My name is Androdamos of Lycaon, and I have slain and replaced my gods. I sit now on a throne that once belonged to Zeus, sipping wine from Dyonisius’s goblet. The Aegis of Athena leans on my golden throne alongside Hermes Caduceus. Hades’ helm, still spattered with Ares’ ichor, rests upon my knee. Before me lies an empty throne room. The thirteen seats of the mightiest Olympians are cold and for the most part on their way to dust. It is night, yet not dark. Olympus, being so close to the moon and sun is, rarely, truly dark and the final embers of Hestia's hearth cast warm light over my face. There is not a soul around, no servants nor supplicants. Here in a place that once never slept, silence reigns.

  On this lonely mount, I ponder. I toy with the ends of Zeus’s lightning bolts, letting flickers of pure energy arc from fingertip to fingertip. Most old gods are dead, and all their symbols of power are mine. I am the Risen god of Everything. Risen, for I was not born on the slopes of Olympus, nor was I raised by the “great” family that called it home. Lycaon, my hometown I detest so, is a hamlet whose only claim to fame is how it once was a grand city, grand enough for its king to host banquets even Zeus would attend. It is said, on one such banquet, the king decided to test Zeus’s omniscience by serving him human flesh. While scholars of my youth would tell of how Zeus saw right through this ruse, and righteously punished the arrogant king by turning him into a foul combination of wolf and man, I could easily see that arrogant, senile god getting halfway back to Olympus before he realized the deception, the “punishment” really more petty revenge rather than any carrying out of justice. Why kill most of the king's fifty, yes fifty, sons in addition to twisting his form?

  No, real justice was the severing of that foul king's head from his shoulders. Justice was my march up the slopes of Olympus. Justice was my slaying of all the minor gods, godlings, nymphs and monsters that tried to protect the old fool. Justice was my sparing of the innocent. Of Persephone and Hades, who had been locked in the Underworld and torn from their duties. Of Athena, who knelt and let the cycle of the young replacing the old turn. Upon my blood, now ichor, upon my soul, now glowing with power, any divinity that did not take part in the slow and agonizing extinction of man did not see my blades. I did not threaten Hephaestus nor Hestia. Nor Hermes, nor Hebe. Those who did not seek to strangle man to death all seemed to know that their time was simply over.

  It still curls my lips into a snarl just thinking of it. Zeus, in all his lordly intellect, found man lacking in devotion to the Gods. Despite how we put up with Aphrodite turning our kings to foolish wars, despite how we tolerated Ares shameless bloodlust, it was not enough. A quarter of everything we produced in our lives, from wheat scratched out of sand to kingdoms worth of gold, went to the Gods. For daring to have lives of our own, lives not completely under their thumbs, we were to be starved and set against one another. Zeus closed up the doors of Olympus and bid all who served him to let humanity die.

  This train of thought rouses me from my seat. The marble and silk thing looks to me now as a monument to such horrid creatures, not simply a couch. I gather up my trinkets of all kinds, symbols of godly power. A strand of Aphrodite's perfect hair, woven into a bracelet, is among the least strange. I must look as a madman, what with this collection of odds and ends clattering and clicking as I walk. Their essence seeps into me, for it is mine my right by way of conquest, but it shall take time for them to fully incorporate. This is still bothersome however, even though wheat ripens all the same if holy scythe or divine hand is waved at it. What matters more is the god who holds the scythe or such divinity.

  I am pulled in a thousand, thousand directions at every moment. Like a hide pulled taut and left to cure. Everything, every motion and cog of existence and nonexistence in my domain is demanding my attention. I can without any misplaced arrogance call myself the greatest warrior born to Graece. I have killed things so foul that it is a crime in certain city-states to speak of them, lest they soil more of humanity than they already have. I have survived being poisoned by blood of both Hydra and Centaur. I’ve been cursed to rot from the inside by Circe and lived. I’ve been keelhauled by the tyrant of Lycaon. I am made of bronze, soul and flesh. But this pain? This feeling of every single thrush in the bush and lap of the sea demanding my attention? The continent of Graece and its islands scream for my attention and it is worse a hundredfold than anything else I’ve experienced.

  It is like being stretched by fish hooks over a searing stone. It is like trying to hold an ocean of burning marbles in my hands. It is like being crushed between two frigid glaciers. It is like no other pain, as alien as the deep sea, but somehow personal, tailored to torment me perfectly.

  So I stand gazing out at what is left of Olympus, silent in my agony. There are far fewer lights than there once was. So many gods and many divine but lesser beings had stood in my way. I had emptied Olympus, not just taken the “best” of the crop.

  “You could have spared a handful of them. Those who offended least and little.” Said a quiet and even voice behind me and to my right.

  I turned and looked at the specter. I said nothing at first to the shade, what was once Pallas Athena. The Goddess of Strategy had been a hale woman, of high cheekbones and with the withering stare to match them. Yet now she seemed to have lost some of that constitution. Translucent and gossamer, she hung tautly in the air. Her spirit was being drawn into the void, back into the arms of Chaos, yet she lingered still. It was truly a credit to her bronzed will. House of Hades, Hephaestus didn’t last an hour after he gave me his tools. Yet here she was, a little under a week after she had willingly given up her Aegis.

  “You know I needed every scrap of power I could get to finish my task.” I replied.

  “Ah yes, to defeat Zeus, King of the Heavens and God of Lightning, you needed Priapos’s dominion over gardens.” She said dryly.

  “He didn’t give me much choice.” I said, turning back to the vista in front of me.

  Framed by the night sky and pierced by bright stars, Athena drifted in front of me, looking me in the eyes with inquisition in hers. She was hung in the air roughly ten feet from solid ground. I could already see where this was heading and I didn't need to possess the gift of Prophecy to do so.

  “The very power you sought now tears you apart from the inside.” The shade said simply.

  “Yes.”

  “You cannot control it properly.” The Slayer of Pallas said, gliding a little closer.

  “And the latter bothers me far greater than the former as the very reason I took up the task of deicide was to save humanity and with my attention spread so thinly as it is, I am keeping humanity alive by the thinnest of margins, yes, yes. I know.” I snapped back.

  The Goddess tilted her head slightly and crossed her arms.

  “And yet you insist on keeping the load firmly on your shoulders? For what? Pride and machismo? There is still a handful of gods out there. Good ones, those you already spared.”

  She punctuated her point by gesturing towards a collection of lights, a large and well lit house. Androdamos’s new sight told him that there were three gods inside, huddling around a sooty fire.

  “You could alleviate your problems within the evening by giving up some of your Dominion. I doubt any would refuse even the least of your plundered symbols.” The Goddess finished, interlocking her fingers over her stomach.

  I sighed. And looked down into my goblet. Purple tinged stars floated on its surface. I watched the wine's ripples glide and flow. Bouncing from centre to edge. They slowed, then the wine became still. With my eyes, more perfect than any eagles, I could see my reflection on the surface. I looked…. tired. In my strong and pronounced features, perhaps a bit too much to be considered very handsome, I glimpse bagged eyes and sallow skin. My eyes hold a haunted look. Even in his last moments, a dying Zeus had more fire, more determination, more of anything really in his eyes that the New God looking back at me does. My old slave mark, a lightning bolt that stretches from the bridge of my nose to almost my hairline, itches under my gaze. Being put there by a divine meant it would never leave my face and I would never forget it was there. Sometimes it merely itched, like tonight, and other days it felt like a hot coal was smeared across my face. It looks red and puffy now. Almost infected.

  I open my mouth to say something and before I can get anything more than a weak “I..” out, something in the wine catches my eye. Among the glinting in the sea of purple is a constellation. Ursa. I turn and look up at it. I stare at it for a while, feeling fire build in my guts. I traced the lines of stars with my eyes. I pointed at what you would call the Big and Little Dipper.

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  “That is why I will not share this power with any old god.” I said, shattering the silence.

  “Ursa?”

  Athena narrowed her eyes.

  “No, Callisto and Arcas are whom you speak of.”

  “Yes, the She-Bear, transformed from Queen Callisto for the “crime” of being Zeus’s paramour of the week, and the son who almost slayed her. “Luckily” for them, they were turned into stars before Arcas could throw his spear.” I grumbled out.

  “And why is that particular story the root of your argument?” Asked Athena.

  “Cruelty is one thing, vengeance is one thing, thoughtlessness is what really damns the Olympians in my eyes. What makes them untrustworthy beyond doubt”

  I took a breath.

  “Most of the old gods were never human, they were the result of unions between the elemental forces of our world. Not for one second were they mortal. They embodied concepts. They lived for thousands of years. To them, mortals like I were cattle. Perhaps smart, pretty cattle, but cattle nonetheless.

  Yet we did not live as cattle, beings raised solely for their meat or skins. We lived outside of providing the most possible offerings to the gods. We live and lived as humans, for that is what we are. Yet the gods did not see us as something more, they saw us as defiant or sick. What else do you call a cow that gives only a quarter of its meat or milk? For all the gods left in Olympus and I think even you Athena, we are utterly inconsequential.

  For even Ares, a god who had once already been wounded deeply by a mortal, could not even conceive that a mortal could match him or any other god. Humanity was just that far below him in his mind, and this was far from a rare opinion among the gods I slew. They had never been people in the way I use the word, the way the Athenian philosophers use it. They could not connect with humanity in a real way.

  A child may look upon an ant nest and appreciate their shiny carapaces and industry, but he will never know what is good and bad for the ant’s as he can never really be in the head of an ant, should we assume the best of his intentions. That is why I will not give power to any old Olympian, for that would prolong humanities death rather than stop it. A handful of tyrants, well meaning or not, utterly and totally disconnected from their subjects. It is why I had to slay the children crushing my nest.”

  I took a steadying breath.

  “No being not born of humanity should rule over them.” I finished.

  I strode over to the opposite edge of the forum and set my cup down, resting my hands on the smooth marble railing, feeling the weight of five ages on my shoulders.

  I look out into the easterly ocean, not truly looking at it. Hm. MY cup. I turned what was once Dionysus's prime symbol of power over in my hands. Somewhere along the line it had ceased to be his, a trophy taken once, now firmly a part of my horde of like artifacts.

  Yet now that makes me feel so empty.

  I turned my gaze again to the ocean. I felt Athena float closer to me. It was silent for a moment.

  “Not all the old gods were so distanced from humanity as you say.” Began Athena

  As always you hit the nail squarely Athena. I thought, as this line of questioning had simmered unexamined in my mind for a long while.

  “My lord?

  “It’s nothing, continue.”

  I could sense her reorient herself.

  “The god whose cup you drink from was the spawn of Zeus certainly, but his mother was mortal. The gods bore many demigods, and it was not uncommon for them to be elevated to true godhood upon their demise. Many of course perished in your ascent and assuming that half of the remaining risen demigods are unfit in your eyes for such duty, there would still be a fairly substantial number of gods with a strong connection to humanity. Give them some of your powers.”

  I shook my head. “All were raised up because of some great service to the old gods, not always a great service to humanity. No, they are the chosen of the gods, what they wanted humanity to emulate. To put them in charge would be putting those who only knew the whip behind it.”

  This seemed to displease the Goddess, as she unlaced her fingers and made sharp gestures with her freed digits.

  “You once again have all the power in our domain and nowhere to put it to use. Somehow every god and demigod are unfit in your eyes. You had two choices between beings meant to hold such power and outright rejected them both. Somehow, you have made monsters, the only other being who could take more than one domain, seem like the best option. ” Chidded Athena in the careful, measured manner of hers, before floating back to the central hearth.

  I remained leaning on the railing. I could hear the ocean waves far below. I almost chuckled wryly at how much serenity the lapping of waves on sand used to give me. How those parties with my old demigod companions used to ease my worries. Now those fond memories were coloured by the intense realization of just how much clockwork went into those gatherings. How much labour it takes for a mortal life to be lived well when only one is at the helm.

  I have precious few other being from which to share my load with.

  Not gods, not half-men, nor the furthest thing from men. All are insufficient in my mind.

  Wait. I’m skirting around something. Humanity. If I cannot give back this power, why not instead seed it?

  I stood upright. My mind raced. Certainly a normal human could hold one domain? Just one. They would have to fit the domain very well, embody the philosophy of their domain in mind and flesh. Not to mention they would have to be very strong to take the strain of accepting their new power. I cast my mind to the first true god I slew. The heady rush of power, it felt as though I was being washed away by a flood of sharp straw, yet I mastered it. It hurt yes, but not as bad as Centaur blood. For a regular, healthy human it would be terrible, but the strong, willful and bold could handle it.

  But I could not let just any random street urchin try their hand at divinity. There must be a screening process of some kind. A fine sieve to shake those who would again crush their fellow humans with their new powers out. That alone will not be enough however. They must be shaped, given direction. I would not be so cruel as to make each hopeful take a path at all similar to the one I walked. Flailing in the dark, making all sorts of mistakes, killing all the wrong people. No, a school of sorts must be constructed. To educate and mold the hopeful into the gods they could be. It must be the finest of schools, the wonder of my domain.

  I had direction once more. I could help my people, all people, do what I set out from Lycaon to do so long ago.

  This and more I muttered to myself, in the gloom under the stars, in the dying light of Hestia's hearth. I hardly took notice of Athena drifting silently above me, and I never knew that in that moment she had a sly smile on her face.

  I called out for any servant and messenger that remained on Olympus, to the shade of Hermes, to any semi-divine picking over the rubble of Olympus. I bid them to spread word of my great school, of my mighty Lyceum. Of the Pythion Lyceum. They scrambled to heed my first real order as King of the Heavens as well they should have. Soon, every man woman and child who lived in my dominion would hear of my grand design.

  Ah, and on second thought, why not let semi-divines try their hand at real godhood, alongside the non-ascendant demigods? Provided they passed through the screening test I needed to prepare of course. It would have to be a stringent one, to weed out those who would herald in the old order once again. Punishing the children for their fathers sins would be a terrible way to being my rule as King of the Heavens.

  But yes, all those not carrying the old and foul orders shall have a fair shot at divinity, at becoming a god. That should be an excellent start to my new kingdom. Anyone, from slave to king, helot to spartan, shall have the opportunity to become more. A chance, however small, is a chance nonetheless. No more shall gods pick favorites, and I’m not so blind as to realize I have some of my own biases.

  Already muttering to myself about how such a fair and unbiased test should work, I sashay into a side room, one filled with slate to write upon. Upon its black surface I draw lines of gold. They outline the first of my plans. I hardly take notice of the horde of shades, drawn in by the scent of destiny around my work.

  By the flames of hades, I hope this works.