The halls of Olympus rang with thunder that night—not from storm, but from laughter. The gods were in their revels, golden cups spilling wine that never emptied, songs twining with boastful voices. Marble pillars shivered with the sound, and firelight leapt wild across polished walls.

Dionysus was the heart of it all, draped in ivy, cheeks flushed, laughter tumbling like a river. With a flourish, he leaned over his pool of wine and struck it with a finger. “Let us see what delights the mortal world hides from us tonight!” he cried, and the liquid rippled into vision.

A face appeared. Mortal, yet luminous. Beauty not carved by godly hands but woven in mortal fragility.

The hall hushed, then erupted.

“She is mine,” Zeus thundered, lightning sparking at his brow. “No mortal resists my claim.”

“A muse,” Apollo countered, his voice a melody that pulled at every ear. “She will sing for me, inspire me. Who else could deserve her?”

“She is a prize,” Ares barked, teeth bared like a wolf. “And prizes belong to the victor of war.”

The gods circled, voices clashing, their hunger filling the air with heat and want. They spoke of conquest, of possession, of taking. The mortal girl’s image shimmered helpless in the wine, like prey reflected in the eye of the hunter.

Apart from them all, Theronys stood in the shadow of a marble archway. He was the god of duty, the one who did not join in their endless games. He had heard this chorus a thousand times—mortal beauty paraded, mortal souls broken, mortal names lost to divine cruelty. He should have turned away, as he always did.

And yet… he did not.

For the first time in eternity, something shifted. He looked at her image and understood why the others clamored. But his want was not theirs. Where they reached to seize, he felt only the urge to shield.

Theronys stepped forward, his voice low but carrying:

“You would break her,” he said. “As you have broken countless before. But I will not stand by.”

A murmur rippled through the revel. The god who never played their games, who never bent to trivial desire, had crossed the threshold at last.

He bowed his head slightly toward the vision in the wine, as though the mortal could feel his vow across the worlds.

“I am Theronys,” he said. “Keeper of every crossing. Watcher of every door. And tonight, I choose to stand at hers.”