Chapter 295: Whispers of chronos
The skies above Olympus were silent.
Not with peace, but with humiliation.
Clouds that had once billowed with divine radiance hung heavy and gray, as though the very heavens had turned their faces from the gods. The scent of scorched ozone lingered in the air, the echo of battles that had shaken both sea and sky still vibrating through marble halls.
The gods of Olympus had returned not in triumph, but in retreat.
Their forces were scattered, their armies wounded, their temples desecrated. And in the heart of their shame was a single truth none dared to speak aloud:
Poseidon had risen.
And Olympus had lost.
---
The Silent Council
In the Hall of Eternal Flame, the throne room of Zeus, the great council gathered. But the fire that had once burned brilliantly at its center now flickered low, sputtering as if even it recoiled from the weakness of the gods who sat around it.
Hera, her robes torn and crown tilted, sat stiff and silent, her lips pressed thin. Athena’s armor still bore cracks where Poseidon’s sea had rent her shields apart. Apollo’s hands shook as he strummed his lyre, not from music but to stop the trembling.
They had all seen it.
They had all felt it.
The sea had claimed Olympus’s pride, and Poseidon now stood beyond their reach.
Zeus sat on his throne of stormclouds, his eyes shadowed. He had not spoken since their return. Not when Hera cursed. Not when Athena demanded vengeance. Not when Apollo wept quietly at their failure.
Only when the silence stretched so long that the gods shifted uneasily did Zeus finally rise.
His voice rumbled like distant thunder.
"You speak of shame. You speak of vengeance. But I speak of inevitability."
The words silenced the chamber instantly.
Athena’s sharp eyes narrowed. "What inevitability, Father?"
"That Poseidon cannot be slain," Zeus said simply. "Not by us. Not by our spears, our storms, or our wisdom. We are gnats to him now. His rise is no accident. It is destiny. And destiny can only be unmade by one who reigns above it."
The room froze.
Hera’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the arms of her throne. "You don’t mean—"
Zeus’s gaze burned like lightning. "I do. We summon Chronos."
---
The Horror of the Name
The name fell like an executioner’s axe.
Chronos.
The Father of Time. The Devourer of Ages. The Titan who had once swallowed his own children to deny fate itself.
Even gods feared him, for Chronos was not merely power—he was inevitability itself, the weight of ages pressing upon all things until they crumbled into dust.
Hera stood sharply, fury flashing in her eyes. "Have you lost your mind? Chronos was bound in Tartarus for a reason! Do you not remember his hunger? He consumes everything! Mortal, god, titan—it does not matter! He will not fight Poseidon for you, he will devour us all!"
But Zeus did not flinch.
"Better to gamble on the jaws of Chronos than to accept annihilation at Poseidon’s hands," he said coldly. "Would you rather watch Olympus drown? Would you rather see our temples swallowed, our names forgotten? Poseidon is no longer merely our brother. He is the abyss itself, and he will not stop until Olympus is nothing but ruins beneath the tide."
Athena leaned forward, her voice sharp. "And what makes you think Chronos will heed you? He devoured you once, Father. Do you believe he will not do so again?"
Zeus’s lips curled into something between a sneer and a grim smile. "Because I will not free him. I will bind him. Summon him. Chain his essence to Olympus’s will. He will not devour us—he will be our weapon."
A ripple of unease spread through the gods.
They all knew the truth: no chain had ever truly bound Chronos. Not for long.
That night, Zeus stood alone on the cliffs of Olympus, staring into the abyss below. The winds howled around him, and the stars overhead seemed distant, as if even they leaned away from what he was about to attempt.
He held in his hand a fragment of obsidian—shattered stone carved from the very walls of Tartarus. He had stolen it eons ago, hidden it away for the day he might need it. Tonight, it pulsed with an ancient rhythm, like the heartbeat of something buried too deep.
Zeus lifted it high, lightning swirling around him.
"O Father of Time, O Devourer of Ages, hear your son," Zeus called into the night. His voice shook mountains, split clouds, but his eyes burned with desperation. "The chains that hold you tremble. The age turns. The sea rises. Aid me now, and I will shatter your bonds!"
At first, there was nothing.
Then—
A whisper.
Not in the air, but in the marrow of his bones.
Child.
Zeus staggered, clutching at his chest as the voice slid through him like molten lead.
You dare call upon me? You, whom I swallowed, whom I cast back into light at the whim of fate?
Zeus grit his teeth. "I do not call as your son. I call as Olympus. Poseidon has risen. He threatens all, mortal and divine alike. If he reigns, there will be nothing left for you to devour."
The whisper laughed. It was not a sound—it was the grinding of millennia, the creak of stars collapsing.
You think you can use me as a hound on a leash? I am Chronos. I am the end of all ends. Time itself bends before me. Why should I serve Olympus? Why should I not devour it first, and Poseidon after?
Zeus raised the obsidian shard high. "Because I will bind you with this. The blood of Tartarus. The chain of your prison. I will not free you, Father. I will summon only your shadow, your echo, your hunger. Enough to shatter the sea’s grip, but not enough to unmake Olympus."
The whisper went still.
Then, slowly, it answered.
You would summon my hunger... without my chains? Bold, little storm. Bold... or foolish.
The shard pulsed once. Twice. Then it cracked down the middle, bleeding darkness into the air.
And through that darkness, something ancient stirred.
By dawn, the council was in uproar.
Some gods raged, demanding Zeus cease his madness. Others whispered eagerly, desperate for any hope of striking Poseidon down. The fracture lines of Olympus grew wider than ever.
Athena confronted her father openly, her voice cutting like steel.
"You court disaster. Poseidon is a storm, yes—but Chronos is eternity. You will not bind him. He will bind you."
Zeus’s eyes crackled with lightning. "And yet, daughter, we have no choice. Would you rather kneel before Poseidon? Would you rather watch mortals build altars to his name while yours crumble to dust? I will not sit idle while Olympus rots."
Hera spat bitterly. "And when Chronos turns on us? When his hunger swallows your throne first, will you still call it salvation?"
But the others—the weaker gods, the frightened ones—were already leaning toward Zeus. Fear of Poseidon outweighed fear of an old ghost.
The decree was set.
Chronos would be summoned.
Far below, in the silence of the trench, Poseidon stirred.
The sea pressed close around him, whispering. He felt the tremors in Olympus, the prayers of mortals, the whispers of gods.
And beneath it all—something else.
A ticking.
Slow. Steady. Inexorable.
Poseidon opened his eyes, the abyss glowing within them.
"Chronos," he whispered, his voice shaking the waters for leagues around. "So they would awaken the devourer against me."
For a moment, silence. Then Poseidon smiled.
"Let them."
The sea swelled outward, drowning another shoreline.
"I have devoured storms and gods alike. I will devour time itself if it dares rise against me."
The battle was no longer Olympus against the sea.
It was eternity itself against the abyss.