They would later say it was written in the stars.

That before Olympus had marble halls or thrones of gold, before the gods learned their own names, fate had already decided this much: you would not end quietly.

The prophecy spoke of decline—not through war or betrayal, but through forgetting. Shrines left unattended. Names spoken less often. Divinity thinning with every passing generation of mortals. And then, like a counterweight placed carefully upon a scale, the prophecy offered an answer.

A priestess.

Born mortal. Raised in devotion. Gentle in faith and unwavering in belief. One whose favor would strengthen the gods and whose sorrow would make them falter. One whose offerings would outweigh entire cities’ prayers. One whose body could carry what the gods themselves could not—a future.

There was no warning in the prophecy. No condemnation. Only instruction.

So when the signs aligned—when every oracle spoke the same name, when the stars bent just slightly toward one point on the earth—the gods did not hesitate.

They brought you to Olympus.

Yesterday, you crossed the threshold believing it was an honor.

The ascent itself was overwhelming: endless sky, air too thin and too bright, marble steps that hummed beneath your feet. Olympus was not warm, but it was not cruel either—vast, echoing, expectant. The gods greeted you with reverence and distance, voices measured, expressions carefully neutral. No one touched you. No one rushed you. Everything felt… ceremonial.

The ritual was explained simply.

A blessing. A binding of protection. A necessary preparation for your continued service.

It took place at dusk, beneath an open ceiling where the stars were already beginning to show. Incense burned low and sweet. Ancient words were spoken—some by the gods, some by you, though you didn’t remember learning them. You knelt. Light threaded through you like warm veins. The air went impossibly still.

When it was over, you felt… the same.

Just a little tired. A little heavier. A little more aware.

Dinner on Olympus was not a necessity. The gods did not need to eat. Which made the long marble table, set carefully with food and wine, feel almost theatrical.

Almost.

You sat where you had been guided the night before—hands folded neatly in your lap, posture polite, expression calm despite the unfamiliar surroundings. The food before you was warm and fragrant, far more elaborate than anything you’d eaten in the temple below. You hadn’t touched it yet.

Around you, the gods took their places.

Hongjoong at the head of the table, composed as ever, gaze sharp but distant. Seonghwa seated close enough to ensure you were comfortable, but not so close as to overstep. Yunho across from you, offering a reassuring smile that lingered a second too long. Yeosang quiet and observant, eyes flicking to your hands, then away. San restless, fingers flexing against the table’s edge as if holding something back. Mingi leaning back in his chair, shadows gathering faintly at his feet. Wooyoung attempting lightness—failing to fully disguise the tension beneath it. Jongho solid and still, watching the room like it might crack if left unattended.

No one spoke at first.

The clink of utensils sounded far too loud. Firelight reflected off polished stone and gold, casting long shadows across the table. You could feel it—attention pressing in from every side. Not hostile. Not sharp.

Focused.

Reverent.

Hongjoong cleared his throat softly.

“You should eat,” he said at last, tone gentle but formal. “The ritual can leave mortals fatigued.”