"Please, help us claim the Sovereign Seats left behind by our mother. They were meant for us!"
At their plea, a clarity struck Tyche like lightning.
The vacant Sovereigns.
How could she have overlooked it? Rhea and Cronus had both held Sovereign Thrones—two seats now left unclaimed. With only ten High Gods in existence, those two missing thrones formed a gaping void in the divine order.
If new holders claimed them before Zeus' ascension was sealed, their voices could tip the balance irreversibly.
A chill ran through her. She gripped the armrest of her throne, mind racing with implications.
She gave a slow nod, her voice measured but firm. "Indeed, the Sovereign Seats of your parents should pass to their rightful heirs. I, too, inherited my domain from my elders. It is only just that you follow the same path."
Poseidon's face lit up at her agreement, his impatience barely contained. Hades, ever more composed, studied her carefully.
"And what do you ask in return?" he asked quietly.
Tyche met his gaze without hesitation.
"Your support for Zeus as King of Heaven."
The brothers exchanged a glance—then, without delay, they accepted.
They understood the truth well enough: power not claimed would be lost.
As the two departed, Tyche leaned back in thought.
To fulfill their request, she needed only one thing: time.
If she could guide them to Middle Godhood before they reached maturity, one of the vacant Seats would surely fall into their hands. As for the other…
It was likely Gaia would push for Demeter's ascension. With a rhythmic tap of her fingers against her goblet, Tyche settled on the goddess of agriculture as the most probable heir.
Demeter's affinity with growth was undeniable. And even if Crius sought her hand in marriage, the advantage still lay with Zeus' faction.
After all, Iapetus had sworn upon the Styx—a bond he could not break without forfeiting his divinity.
With herself, Zeus, Phoebe and Koios, Mnemosyne, and Themis, the count stood at six votes. Even if Themis wavered toward her brother, and Crius managed to secure the two new Sovereigns, it would remain a stalemate.
Unless—
Unless the deadlock led to war.
Would Crius truly dare propose a trial by battle?
Tyche exhaled sharply.
Zeus would not shrink from such a challenge. But as a newly-ascended High God, he lacked the experience and raw power of the elder Titan. A contest of strength could favor Crius.
Yet she believed in her son.
Zeus would rise.
She summoned Iris at once, sending word to Olympus.
And as she reflected on how close she had come to overlooking the missing thrones, an unease stirred again in her chest.
Who had kept this secret hidden?
Who had ensured no god spoke of the two vacant Sovereigns—until now?
Then it struck her.
Mnemosyne.
The realization came swiftly.
It was no coincidence that the revelation had come from Hades and Poseidon.
Mnemosyne had orchestrated it.
Not openly betraying Zeus' cause—but subtly nudging events forward, ensuring the final pieces were revealed before the game concluded.
Was she warning Tyche?
Or testing her?
Tyche summoned Mnemosyne to her temple.
The Goddess of Memory arrived with quiet grace, her expression unreadable.
"You seek to break your vow," Tyche observed, watching her closely.
Mnemosyne shook her head. "I will not bring fate's wrath upon myself. I will keep my promise to you—Zeus shall be King. This is the second time I swear it."
Tyche narrowed her eyes. "Then why hide the matter of Rhea and Cronus' thrones?"
Mnemosyne did not answer immediately.
Instead, she offered a single warning:
"Tyche… act quickly. Help Rhea's sons claim one of the vacant Seats before it is taken from them."
Then she turned and vanished into the shadows.
Alone once more, Tyche stared after her, thoughts churning.
Now that she considered it, it had been Mnemosyne who first let the secret slip.
Why?
Had she been forced by Gaia? Or was there another motive—hidden beneath layers of foresight and silence?
She dismissed the possibility that Mnemosyne had turned against her. If she had, she would never have exposed the missing thrones.
No, this was something else.
Something deeper.
And the key, she realized, lay with Hades and Poseidon.
Fate had placed them in her hands for a reason.
But patience was not easily won.
She watched them closely, guiding their steps with careful intent.
In the Underworld, spirits flocked to Hades' side. In Tartarus and Lethe's embrace, he planted golden wheat along the banks of the rivers of death. Souls, mistaking the glow for the light of rebirth, gathered in growing numbers.
For this, Nyx blessed him with the Dominion of Peace in Death, and with it, the sacred rites of burial.
Hades, once a mere bearer of wealth, now walked steadily toward Middle Godhood.
Poseidon, however, faced a colder reception.
Oceanus' children were many, and the ocean itself already shared among the Naiads and Oceanids. There was little room for a newcomer—even one of Rhea's bloodline.
Though none dared oppose him outright, indifference proved its own kind of cruelty.
Even so, Tyche refused to abandon him. She had promised protection.
And promises, unlike gods, endured.
Thus began the final phase of the struggle—not with open war, but with unseen threads pulling taut beneath the surface.
Zeus' coronation loomed.
But the game was not yet over.
And the last move had not been played.
Poseidon, denied a place among the Oceanids and Naiads, turned instead to the conceptual sea-gods for support. With Elektra's quiet intervention, he found an unexpected ally in Keto, Goddess of Sea Monsters—whose domain overlapped his own.
Their powers resonated in harmony; together, they commanded both the chaos and majesty of the deep.
At his daughter's urging, Pontus granted Poseidon dominion over Rhythm —a force that bound tides to celestial motion. Thus, he became the second ocean deity—after Eurynome—to wield both phenomenon and concept.
Yet this blessing came at a cost.
The ebb and flow of the seas shifted subtly, infringing upon Tyche's own domain of currents. She understood Pontus' intent all too well—he was testing her restraint, banking on her unwillingness to oppose a future Sovereign.
Tyche seethed—but did not retaliate.
Instead, she let Poseidon chase Amphitrite, her sister and the goddess of marine protection. Yet the wary nymph evaded him at every turn, shifting into swan or fish whenever he drew near.
Refusing to be cornered by Pontus' maneuvering, Tyche countered with quiet cunning. She redefined her role within the seas, claiming sovereignty over Marine Life . In doing so, she reclaimed balance—and silenced the old god's ambitions.
As their power grew, so too did the day when Hades and Poseidon would inherit their Sovereign Seats.
Hades moved first.
With golden wheat fields blooming along the banks of Lethe and Styx, he calmed the restless dead, easing the burdens of the Underworld. Even Selene, ever-busy guiding souls through the night, found time to breathe.
Nyx herself acknowledged his worth.
And Hades, once an outsider, found solace among the solemn denizens of the realm. Where Olympus reveled, the Underworld honored purpose. He embraced its stillness, and in return, it embraced him.
Poseidon followed close behind.
Guided by Tyche's hand, he delved into the ocean's primordial essence, emerging as a Middle God. His rise was swift, yet earned.
Iris and Alke arrived bearing urgent news from Olympus.
"Demeter walks closely beside Crius," Iris reported. "Their bond grows stronger by the day."
Alke added, "But Hestia and Hera remain more reserved. Especially Hera—she has visited your temple twice, remembering your aid during Rhea's fall."
Tyche's voice was calm but sharp. "Have all three ascended?"
The Rainbow Sisters shook their heads.
"Demeter alone has reached Middle Godhood—with Gaia's gift of Maternity. The others linger at the threshold."
A grim understanding settled over her.
If Demeter became Crius' bride, then Gaia had indeed chosen a side.
And if Iapetus had struck a deal with Oceanus—one orchestrated by Gaia—then the Soul God's allegiance might shift before the final vote.
Worse still—if Gaia offered enough incentive, Iapetus could bypass the throne entirely and bestow his Sovereign Seat upon Atlas, his eldest son.
That would nullify his earlier oath to Zeus.
A betrayal veiled in legality.
Tyche traced the contours of the worst-case scenario:
Zeus, herself, Phoebe, Koios, Mnemosyne—five votes.
Add either Hades or Poseidon, and it would reach six.
But on the other side:
Hyperion and Theia, Themis, Crius, Atlas (should Iapetus step down), and Demeter—another six.
A stalemate.
Unless war decided the outcome.
She had prepared for this.
Even now, the Lake-Nymph Shield rested in Zeus' hands—a relic imbued with the sky's will and the crystal barrier's might. It would grant him a decisive edge against Crius.
All awaited the final reckoning.
Upon Mount Othrys, the gods gathered in tense anticipation.
To avoid deadlock, all agreed—the two vacant Sovereign Seats must be filled before the King's coronation.
Thus, the last pieces were set in motion.
Hades and Demeter took their places among the High Gods, their ascent inevitable.
Two new Sovereigns emerged.
The assembly split evenly—six to each side.
Themis and Theia avoided their gazes.
Then came Iapetus' declaration.
He relinquished his seat to Atlas.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Atlas—powerful, yes, but never expected to ascend so soon—now stood among the High.
The balance teetered.
Six to six.
The moment stretched thin.
Just as Tyche rose to propose trial by combat, a soft sigh broke the silence.
Mnemosyne.
She met Tyche's gaze, eyes heavy with sorrow.
"I warned you," she murmured. "But you did not see."
Zeus stiffened. So did Phoebe and Koios.
Mnemosyne exhaled, bitterness clear in her tone.
"O Goddess of Chance and Choice… you entrusted fate to another's hands."
Her lips curled in something between pity and regret.
"And now, even you shall be swept away by the current of destiny."