Deep within the Underworld, by the banks of the Styx—the River of Oaths renowned even among the Olympians—the grayish-brown waters shimmered with a faint blue-purple light under the cold glow of the Nether Moon. From time to time, heart-wrenching screams of despair echoed from the current: the cries of deities who had broken their vows and been dragged into the depths.
Beside the Styx stood a singular palace. Few gods dared to venture here, for this was the sanctuary of the elusive sisters who governed destiny and pitiless retribution: the Temple of the Moirai.
Constructed of ancient, unadorned stone, the high temple housed twelve towering monoliths arranged in perfect symmetry. The divine power of Fate permeated the air. The pillars rotated at a steady, unhurried pace, wound with silver-blue threads of destiny that flowed like a stream. These threads passed through two strange, floating rings in the center before cascading down to the three goddesses seated at the base.
Once the daughters of Nyx, they had experienced a mysterious death in a hidden era. With their mother's help and the combined essences of Zeus and Themis, they had been reborn. Theoretically, they owed the Master of Thunder the title of Father.
The Moirai wore simple gray robes, devoid of jewelry. Beneath their unadorned hair were three faces of striking resemblance, yet each represented a different stage of life.
Clotho, the youngest, possessed a face of youthful beauty. Her pale, slender fingers plucked a single strand from the sea of threads. Her silver eyes tracked it with interest as her fingertips glowed, spinning the thread of a new life.
Once finished, she passed it to Lachesis, who appeared as a woman in her middle years, radiating a mature grace. Her golden eyes scrutinized the thread before she made a faint mark upon it—assigning a destiny and bestowing the ever-shifting measures of fortune and calamity. She then passed it to the eldest, Atropos.
Atropos was ancient. Her gray eyes were as still as an old well. With a pair of golden shears held in her wrinkled hand, she made a decisive cut based on Lachesis's mark.
With those few simple movements, the life of a being was decided, final and immutable. It was no wonder the gods feared them and kept their distance.
"My sisters... cease your work for a moment. An exalted guest has arrived."
Atropos slowly lowered her golden shears. As she did, the stone pillars ground to a halt; the adjudication of Fate paused. Somewhere in the world, a few fortunate souls likely escaped a cruel end at that moment, though the mysteries of Fate ensured they would never know why.
"Great King of Gods, Master of Thunder—since you are here, pray, enter."
At her words, the massive gates of the Temple of Fate slowly opened. A majestic eagle soared inside, and with a flash of electricity, the tall, handsome King of Gods manifested before the three sisters.
"Lady Atropos, your intuition remains as sharp as ever," Zeus said amiably. He addressed them as "Lady," for despite his role in their rebirth, their true mother was the Primordial Goddess of Night. Her status was so exalted that even he did not dare to overstep the bounds of their relationship.
"It is merely a nudge from Fate," Atropos replied coolly, her gray eyes seeming to pierce through him. "What brings the King of Gods to our temple? Your destiny is not governed by the Moirai."
As a Fate-spinner, Atropos did not claim to be a controller of destiny. She understood its terrifying volatility better than anyone. Eons ago, they had paid a heavy price for attempting to manipulate it. Reborn, they were humble spokeswomen, fulfilling the duties of the nebulous World Will.
"Lady Atropos, I come seeking answers to a revelation," Zeus stated.
The matter was too grave for pleasantries. Though Prometheus possessed the gift of prophecy, Zeus did not trust him. He had chosen to visit the Underworld in secret to consult the Fates.
"Not long ago, I had a dream. The light of Olympus grew dim, and its glory collapsed. The immortal gods lost their strength and grew decrepit with age. It was... the Twilight of the Gods."
Zeus's gaze was heavy. As a god, he did not sleep, and he certainly did not dream without cause. A dream for the King of the Twelve Major Gods was a warning that could not be ignored.
"Oh?" The youthful Clotho looked surprised. "Great King, do you suspect this is a warning from the world itself?"
"I fear so, Lady Clotho," Zeus replied, his tone softening as he looked upon her lovely face. The King was always a master of charm when dealing with beauty.
"Fate is a collection of constants and variables," Lachesis, the measure of fortune, added. "A dream may reveal the most probable future, but it is not necessarily the inevitable conclusion."
"Then how do I avoid it?"
Zeus was a firm believer in avoiding "fixed" fates. He had escaped being swallowed by Cronus and had later swallowed Metis to protect his throne—at least for the time being.
"..."
The Moirai fell silent. Clotho and Lachesis looked to Atropos, uncertain if intervening now would invite a backlash. Atropos remained silent for so long that Zeus nearly lost his composure.
Finally, the ancient goddess sighed. Her gray eyes emitted a faint light, and thick, ink-like dark markings appeared around her eyes. She was invoking her authority to peer into the core of Fate.
"Great King, I can reveal nothing more... save for this." Atropos closed her eyes, the dark markings fading. "Beware of humans. Beware of their potential and their possibilities."
As she finished, Atropos looked exhausted. Her already aged face withered further before his eyes, turning as dry as dead wood—the price of peering into the deepest secrets.
"I understand. My thanks for your aid, Moirai. Remember, there shall always be a place for you on the mountain."
Zeus, possessing the stolen wisdom of Metis, knew he would get no more. He offered a final gesture of sincerity and transformed back into an eagle, soaring out of the temple.
"Atropos, sister... you know the price of interfering with the destiny of the gods," the two younger sisters said, taking her hands. They funneled their shared divine essence into her to repair the damage.
"Sigh... had the King asked only of his own fate, we could have ignored him. But this concerns the fate of all gods. We are of the divine race; let this be our repayment to Zeus and Themis for our rebirth."
In the ancient beginning, Chaos created the world, followed by the five Primordials: Gaia, the foundation; Tartarus, the abyss; Eros, the embodiment of desire; Erebus, the darkness; and Nyx, the night. According to the original destiny, Chaos had chosen Eros as the first King—for his power over desire was irresistible even to Primordials.
But the Primordials feared his control over the mind and heart. Gaia, in particular, was exhausted by endless union and labor. The Primordials conspired to change Fate; they slew Eros, returning his essence to the omnipresent rules so that desire could never again be concentrated in one hand.
The price of that rebellion was heavy. Ananke, the intended daughter of Nyx and controller of all necessity and fate, was fractured by the backlash. She was split into three and trapped within her mother's womb, unable to be born—until Zeus and Themis provided a surrogate lineage to bypass the cosmic sentence.
Zeus returned to Mount Olympus undetected. He sat upon his throne, pondering the warning.
Twilight of the Gods... Hera's dream spoke of 'Man'... The Moirai spoke of 'potential'...
What was wrong with humans? Prometheus had promised they would be the gods' most loyal servants. Recently, the Titan had been begging him to grant humans the "Thunderbolt Fire"—fire sparked by Zeus's own artifact. Zeus had sensed something off and had only promised to "consider" it.
What made these creatures so special? Prometheus had never shown such devotion to the previous Golden Human Race.
Zeus stood up. Using his sovereignty, he descended to the mortal realm in disguise. He would see for himself what there was to fear in Prometheus's toys.
The Master of Thunder masked his towering height and divine radiance, slipping easily into the crowds. Under Prometheus's care, the humans looked carefree. Under Hebe's blessing, their bodies were in their prime—athletic, agile, and full of strength. Aside from their lack of divine power and smaller size, they looked remarkably like the gods themselves. Zeus felt a twinge of instinctive dislike.
He approached a group of youths strolling by the sea, listening to their conversation.
"Are the gods eternal?" one asked. Zeus's heart skipped a beat as he waited for the answer.
"Of course," another replied. "Prometheus and Hebe created us. The gods protect us. In our hearts, they are eternal."
Zeus relaxed slightly. At least they were pious.
"But the gods look almost exactly like us," the first youth noted. "How do we distinguish a man from a god?"
"What a strange question. The gods have divine power and artifacts. We do not."
"...Then, if we obtained power and artifacts... would we become gods?"
"Shh! Mind your words! If the gods hear you, they will strike you down!"
Zeus did not follow them further. Those words had chilled his spine. He dissolved into a wisp of smoke and returned to his throne.
The New Humanity... Prometheus had gifted them with every noble quality, making their hearts pure and grateful. But they were too brilliant. Those noble qualities catalyzed their wisdom. They had begun to explore, to experiment, and to question the essence of divinity.
If we obtained power, would we become gods?
That question haunted him. If their wisdom continued to evolve, their faith would eventually crumble.
Beware of their potential...
The wisdom of Metis sparked within him. Zeus shuddered as the realization hit him. There were many types of fire: Hestia's hearth-fire, Hephaestus's volcanic fire, Apollo's solar fire. Why did Prometheus insist on the "Thunderbolt Fire"?
Because Zeus had swallowed Metis. He had absorbed and fused with her. His thunderbolt was imbued with her essence—the Original, Purest Wisdom. Only his fire could accelerate the explosion of human intellect.
Zeus felt a surge of fury—the fury of a king who had been played for a fool.
Prometheus was attempting to create a species that could escape the control of the gods. Humans were meant to be servants, providing faith. They did not need wisdom. Only the ignorant and the chaotic were truly easy to control.
The King of Gods sat upon his throne, his sky-blue eyes flashing with a gathering storm.