Before the ascent, Harry took precautions that the council would have disapproved of, measures most gods could not fully comprehend: he conjured wards around Teddy that resonated with a blend of wizard magic and divine sigils—anchors designed to shield the child from being overwhelmed by the grandeur of the Hall or targeted by lingering magical spells. He encircled Teddy's small wrist with a simple copper chain inscribed with Hestia's seal, whispering a charm to it. The chain warmed against the boy's skin; a piece of the hearth's quiet vow had been lent.
Teddy observed the preparations with innocent wonder. "Is it like the plane?" he asked Harry, who was tying his boots carefully.
"Like the plane," Harry replied with a grin, having learned to appear brave. He tousled Teddy's hair. "Just don't offer Zeus any of your lunch—he's quite fussy."
Teddy laughed and drank his juice. His tiny hand found Harry's, and Harry squeezed it—a gesture of both protection and apology.
The ascent to Olympus was understated—no thunder or soaring chariots. Hera upheld her vow, rising with them cloaked as a human, veiling the lightning beneath velvet. Athena quietly rode alongside Harry, her presence cool and sharp. Artemis floated in the distance like a moonlit specter, her gaze fixed on the horizon.
As they climbed, the air altered: the clouds thinned, revealing a patchwork of fields and sea below. Mortal sounds faded away. The light became a purer white, as if the sun were closer, and the air held the essence of iron, olives, and millennia of law.
Teddy gazed out at the shrinking earth, marveling as if viewing his first night sky through a lens.
"Is Olympus very big?" he inquired after a moment, awe quivering in his voice.
"Very big," Harry answered. "Louder than fireworks."
Hera nodded approvingly at the response. "The Hall will be prepared upon our arrival," she informed them. "You will stand on the dais together. I will announce the rules aloud. You will speak. Zeus will listen."
Harry's jaw tightened. "And if he doesn't 'listen'?"
"Then I will intervene," Hera replied with chilling clarity. "I have bound my oath to the child. I intend to uphold it."
Her words left no room for debate; they were the kind of declaration that shifted tides.
Upon arrival, they found a Hall alive with anticipation. Servants of ancient vows—minor deities, winged attendants, and silent keepers of oaths—moved with clockwork precision, opening grand doors and bringing in the scents and sounds of mortals awaiting judgment. Still, the Hall itself seemed withdrawn and tense, almost like a sentient being aware of the day's precariousness.
Zeus sat awaiting them, his beard a tumultuous white storm. He remained seated when they entered—he had stood for days—but the weight of his presence was felt by all in attendance. Surrounding him were the thrones of those who had taken vows: Hera, regal and unwavering; Athena, whose gaze measured every cost of war; Artemis, ever watchful; Aphrodite, silent yet strained; and Hephaestus, sitting slightly apart, hands folded like a penitent.
There were no cheers, no warm welcomes. The Hall inhaled as if preparing for what was to come. As Harry and Hera moved forward, the air felt heavier, as though the very building measured the tension of the moment.
"You have brought the child," Zeus said instantly, almost accusatorily. His voice resonated through the marble like a bell in the heart of winter. "You stand under my roof and my laws. Speak."
Hera stepped forward, her voice rising for all to hear. "I convened this meeting seeking peace. I requested Harry Black bring the child willingly, and for the Council to receive him. We will speak without bloodshed."
Zeus's mouth formed a thin line. "You jeopardized the council with your secrecy." His gaze shifted to Harry with a flash of the old, dreadful judgment. "Why should I—why should Olympus—trust a mortal wizard to guard a divine weapon?"
Harry's voice, though low, carried strength. "Killing Teddy will not alleviate your fear. It will only create a new problem. He is just a child. He didn't ask for any of this. He harbors no malice. If you take him, you risk unleashing my wrath."
There it was: an implied threat that hung in the air like charged blood. Several heads turned, and the Hall felt both more confined and expansive—constricted with gaze on the small man and child, but vast under the weight of what they were capable of doing.
Zeus narrowed his eyes and spoke deliberately. "You brought a boy here expecting my restraint. Yet, you invoke threats. Are you prepared to bind your magic? To allow for a true test? Or do you simply disguise contempt for Olympus under the facade of reason?"
Harry met his eyes unflinchingly. "I came at Hera's request. I don't bind threats to my arrival. I brought Teddy here to speak clearly. If you desire, I will submit to an oath preventing any Olympian from harming him during this meeting. But I won't abandon him to be judged by intimidation."
A murmur swept through the assembled gods. Athena glanced at Zeus—calculation evident in the slightest tilt of her head. Artemis tightened her grip on her bow. Hestia's cheeks flushed with hearth-borne anxiety. Aphrodite had turned pale.
Zeus's jaw tensed. He rose slowly, and the Hall felt the shift like the foreboding of thunder over the sea. "Then we shall listen to you," he declared. "We will proceed in order. You will reveal the truth of your claim, and the council will render judgment."
Hera's voice was quiet but full of conviction. "And I record this rule: any harm inflicted on the child outside the law will invoke my wrath. I will enforce my oath."
Harry glanced down at Teddy, who gripped his sleeve tightly. The boy's wide, trusting eyes made Harry's anger a calmer, more deliberate force. He gave a subtle nod in response.
Voices clashed like swords. The Council Hall, typically a venue for law and measured discourse, erupted into a chaotic exchange of words. Half of the gods supported a direct approach—take the child, seize the Blade, eliminate what they deemed a threat—while the goddesses pleaded for caution, mercy, and a solution that wouldn't result in the massacre of mortals or break their oaths.
"Will you commit infanticide for simplicity's sake?" Hera's voice pierced through the disputes, intertwining iron resolve and sorrow. "Is this what you want Olympus to stand for?"
"The safety of the many surpasses the life of one," Ares—Irish—growled, his teeth bared. "If this child wields a weapon that can sway the balance of allegiances, if a single mortal can harness the Forge's power—"
"You fail to grasp the magnitude of the situation," Zeus boomed. "We cannot allow chaos to spread."
Debates ricocheted through the Hall—Poseidon's cold wisdom, Apollo's sharp remarks, and Hermes's anxious chuckling—and with each retort, the atmosphere grew tenser, as if the marble itself braced for conflict.
Then, in an instant, Ares transformed.
His skin turned iron-gray; his hair became smoke-like, evoking the tumult of battle. Muscles expanded until his robes ripped, revealing a towering figure that filled the eastern archway. Armor plates erupted from his shoulders like dark storm clouds. In place of his human face was now a harsh mask of war—a daunting and thrilling sight. The Hall fell silent at his transformation.
Zeus didn't hesitate. His form flared in response—thunder coalescing into a regal figure potentially as tall as the pillars themselves. Lightning wove through his hair, and the air crackled with the scent of storm and authority.
They aimed to intimidate—an ancient display of divine power. The gods around them became more erect; some appeared gleeful, others apprehensive. Ares's laughter echoed like distant cannon-fire. Olympus was steeped in the aroma of iron and electricity.
Harry stood watching, expression unwavering, like a dormant force ready to unleash. Then he reacted.
Not with an incantation or a boastful shout, but with the slow, inevitable emergence of something that had been dormant for too long. The space didn't just witness; it became immersed as his form grew, shifting from a man to a titan. He towered like a living monolith—twenty, twenty-five meters of immense strength, his shoulder nearly brushing the vaulted ceiling. The marble quivered. The flames of the torches flickered away, as if in deference to a deity.
The Hall held its breath.
Harry's eyes, when they locked onto Zeus's, held an unsettling quality—too deep, too cold, conveying the stillness of burial grounds. Instead of a wand or weapon, a scythe manifested in his hands—long and black as midnight, its shaft adorned with runes that absorbed light. It resonated not with music but with the quiet finality of endings.
"You believed you could frighten me because I am mortal," his voice resonated, greater than the Hall itself, echoing with shadows. It didn't raise its volume so much as establish a new contour of reality. "You thought I would cower because you are gods. You were mistaken."
Athena stepped forward, strategy forming amid her flicker of fear, while Hera's stance hardened with hurt and authority. Artemis had her bow half-drawn, her hand trembling. Aphrodite's complexion drained of color; Hestia shut her eyes as though in supplication.
Harry's scythe whirled once in the air, and a chill that bore the essence of winter and tombs swept through the chamber. "I am the son of Thanatos," he declared. The name landed heavily, sending ripples through the air. "The blood within me is older than your thrones. If you bring war to my door, understand this: I will not merely defend. I will bring about endings. I will bury Olympus under what must come."
A dozen gods opened their mouths—some to mock, others to draw weapons. Ares thundered a challenge that reverberated against the dome.
Zeus's thunder crackled, yet he refrained from attacking. There was a calculation evident in his gaze—a weighing of possibilities. He saw not just a mortal but a giant embodying a force older than his own lightning. The Hall, inhabited by immortals, suddenly felt fragile.
Hera stepped forward, her hand resting on the empty space where a weapon would lie—she needed no blade. "Harry," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "You speak as a warrior. But this is my hall of law. You are threatening the order of Olympus."
Harry's expression softened for a mere moment—not with cruelty but with a father's weariness. "Then let it be law," he replied. "Take an oath. Define the limits. But do not assume you can take Teddy without bloodshed and not expect my response."
The scythe remained in his grip like a vow. The surrounding gods exchanged glances—some with glaring hatred, others with fear. An extended, poignant silence loomed.
The world felt subtly tilted. War was no longer a distant possibility; it lingered in the air like a coiled spring, ready for one among them to make the first move.
___________________________________________
Details about bonus content can be found on my profile page.