As the earliest goddess subjugated by Thalos, Gullveig had the most say: "His Majesty the God-Emperor's divine sword is like 'destiny'—it always finds a way around a goddess's defenses and pierces her bottom line. No matter how reserved you are, in the end you still get conquered, don't you?"
Put plainly, every ti the Aesir staged such a grand show in the Hall of Joy, it was to make the conquered fully aware of their new identity.
Think you can keep your nose in the air just because you co from so great pantheon? The Aesir won't indulge you.
Here, Hestia finally finished a dance; her divine body seed drained, and she needed Artemis, who had danced alongside her, to help her off the stage.
Face burning, she looked at Thalos, who had returned to giant-god size, surrounded by giant goddesses Freyja, Gullveig, and Frigg, by the god-king–rank Amaterasu, then by a cohort of Major-God–level Ailei, Skaha, Ishtar, and the like, and finally a big cluster of vase-grade beauties. The bevy of orioles and swallows left only bitterness in her mouth.
She could only, under her good niece's guidance, offer salutes one by one and then sit at the low end.
There was no help for it; until Thalos formally invested Hestia with a divine office, however high her forr rank, she was a slave-goddess like Amaterasu.
The more gently Amaterasu explained the rules to Hestia, the more numb the hearth goddess felt inside.
Acceptance is a process—perhaps long, perhaps very short.
Many tis it depends less on her own efforts than on the needs of the situation.
The only thing Hestia could do now was deliberately curry favor with her new master—the God-Emperor Thalos.
It wasn't that she knelt quickly; she simply knew how cruel Zeus was to gods who surrendered.
Thalos was already being rciful.
After Hestia stepped down, the singing and dancing onstage didn't end; it simply switched to nymph goddesses who had surrendered from the Olympian pantheon, along with female divine warriors forrly under Hestia and a number of Amazon warriors.
What can you do—the Aesir loved to watch this.
Only after they'd gone wild half the night did Thor and a group of core deities saunter over.
"Father, why do we need to pull back first after this battle?" asked Baldr, the light god-king, with humility.
Thalos glanced at this not-so-combat-capable son, but still gave him a pointer, smiling: "Force so things too hard and you only drive mortal enemies to huddle together against us. At the mont we can't exploit the World Tree's advantage either, so better to ease the tempo of attack and let the ar—let the arrow loosed from the string fly a little longer?"
Baldr looked a bit puzzled; Thor seed half-understanding, while Yekaterina and Gilgash at his side listened with relish.
Yekaterina ventured cautiously: "You an let Kronos and his son keep clawing at each other in their own nest—and at most let our Second Uncle 'perform' a bit?"
Thalos smiled and beckoned to the side. Hestia froze for a mont; only when Amaterasu and Artemis gave her a push between the shoulders did the hearth goddess realize she was to pour the wine herself.
With unpracticed hands, she filled Thalos's cup.
Who knew that after taking a mouthful, Thalos held it and then abruptly pulled her in, pressed his lips to her red ones, and returned the mouthful of chewed wine to her, teasing her until her face was scarlet.
"Hahaha!" In high spirits, Thalos laughed heartily and, for the mont, let his new prize off. "Yekaterina, the fact you think that way proves you're already a passable strategist."
"Passable" was already high praise for Thalos's brood of children whose brains had grown brawn.
Unfortunately, being "passable" at strategy wasn't enough to helm things alone—never mind that her combat strength was a natural shortcoming.
As Thalos expected, the one he valued most, Gilgash, spoke: "Father, you an that if we leave it be, the Olympian pantheon could split a second ti—or at worst Zeus and Kronos will keep going at each other tooth and nail?"
Thalos laughed and scooped two petite goddesses into his arms like dolls.
His motion drew one coy scold and one gasp.
Hestia instinctively shifted to an Aesir-sized form; though it didn't increase her tolerance for physical impact and she would revert to her original size the mont she lost consciousness, at least while aware she could match sizes properly.
Hestia would never say that when she enlarged herself in the rear hall, that scoundrel Thalos simply took on a giant's form—in any case, it was to make her beg for rcy.
Thalos went on with a mysterious smile: "The secret lies with Olympus's three virgin goddesses."
The words "virgin goddesses" made the two goddesses so abashed they didn't dare lift their heads.
Gilgash started, then frowned. "Athena?"
Thalos smiled without answering.
The one who knows you best in this world isn't necessarily yourself—it may well be your enemy!
Thalos dared to bet that among the entire Aesir, no one understood Zeus better than he did.
His calculations weren't wrong; at this very mont, the Olympian pantheon was weathering another storm within.
This ti, Zeus had lost face big.
Not only had every temple on Mount Olympus been torn down, they had also lost two god-kings.
The first ti, when Artemis was captured, Hera could still spin it by saring her as a whore who had thrown herself to the enemy.
The second ti, Hestia—Zeus's elder sister—had always been independent and kept out of other gods' sses. There was no way to whitewash her capture. And Hers had died to boot. There was just no washing it.
The slave-gods of the subordinate worlds who had hesitated last ti had almost all bolted now. The few stragglers left weren't staying by choice; they'd simply been caught and didn't dare flee.
This ti, internal and external troubles had erupted together.
Zeus and company didn't even dare remain near Thrace, much less head to Anatolia where resistance burned hotter; instead they gathered in Syracuse in southern Italy.
Why was this safer?
In theory it was bordered by sea on three sides—Poseidon's sphere of influence.
So clout, but not too much.
Simply put, even along the coast of Syracuse one could clearly see the world's frightening changes.
Because two of the Seven Seas were gone.
The direct consequence of the colossal volu of water stolen was that the diterranean, linked to Atlantis, had dropped sharply as well.
In places that had been deep-water ports, only the lowest tier of steps could now reach the water's surface.
The drop had been so sudden that countless mortal vessels ran aground on the reefs now exposed along the shore; untold fishern, sailors, and shipowners wept and wailed—on paper praying to Poseidon, in reality just damn well complaining.
Poseidon was sick to death of it.
After all, two of the Atlantean kingdoms under him had been wiped out outright, and the remaining five were in a panic. Poseidon was busy sending priests to calm them down. Mortal believers on land could change trades or change faiths; the Atlanteans of the deep and the sea folk there were Poseidon's true bedrock of belief.
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