CHAPTER 109: PLOTTING (PART 2)

The moon was high when Aphrodite reached the sanctuary. The old path was almost gone, swallowed by roots and moss, but she remembered each bend and turn as if the stones themselves whispered her way forward. The ruins appeared at last—tumbled columns, their fluted edges worn smooth by centuries, and a cracked altar half-hidden beneath ivy. The air here felt different, still heavy with the residue of a worship long abandoned, but also strangely untouched by Olympus’ current suffocating order.

She paused at the threshold of the main hall—or what was left of it—and listened. No footsteps. No distant voices. Just the sigh of wind through the trees.

"Still beautiful, even in ruins."

Aphrodite turned. Hermes stepped from the shadows, his caduceus slung casually across his back. He wasn’t smiling. His eyes swept the sanctuary in a way that told her he had already checked the place twice.

"You came alone?" she asked.

"I made sure no one followed. Took three detours through the mortal realm just in case."

A low rustle behind them announced Ares. He arrived in armor muted to avoid catching moonlight, helm under his arm. "Had to lose two sentries," he said without preamble. "They weren’t following me openly, but... you know the kind of look."

"The kind that says ’if you stop moving, I’ll gut you’?" Hermes said dryly.

"The kind that says they don’t have a thought of their own in their heads," Ares corrected.

Aphrodite led them deeper into the sanctuary’s central chamber, where the roof had long since collapsed. Moonlight spilled in, illuminating faded murals—depictions of gods neither of them recognized, their faces obscured by time’s decay. The altar in the center was cracked, but still bore faint inscriptions in an ancient tongue.

"They won’t sense us here," she said. "This temple was dedicated before the Olympian order rose. Its wards were woven from something older, something they can’t quite touch."

Hermes knelt by the altar, running his fingers over the faded runes. "Older than Olympus... or older than the truth they’ve been selling us?"

"Does it matter?" Ares said, folding his arms. "We’re here now. Let’s talk about what we’ve found before we start thinking this place is safer than it is."

They sat in the moonlight, their voices low. Hermes laid out the enchanted coins he had planted earlier—six in total, each glowing faintly. He tapped the first, and a haze of sound spilled into the air: the muffled conversation of two priests in Apollo’s temple, speaking of visions that did not match the god’s own. Another coin played the deep, measured tones of Athena’s voice... speaking of wars and alliances no one had lived through.

"These are just from today," Hermes said. "It’s not just the records—they’ve gotten to the oracles, the priests, even the gods themselves. They all speak as if this false history is real."

"And they believe it," Aphrodite added. "I saw the look in Athena’s eyes last week. She wasn’t lying. She remembered these things happening. Which means this isn’t just control—it’s rewriting their memories."

Ares’ jaw tightened. "And if they can rewrite memories, they can rewrite loyalty."

"Exactly," Hermes said. "Zeus breaking free was a fluke. If they figure out how it happened, they’ll seal that weakness for good."

Aphrodite’s fingers traced the worn stone of the altar. "This feels... bigger than Olympus. If the memories of gods can be changed, the memories of mortals can too. History itself could be reshaped until no one alive remembers the truth."

"That’s probably the point," Hermes said grimly.

Silence fell for a moment. Outside, the wind shifted, carrying the faintest scent of rain. Ares broke the quiet.

"We need to figure out how they’re doing it. This isn’t just someone whispering lies—they’re anchoring them to reality. That’s why the records in the Hall of Echoes matched their false memories."

Hermes looked thoughtful. "An anchor... yes. If they’re altering history, they need something to stabilize the illusion, keep it from unraveling under the weight of the truth."

Aphrodite glanced at him. "Something like the Moirai?"

"The Fates would be the perfect anchor," Hermes agreed. "If they were captured and their threads corrupted, the false history would weave itself into the fabric of reality."

Ares frowned. "But that still leaves the question of how they’re controlling the gods directly. The mind control might be a separate mechanism—one to maintain order while the history is rewritten."

"Or," Aphrodite said slowly, "the mind control is just another effect of the rewritten history. If a god believes they’ve sworn loyalty to someone, truly believes it happened, do they need to be controlled at all?"

The thought made the air in the sanctuary feel colder.

Hermes tapped one of the coins again, replaying Athena’s voice. "Whoever’s doing this knows the pantheon better than any outsider should. They’re choosing events that subtly shift alliances, alter trust, tilt the balance of power... all without triggering open revolt."

"And yet," Ares said, "they had to control Zeus directly. Why? If this works on everyone else, why risk such an obvious move?"

"Maybe Zeus was resisting the rewrite," Aphrodite suggested. "Or maybe the changes to his past threatened the control they have over the others."

Ares leaned forward. "Either way, we need to find where they’re holding the Fates, if they’re the anchor. Break the anchor, the illusion falls apart."

Hermes looked to Aphrodite. "You said the entrance to the Moirai’s sanctum was gone."

"It’s worse than gone," she said. "It’s as if it never existed. The wards, the path, the place itself—erased from the weave."

Hermes’ brows furrowed. "Then they’re not just hiding them. They’ve folded the sanctum out of reality entirely."

"That’s dangerous magic," Ares said, voice low. "Even for gods."

"It’s also magic that leaves a trace," Hermes countered. "If we can find the seam, we can pull it open."

They agreed to split the work—Hermes would dig through hidden mortal archives for any lingering record of the Fates’ location, Ares would test the defenses of Olympus for weak points, and Aphrodite... she would turn her skills to the subtler work of conversation, sowing doubt where she could without revealing herself.

Before they left, Aphrodite lingered by the altar, her hand pressed to the cold stone. The runes here were ancient, but she could almost feel them pulsing faintly under her palm. Old wards. Old truths.

She wondered if the sanctuary itself might remember more than the gods did.

---

They left the sanctuary under cover of night, parting without ceremony. Words weren’t needed; the silence between them was a pact stronger than any oath.

Aphrodite’s path led her back to Olympus. The marble steps gleamed faintly in the starlight, their perfection almost suffocating after the sanctuary’s wild, honest ruin. She walked slowly, letting her expression be one of serene detachment. No one here suspected her yet—if they did, she wouldn’t be walking freely.

Inside the great hall, laughter and music spilled from the feasting chamber. She slipped in among the gathering gods like a shadow wearing gold, her gown catching the firelight just enough to seem approachable. Dionysus was there, reclining with his cup, eyes a little too glassy. Athena sat near him, speaking of a campaign against a barbarian tribe that—if Aphrodite’s memory was right—should not even exist yet.

Aphrodite drifted between them, offering smiles, a word here, a compliment there. She asked questions so light they seemed harmless. "And when was it we last crossed those mountains?" "Did Apollo lead that battle himself?" Harmless questions, but always pressing gently at the edges of their fabricated memories.

More often than not, the responses were immediate and certain—too certain. No hesitation, no flicker of doubt, as if they were reading from an unseen script. But once, just once, when she mentioned a feast supposedly held after that long-ago battle, Hestia’s brow had furrowed faintly. Only for a heartbeat before the mask returned.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

---

Far below, Hermes walked through a mortal city by night. The streets here twisted like secrets, each one different from the last, and every shadow seemed to lean in to hear him pass. He wore no divine regalia now, just a plain traveler’s cloak and a satchel at his side.

The mortal archives he sought weren’t guarded by soldiers but by silence. They were kept in the catacombs beneath an old temple, where the air was thick with the smell of dust and stone. His lamp threw a narrow cone of light, illuminating rows upon rows of crumbling scrolls and clay tablets.

He worked quickly, hands moving with practiced ease. He wasn’t looking for direct mention of the Fates—those records would have been erased—but for shadows of them. References in stories, offhand notes in merchant logs, festivals suddenly ceasing without explanation.

It was in a ledger of offerings from three centuries past that he found the first clue: entries detailing rich gifts to "the Three Who Spin" abruptly stopped, replaced with donations to "the Keepers of Destiny." The dates didn’t match any known shift in cult practice.

Hermes smiled faintly. A name changed could hide a great deal... but it could not fully erase what was.

---

Ares, meanwhile, prowled the high walls of Olympus itself. The guards patrolled with an unsettling sameness—each step measured, each turn in perfect unison. Even the clink of armor came at identical intervals.

He tested them subtly at first. A nod of recognition. No response. A casual question about the weather. Silence. When one did speak, the words were clipped, functional, devoid of tone.

This was control, he thought grimly, not loyalty. A soldier could be loyal and still curse his commander under his breath. These ones had no breath left for themselves.

Near the eastern gate, he found what he was looking for: a shimmer in the air, faint as heat on stone. A ward. Not one of Zeus’s usual barriers, either—this magic pulsed with a rhythm unlike anything he had felt in Olympus before. He pressed a gauntleted hand against it, and the surface rippled.

For a moment, he thought he saw something beyond—a dim corridor, lit by a cold, pale light. Then it was gone, the shimmer returning to stillness.

He stepped back, jaw tight. This was no ordinary defense. It might be part of the fold in reality Hermes had spoken of. But breaking it would take more than brute force.

---

By the time the three of them reconvened at the sanctuary three nights later, each carried their own small piece of the puzzle.

"I’ve been pushing where I can," Aphrodite began, seated on the altar steps. "Hestia faltered once. Only for a heartbeat. But it means the cracks are there. Whatever this control is, it isn’t flawless."

Hermes placed a folded parchment on the altar. "Found a trail. Not direct, but close enough. The ’Three Who Spin’ became the ’Keepers of Destiny’ in mortal records around three centuries ago. Same festivals, same offerings—different name. The shift doesn’t match anything natural."

Ares leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "And I found a ward on the eastern gate. Not Zeus’s work. Didn’t feel Olympian at all. For a second, I could see something beyond it. Could be the seam we’re looking for."

Hermes’ eyes lit with quick calculation. "If the Fates’ sanctum was folded out of reality, there might be access points like that—thin places where the fold can’t fully seal. But if it’s at the eastern gate..."

"It means they’re hiding it in plain sight," Aphrodite finished.

"And it means," Ares said, "that when we make a move, we’ll be right under their nose."

They fell into planning again, the moon’s light shifting across the ruins as hours passed. Each detail mattered—when the patrols changed, which halls Aphrodite could pass through unnoticed, how Hermes might slip past the wards without triggering them.

By the time the moon dipped low, the plan was rough but real. Aphrodite would continue her work inside Olympus, sowing doubt where she could. Hermes would map mortal records to find more of these "thin places." Ares would test the eastern gate’s ward, looking for a way to force it open when the time came.

They parted again without ceremony. But the pact between them was stronger now.