CHAPTER 108: PLOTTING (PART 1)

The throne room still echoed with the fading growls of thunder. Zeus stood before us, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths, as though each inhalation was an act of defiance against some invisible force. The golden light in his eyes — unnatural, cold — had finally dimmed. Now there was only the familiar storm-grey gaze, wary and sharp, fixed on the three of us.

"What... happened to me?" he asked, voice low, almost hoarse. "I... I remember rage, and... something pulling at me. Like my will was... buried."

Ares stepped forward, gripping his spear tightly. "You were being controlled. But by who... or what? We don’t know."

Hermes gave a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "We barely got you free before you turned us into a collection of divine ash heaps."

Zeus’s expression darkened. "Then we have a problem. If my mind was shackled... it means the rest of Olympus could already be compromised."

I crossed my arms, hiding the churn of unease in my stomach. "They are," I said quietly. "The Council meetings have been different. Decisions... too unanimous. Gods agreeing on matters they’ve argued about for centuries. Something is smoothing over every difference — and that’s not natural."

For a moment, silence hung between us. The truth was too large, too dangerous, to say aloud without the walls themselves seeming to lean in and listen.

Zeus looked down at his hands, curling them into fists. "If we confront them openly, whoever is behind this will know we’re aware. And they’ll adjust."

"Then we don’t confront," Hermes said, his voice quick, decisive. "We investigate. Quietly. That’s my specialty."

Ares raised an eyebrow. "Your specialty is stealing wine from Dionysus."

"And you’re welcome for that," Hermes replied, smirking before his expression turned serious again. "But if they can control Zeus — the king of Olympus — the rest of us are vulnerable. We need to find out how deep this goes."

I stepped closer to Zeus. "Do you feel anything still... lingering? Any thread of that control?"

Zeus closed his eyes, concentrating. "No. But that doesn’t mean they can’t try again."

"Then we work fast," I said.

---

We left the throne room in different directions, as if nothing had happened. From the outside, we would look like four gods going about their daily affairs — not like a small, fragile alliance hiding the truth from the most dangerous audience in existence.

I began in the Hall of Records. It was usually a place of quiet: rows upon rows of scrolls and tablets, their surfaces etched with centuries of divine decrees and historical events. But as I ran my fingers over the bindings, I noticed something. Too many of the recent records were identical in handwriting and style, even those attributed to different scribes. No variations. No personality. Every decree was written with the same perfect, cold precision.

Hermes appeared at my side without a sound, holding a small leather-bound ledger. "I found this in the trade archives," he whispered. "It lists shipments of ambrosia... to places that don’t exist."

I frowned. "Don’t exist?"

He flipped the book open to a page of destinations: names I had never heard, lands that weren’t on any map — mortal or divine. "And these are signed off by multiple gods. Look at the seals."

I studied the pressed wax. They were flawless. Too flawless. "This... isn’t normal."

We didn’t linger. We split again, agreeing to meet after sunset in the old stables of Pegasus, a place few visited now.

---

When I arrived, Ares was already there, leaning against a pillar, arms crossed. "I spoke to Hephaestus," he said. "He was... polite. Too polite. Didn’t even grumble about me showing up in his forge. He just handed me a sword and wished me luck." He looked away. "That’s not him."

Zeus came in last, his expression grim. "Hestia didn’t even recognize me," he said quietly. "She looked straight at me, smiled, and asked how my reign was going. As if she wasn’t my sister."

A chill traced my spine. "This isn’t just control. It’s... rewriting them."

Hermes tapped his chin. "If it’s rewriting memory, we might not have much time before they try the same thing on us."

"And if it’s memory control," I said, "the Fates would know. Unless..."

"Unless they’re gone," Ares finished.

Zeus met my gaze. "You tried to find them, didn’t you?"

I hesitated, but nodded. "The entrance to their hall is sealed. No — worse. It’s like it was never there."

The silence that followed was heavier than any thunderbolt.

---

We decided the next step wasn’t to storm anywhere or to challenge the Council — that would be suicide. Instead, we’d slip through the cracks of Olympus, finding pockets of truth where the influence hadn’t fully settled.

We started with the lower levels of the palace, where the mortal envoys came to plead their cases. Mortals weren’t supposed to linger, but I noticed something unusual: the ones who left did so with the same glazed smiles, the same oddly rehearsed blessings to the gods.

Hermes intercepted one such envoy, a young man clutching a scroll to his chest. "Where are you from, friend?" Hermes asked lightly.

"From... from the blessed fields of..." The man’s eyes flickered, confusion passing over them like a cloud across the sun. Then his smile returned. "From the blessed fields of Evergold. May Olympus reign eternal."

Evergold didn’t exist. We checked later, combing through maps in the library. No mortal kingdom by that name had ever been recorded — in any age.

---

That night, we reconvened again, our findings spread across the stone table of the stables. The pattern was becoming clear: fabricated places, falsified histories, and gods behaving like pale reflections of themselves. It wasn’t just mind control. It was an invasion of reality itself.

"We can’t trust anyone but each other," Hermes said.

Zeus leaned over the table. "Then we find where this influence is strongest... and we follow it to its source."

"And if it’s one of us?" I asked quietly.

Zeus’s eyes hardened. "Then we deal with them."

---

We began mapping movements — who attended which meetings, who signed which decrees, who had access to the library archives. Slowly, painfully, a pattern emerged: the center of this control seemed to radiate from the Council chambers, specifically from the private quarters adjacent to the Hall of Judgments.

"That’s Hera’s territory," Hermes noted, his tone suddenly guarded.

Zeus didn’t speak for a long moment. When he finally did, his voice was almost a whisper. "Then we tread carefully."

We all knew why. If Hera was involved — or if she was another victim — confronting her could shatter Olympus before we even understood what we were facing.

For now, we stayed in the shadows. Four gods pretending not to notice the threads tightening around their world, while quietly, invisibly, working to cut them.

---

The corridors of Olympus were never truly silent, but now the air carried an unnatural hush. The familiar murmurs of gods conversing in the great halls had been replaced by an almost mechanical order: footsteps in perfect rhythm, voices stripped of warmth, faces that moved but did not feel.

Aphrodite walked slowly through the marble passage, a faint smile on her lips, the kind she used when she needed to appear harmless. Every step was measured, every glance deliberately casual. She could feel the eyes on her—loyal guards of Zeus, priests of Apollo, attendants of Hera—each one watching, evaluating, as though waiting for the smallest slip.

"Keep walking," Hermes’ voice whispered at her side without moving his lips. "We don’t want them thinking we’re too friendly."

"I’m a goddess of love," Aphrodite murmured back, still smiling. "They already think I’m friendly with everyone."

Ahead, Ares leaned against a colonnade, arms crossed, pretending to be bored. His eyes, however, were sharp as spearpoints, sweeping the hall for signs of danger. "The council’s gathering tonight," he said under his breath when they drew close enough. "Half the gods will be there. If they’re still under whatever control this is, we’ll have to act before the whole pantheon starts marching in lockstep."

Aphrodite pretended to admire the carving on a pillar, running her fingers along the cold stone. "Act how? March into the throne room and declare we’ve uncovered a conspiracy? We don’t even know who is pulling the strings."

Hermes gave the faintest smirk. "That’s what we’re here to find out. Discreetly."

They moved as a trio, seemingly aimless, weaving between side halls and temple wings where the watchers were fewer. Hermes, ever the trickster, palmed tiny bronze drachmae marked with runes and left them on ledges, in alcoves, behind statues. Aphrodite knew the coins were enchanted—listening devices of a sort, subtle enough to pass unnoticed even by divine senses.

Their first stop was the Hall of Echoes, an archive of recorded decrees and speeches from Olympus’ rulers. Normally, the scrolls here were open to any god. Now, two heavily armored sentinels stood at the entrance, their eyes glassy.

"I’ll handle this," Ares said, stepping forward with a soldier’s confidence. He exchanged a few clipped words about "inspection orders" and "security measures," his voice edged with the authority of the god of war. The sentinels obeyed without question, stepping aside.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of cedar and old parchment. Aphrodite ran her hand along the shelves, her fingers brushing scrolls that should have been centuries old. But when she unrolled one, her breath caught—some decrees referenced events that hadn’t happened yet. Wars between kingdoms that didn’t yet exist. Alliances forged by mortals whose names she had never heard. And stranger still, accounts of gods taking part in events she knew had not occurred... or at least, not yet.

"Ares," she called softly. He came over, scanning the parchment. His jaw tightened.

"This... doesn’t make sense," Hermes said from behind her. "It’s like the timeline’s been rewritten."

"Not rewritten," Aphrodite corrected, lowering her voice. "Replaced. These aren’t altered records—they were always like this. Which means..." She trailed off, her mind piecing together the implications.

"They’re being fed false history," Ares finished. "And if the others believe it’s real, they’ll act according to it."

Hermes’ expression darkened. "We’re not just dealing with control. We’re dealing with someone trying to reshape the entire foundation of divine memory."

They didn’t linger. Ares led them deeper into the less-patrolled wings, to the Chamber of Oaths, where sworn pacts between gods and mortals were magically bound to stone tablets. Here too, Aphrodite noticed gaps—empty spaces where certain oaths should have been recorded. It was as if some alliances had been erased entirely.

"This is dangerous," she said quietly. "If the Moirai were free, they could tell us if these events ever truly happened."

Ares looked grim. "Which is why they were sealed away."

They spent the next hours moving between key points in Olympus—the Temple of Apollo’s prophecies, the Hall of Mortal Champions, the sacred archives of Athena. Everywhere, they found the same pattern: records warped, timelines inconsistent, pieces of history either nonexistent or impossibly premature. And always, the same silent, watchful eyes trailing them.

By dusk, the three met on the balcony of an abandoned banquet hall overlooking the city below. The sunset bathed Olympus in gold, but the beauty felt hollow, like a painted backdrop hiding something rotten.

"We need more than scraps of evidence," Hermes said, leaning against the marble rail. "We need to know how they’re doing this. The mind control is one thing, but altering records in places no power should touch? That’s another."

"I think it’s all the same power," Aphrodite replied. "Control over minds, control over memory, control over truth itself." She hesitated, her voice dropping. "And if that’s the case... the longer we wait, the less we’ll be able to trust our own memories."

Ares turned to her sharply. "Then we move fast. Strike before they notice we’re not under their influence."

"That would be suicide," Hermes said flatly. "We don’t know the scope of their control. For all we know, everyone else in Olympus is already compromised."

Aphrodite looked between them, weighing her next words carefully. "Then we stay invisible. Keep gathering proof until we can expose this to someone powerful enough to resist it. Zeus was able to break free, at least for a moment. If we can reach him again—"

Ares shook his head. "No. After the fight, he’ll be watched closer than anyone. If we approach him too soon, they’ll know we’re onto them."

Hermes tapped the balcony rail, thinking. "We need a safe base. Somewhere in Olympus they can’t see us."

"Good luck finding that," Ares muttered.

But Aphrodite’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Maybe I already know a place." She glanced toward the shadowed slopes beyond the city walls, where the ruins of an ancient temple lay hidden in overgrown gardens. Few remembered it now—a sanctuary older than Olympus itself, dedicated to powers even the current pantheon barely acknowledged.

"They won’t expect us to hide there," she said. "It’s outside the central wards. Forgotten."

Hermes raised a brow. "If you’re wrong, and they do know about it, we’ll be walking into a trap."

"If I’m wrong," Aphrodite said, meeting his gaze, "then we’re already doomed."

They agreed to meet there under cover of night. For now, they would return to their separate domains, acting as if nothing was amiss. But as Aphrodite walked away from the balcony, the weight of what they had discovered settled heavily on her.