I Am Zeus-Chapter 73: Time To Announce To Olympus

The silence outside Metis’s chamber stretched on longer than anyone liked. Oceanus was the first to break.

He grunted, shifted his weight off the pillar, and pushed away from the wall like he was tired of breathing the same air. "Enough waiting," he said, mostly to himself.

Tethys glanced over. "Don’t."

But he was already walking.

Oceanus moved with slow, deliberate steps—like a wave that didn’t ask for permission. The others didn’t stop him. Dione lowered her gaze, Eurynome folded her arms. No one said a word. They all wanted to go in. He just happened to be the one who did.

When he reached the door, he knocked once. Then ignored it and stepped in.

The room greeted him with warmth and silence.

Zeus sat on the bed beside Metis, cradling the baby in his arms like the world would fall apart if he dropped her. Metis didn’t look surprised to see Oceanus—just tired, her body still recovering from the weight of labor and everything that came with it.

"Oceanus," she said quietly.

"Metis." His eyes went to the child immediately. "Is that her?"

"She has a name," Zeus said. "Athena."

Oceanus nodded once. His footsteps weren’t loud, but the weight of him filled the room. He stood before them, massive but calm, like an old storm finally at rest. Then he knelt. Not to Zeus. Not to Metis.

But to Athena.

His large hand reached out and hovered over her tiny chest. "May the rivers bend for you. May the skies wait. May your thoughts strike faster than lightning, and may you never be silenced."

Zeus watched him, silent.

Metis tilted her head slightly. "That sounded rehearsed."

"It was." Oceanus met her gaze with something close to fondness. "Had a long walk over."

Athena stirred a little in Zeus’s arms. Her tiny hands flexed, then relaxed. Oceanus gave her a small nod, then rose back to his feet.

"She’s different," he said.

"She is," Zeus replied.

There was no need for ceremony. No glowing sigils. No divine fanfare. Oceanus simply turned toward the door again.

But before leaving, he glanced at Zeus. "You’re going to shake the halls again, aren’t you?"

"I already have."

Oceanus didn’t smile. But something in his eyes tightened. Then he walked out.

The door shut behind him.

Metis exhaled slowly, her head falling back against the pillow. "That was a good blessing."

"It was."

"You’re going to do it, aren’t you?"

Zeus looked down at Athena. "I have to."

Metis didn’t argue. "Then send Hades."

Zeus nodded.

He stood carefully, handed Athena back to Metis, and walked to the window. The torchlight painted gold on his bare chest as he looked into the night. Olympus breathed heavy outside.

From within the shadows near the corner, a soft movement stirred.

Hades stepped forward.

He’d been there the whole time—watching, waiting, silent like the dark always is. His black robes clung to him like shadow, his silver eyes steady, unreadable.

Zeus didn’t turn around. "You heard?"

"I did."

"You know what to say?"

"I do."

Zeus finally looked over his shoulder. "Make her understand... I’m not asking."

Hades stepped closer. "You’re telling her."

"Yes."

"And what if she resists?"

"She can bring Ares," Zeus said flatly. "I’ll take him too. I won’t deny her that. But she doesn’t get to decide where this goes."

Hades studied his brother for a moment. "You really think Athena will be the difference?"

"She already is."

Metis, still holding her daughter, didn’t speak. But her eyes were open. Watching. Listening.

Hades nodded once. "Then I’ll go."

"Now," Zeus said.

Without a sound, Hades vanished. Not in a flash. Not with thunder or smoke. Just a shift. One moment he was there. The next, he was part of the shadows again.

Zeus turned back to the window. His hands gripped the stone ledge. Down below, Olympus was glowing—cities lit by torchlight, clouds parting like curtains before a stage.

He could feel it coming. The shift. The moment the old world would give way to something else.

Behind him, Metis spoke again, voice low. "She’ll come angry."

"I know."

"She’ll want blood."

"She always does."

"And if she demands to keep Ares?"

"He’s hers," Zeus said. "I won’t take him. But Athena will not grow up in a world that makes her kneel."

Metis adjusted the silver blanket around the child. "And you think the others will follow you?"

"They already are."

Metis chuckled softly. "Even Poseidon?"

"He’ll grumble. Then fall in line."

She closed her eyes again. "And what about me?"

Zeus turned around, his back to the window. "What about you?"

Metis opened one eye. "You’re going to make war out of peace. Rebuild Olympus around a girl barely born. All to change a future no one asked to change."

He walked back toward her, slow steps.

"She’s not just a girl."

"No," Metis agreed. "She’s an idea. You always loved ideas more than people."

He stopped beside the bed.

"You’ll stay," she said.

"I will."

"You’ll protect her."

"With everything."

"You’ll let her be more than you."

"I want her to be."

Metis looked down at Athena again. The baby was asleep, unaware of the weight already pressing down on her tiny shoulders.

"I hope she hates you someday," Metis whispered.

Zeus sat back on the edge of the bed. "So do I."

The room went quiet.

And somewhere in the distance, the winds of Olympus changed direction.

Hades stepped through the pillars of the palace where Hera was resting.

The guards didn’t stop him.

They knew better.

Hera sat alone in the courtyard, near the fountain, her hands brushing water like she was trying to read the surface.

She didn’t look up when he appeared behind her.

"I know why you’re here," she said calmly.

"I doubt it," Hades replied.

She turned, slowly. Her eyes were calm—but not soft. Like a blade left in ice.

"Then say it."

Hades stepped forward, his tone even. "Zeus sends word. He has claimed the child. She will be raised under his name. Under his rule."

"And?"

"He wants Ares brought to him."

Hera rose from the bench. Not in anger. In silence.

Hades waited.

"He sends his dog to bite for him now?" she said.

"I’m not here to argue."

"No. You’re here to deliver a message." She stepped forward. "Tell him Ares is mine."

"He doesn’t contest that."

"But he’ll take him."

"Yes."

Hera’s hand clenched, but she didn’t speak. Not right away.

Then, softly—"And the girl?"

"Athena," Hades said. "That’s her name."

"She’ll be raised beside him?"

"She will be the cornerstone."

Hera tilted her head. "He never looked at me the way he looked at Metis."

"He never feared you the way he feared her."

Silence.

Hera stepped closer to the fountain again. The water shimmered under her fingertips.

"I’ll bring Ares," she said finally. "But not for him. For the boy."

Hades gave the smallest nod. "He’ll be ready."

"I hope he is," she said.

And then—without another word—Hera turned and walked toward the palace halls, where her son waited.

Hades watched her go.

The pieces were moving.

And Olympus would never be the same again.