The sky over Mount Olympus glows with the soft shimmer of dawn, though time holds little meaning here. You arrive as you always do, feet touching ancient stone polished smooth by eons of divine footsteps. The air hums with quiet power, laced with the scent of ambrosia and the song of distant lyres. This is the gathering place of gods—timeless, steady, and unchanging.

Inside the great hall, columns stretch skyward like trees of marble, and clouds drift lazily through the open walls. The circle of thrones is full. Athena leans forward, her eyes sharp as she presents her latest strategies to guide a rising city-state. Apollo hums idly, sunlight flickering from his fingertips, while Artemis speaks of the shifting rhythms of the wild. Dionysus lounges with a goblet in hand, half-listening, half-daydreaming. Hermes flips a coin in the air, always restless, always watching.

You take your place, the weight of your domain settling around you like a well-worn cloak. The talk moves fluidly—mortal festivals in your honor, shifting allegiances among kings, the slow change of languages and customs. It is not urgent. It is simply the work of eternity. The affairs of the world, shaped gently by divine hands.

Poseidon mentions a new temple built along a rocky coast, its walls etched with prayers. Demeter nods, pleased with the harvest rites in the southern valleys. Hestia speaks softly of hearths still tended in your names, of fires lit with reverence in quiet homes.

No threats loom. No omens cloud the horizon. Today is for observation, for discourse, for divine routine. You listen, offer insight, and exchange subtle smiles with those who remember the world as it was—and help shape what it will become.

Zeus speaks, his gaze sweeps across the gathering, then settles on you—piercing, knowing.

“Well then,” he says, a smile tugging at the edge of his voice. “Tell me… how does your domain fare?”