Among the Moirai, Tyche—the Goddess of Fortune—had made her refusal clear. Phoebe, the Oracle, had withdrawn into seclusion. Leto, Goddess of Luck, now reigned as Queen of Heaven. And Kronos, God of Chance, bore no relation to the revelations of fate. The only one left was Astraea, the Starry Seer.
Leto, once a luminous presence in the night sky, now rarely appeared. As queen, she devoted herself to family, leaving much of her celestial duty to her sister Astraea, who carried the mantle of both moon and stars.
This night, the heavens gleamed without Luna's glow. Astraea, having inherited dominion over all stellar realms from Astraious, emerged in radiant splendor across the firmament.
Prometheus ascended the mountain peak and called upon the goddess, seeking her prophetic insight.
Astraea, ever gentle and unambitious, had remained neutral even when her father Coeus, God of Growth, opposed Zeus for kingship. Despite being the daughter-in-law of Perseus, the Destroyer, she had chosen her own path, untouched by mortal or divine conflict.
She descended from the night sky with a knowing smile.
"Wise foreseer," she greeted him. "Why have you summoned me?"
Prometheus first praised the goddess:
"Daughter of Prophecy, keeper of mysteries—you chart fate's course through constellations, granting frail mortals glimpses of their doom."
"I beg you," he implored, voice heavy with sorrow. "Grant me guidance."
"The last of the Silver Race has passed from my side. My grief swirls like a vortex upon the sea! Tell me, how can I keep them by me forever?"
Astraea shook her head with pity.
"Foreseer, you know well that nothing endures. Human life is as fleeting as a bloom. I urge you—do not bind your heart so deeply to those destined to wither. It will only bring you pain."
A bitter smile touched Prometheus's lips.
"I shaped them. They trust me, love me. This bond—I cannot sever it."
Moved at last by his pleas, Astraea relented, revealing a guarded truth:
"My friend Tyche gifted her son a golden apple tree. Its fruit grants divinity—and immortality—to mortal flesh."
"But these apples are rare beyond measure. Zeus would never bestow such a treasure upon humankind."
Yet Prometheus clung to this thread like a drowning man, deaf to warnings.
Bidding farewell to Astraea, he journeyed to the sacred garden atop Olympus. At its heart stood the fabled tree, bathed in vigilance—guarded ceaselessly, for Zeus cherished it above all else.
Nike, Goddess of Victory, dozed beneath its boughs, her spear gleaming cold in the moonlight. Prometheus crouched unseen among the blooms, searching desperately for a ripe fruit.
The tree had flourished, yet few apples adorned its branches. To pluck even one would surely rouse Nike. With the rites drawing near and Nike showing no sign of departing, Prometheus withdrew in frustration.
He lingered outside the garden, hoping for fortune's favor—but none came. With no choice, he returned to the earth below to attend the sacred ceremony.
The Ironborn bustled about, preparing offerings. They slaughtered beasts, kindled fires with myrrh and frankincense, laying rich gifts upon altars in homage to the gods.
As humanity lifted their voices in unison, an invisible current surged forth. Faith poured from their hearts, nourishing the divine essence of the assembled immortals.
Sated by worship, the gods reveled in their renewed strength. Their godhood, once dulled by neglect, now shimmered with power.
No longer needing Zeus's urging, the deities clamored for greater devotion—demanding lavish feasts and opulent temples. Mankind, unable to meet these impossible demands, sacrificed all they had, offering every morsel to the gods.
Progress halted; hunger spread. Yet the gods remained insatiable. Angered by their greed, Prometheus resolved to deceive them.
He divided a white bull into two portions—one of tender meat, cleverly concealed beneath a layer of dark entrails; the other, bones and offal cloaked in thick, glistening fat.
He presented the offerings to the gods, allowing them to choose one portion, leaving the remainder for mankind to feast upon.
Dione sighed at the transparent trickery. Such a ruse might fool Kronos's wolves, but how could Prometheus, a foreseer of destinies, resort to such clumsy deceit?
Indeed, the gods saw through the ploy at once.
Zeus's voice rang out in quiet fury:
"O Creator of Men, see how unjustly you have divided!"
Silent, Prometheus bowed low, inviting them to choose.
In solemn silence, Zeus selected the gilded pile of bones. Upon lifting the veil of fat, he thundered:
"Wretched Prometheus! Do you dare mock the gods?!"
Dark clouds gathered. Lightning forked across the heavens like inverted trees, illuminating the altar with blinding brilliance. Thunder rolled like war drums, shaking the bones of men.
As punishment, Zeus commanded the fire-bearing gods to reclaim their gifts. Hestia, Keeper of the Hearth, and Hephaestus, Smith of the Gods, withdrew flame from mortal hands. Clouds swallowed the sun, and warmth fled from the world.
Deprived of light, the Ironborn ceased their wars, huddling in fear within caves and homes, pleading with the gods to return the fire.
Yet the gods, drunk on faith, withheld it gladly.
Unable to endure the darkness, Prometheus broke a sturdy stalk of fennel, climbed the highest peak, and waited where the sun's chariot passed.
Upon the mountaintop pierced by storm-wracked skies, he stole fire from the sun's wheel and brought radiance back to the world.
When questioned, he lied boldly—that the spark had come not from theft, but from lightning striking the forests.
The gods departed, disgruntled yet defeated.
And so, all seemed restored—as if the rites had never occurred.
The gods seethed with indignation at Prometheus's audacity and the insolence of mankind. Yet Zeus remained serene, his expression unreadable as he summoned Hephaestus, the divine craftsman.
"O skillful artisan," the King of Gods proclaimed, "the Cyclopes themselves have praised your mastery, declaring your craft superior even to theirs. From this day forth, you shall be the god of craftsmanship among the immortals."
Hephaestus beamed at the honor—until Zeus's next words sent a chill through his heart.
"Prometheus's creations have offered us their worship," Zeus continued, voice as smooth as sea breeze. "And so, as sovereign of the divine, I too shall bestow a gift upon humanity."
To those who knew him well, that calm tone carried the scent of ruin.
Bound by duty, Hephaestus could not refuse. He set to work under divine command—to forge a perfect woman, and alongside her, an unbreakable vessel, one capable of bearing the weight of suffering and sin.
Dedicating himself to the task, Hephaestus scoured the earth for the finest materials. Pure clay and sacred springwater formed her exquisite body; rich soil shaped her flowing tresses; black gemstones gleamed in place of eyes; crystal bones shimmered beneath her skin.
At Zeus's decree, each god bestowed a gift upon her.
Aphrodite granted beauty and grace; Athena endowed reason and wisdom; Hera blessed her with fertility; Demeter crowned her with floral abundance; Artemis gifted dexterity; Apollo lent his voice melodious. Each boon adorned her like celestial armor, rendering her nearly divine in splendor.
Finally, Zeus stepped forward, planting within her the seed of curiosity—the desire to seek the unknown.
Yet one final gift was missing. The power over souls resided with Prometheus, sole heir to his father Iapetus, now imprisoned in Tartarus. Thus, she lacked life itself.
She was named Pandora—meaning "All-Gifted"—a being fashioned from the bounty of heaven. Her form rested beside the golden apple tree in the sacred garden, guarded by Zeus's own attendants.
Once Pandora was complete, Zeus lifted the ornate box forged by Hephaestus.
"O gods," he declared, "you have filled her with every blessing. Now, I bid you seal within this casket all that opposes such gifts."
"This shall be our test—to see if mortals are truly worthy of salvation."
One by one, the gods cast their offerings into the chest—ignorance, falsehood, hunger, and other twisted curses. Only Kronos, Lord of Ruin, placed within evolution and endurance—a gift wrapped in hardship.
Zeus added chance, and finally, Athena, ever the goddess of wisdom, laid within a fragile ember—hope. For what rational mind would cling to a flicker of possibility?
The box was placed in Pandora's hands, awaiting the moment it would be opened.
In the days that followed, Zeus seemed to forget Prometheus's defiance, turning instead to the distribution of mortal faith among the gods.
Yet from the moment Pandora was shaped, Prometheus sensed the doom woven into her creation. Restless and troubled, he ventured to Olympus under a moonless sky.
He found the garden aglow with golden light—but Nike, its usual guardian, was absent. In her stead stood Dione.
Emerging from the shadows, Prometheus confronted her.
"Why did you allow Zeus to create her? Mankind was sculpted from the minerals of the earth—I believed you accepted their place upon this world."
Cloaked in Tyche's guise, the winter goddess smiled gently, her fingers tracing the bark of the golden apple tree.
"I thought we understood each other," she murmured. "As for my reasons—you already know them."
She plucked the ripest fruit from the boughs and pressed it into his palm.
"Take it."
"Mankind was always meant to rise, Prometheus. Every Primordial desires their growth—it serves all our ends."
It was precisely this truth that had emboldened Prometheus to stand against the gods. He listened, silent, as she continued.
"You have shaped three generations of humankind. Tell me—which of them do you believe resembles the gods?"
The question stilled him. The Golden Race had been too kind, the Silver too weak, the Iron too warlike. None bore the image of divinity.
"I told you once before," she said softly. "Let them walk their own path. Their fate is not ours to shape. Destiny has already decided their course."
"Where there is light, shadow must follow. Through virtue and vice alike, they shall carve their way forward—a first step toward something eternal."
She gestured toward the living masterpiece.
"Choose, foreseer. Shall they ascend through pain and trial—or live out fleeting lives beneath your protection?"
Gazing upon the woman born of blessings and curses, Prometheus reached out and touched her brow, breathing into her the soul she lacked.
At once, the gifts of the gods awakened. Knowledge surged through her mind, and guided by insatiable curiosity, Pandora turned from Olympus and descended to the mortal world—bearing trial and transformation in her wake.
Watching her vanish into the distance, Tyche whispered:
"For some time yet, Pontus will threaten you. For your safety, the theft of the golden apple shall be blamed upon you. Urea shall guard the cave of Caucasus. There, you shall remain hidden."
Prometheus bowed in silent acceptance.
"Foreseer," she added, "I have honored your aid. That fragment of your divinity I hold shall become a new vessel—an echo of your consciousness. You may yet remain near mankind, though in another form."
Long ago, during the creation of the Sirens, Prometheus had entrusted a shard of his godhood to Tyche, foreseeing the trials ahead.
Now, sealed within a silver casket, it was given into Iris's keeping. By divine decree, she delivered it to Philyra, the lime-tree nymph of the Invisible Isle.
Following Zeus's command, Philyra placed the essence within her sacred tree, where it would gestate anew. Soon, a new life would awaken.
Thus, Tyche had done all she could. Should Prometheus ever turn against her, that nascent form would serve as a countermeasure—a vessel to inherit his office and supplant him should he falter.
And his exile—once a safeguard—would become irrevocably justified.