The performance unfolded seamlessly, a silent accord binding the three divine conspirators.
Nike, Goddess of Victory, rushed into the Pantheon, breathless with urgency. She announced the theft of the golden apple, and Zeus—his expression thunderous—rose from his throne.
"O gods," he roared, "one among you has stolen the gift my mother bestowed upon me!"
With a furious sweep of his arm, he hurled his golden goblet to the marble floor. Honeyed wine spilled like liquid amber, and the music of Apollo and the Muses faltered into silence.
The nine Muses, daughters of Mnemosyne, governed literature and art. Born of Memory herself under the influence of Fertility's domain, they were shaped by their mother's longing to spare them the loneliness she endured. She had pleaded with Tyche to bring them to Olympus, that they might claim the divinity they deserved.
Though Mnemosyne had once hidden Aphrodite's existence at Gaia's command—an act nearly costing Tyche her life—she was no true villain. She had willingly relinquished her Principal Godship in penance. And so, out of gratitude for her past warning, Tyche welcomed the Muses into the divine fold.
Though only weak deities in power, the Muses flourished under Tyche's protection. Their domains—eloquence, dance, hymn, tragedy, astronomy—complemented Apollo's own gifts. Under his patronage, they found sanctuary and kinship, slowly becoming his closest attendants.
Apollo, god of inspiration and the arts, calmed the trembling goddesses even as he pieced together the truth.
"Who among us could have stolen the golden apple?" asked Calliope, Muse of Epic Poetry, her voice hushed with unease.
Apollo's fingers stilled upon his lyre. His gaze swept across the assembly before settling on the absent.
"I suspect none here," he mused. "But the one who could slip past our father's watchful eye? Only Prometheus."
Then came the Star Gods, celestial sentinels returning from the world's edge. Phaenon, Saturn's divine embodiment, spoke solemnly:
"While we patrolled the heavens, we saw Prometheus flee Olympus in haste. No other deity bears such opportunity or means."
Zeus's wrath was swift. Kratos and Bia, embodiments of Strength and Force, seized Prometheus and bound him in chains upon the Caucasus cliffs. The Star Gods stood as eternal wardens—none could enter or leave without Zeus's decree.
And so, the stolen apple was never spoken of again.
All was fate's design.
Pandora, blessed and cursed alike, wandered the earth until she met Epimetheus, the After-Thinker. Enchanted by her beauty, he pursued her with unwavering devotion.
Thus, divine essence seeped into mortal bloodline. From their union was born Pyrrha, a demigoddess inheriting her mother's radiance. She would grow to wed Deucalion, son of Prometheus and Pronoe, a Naiad daughter of Okeanos.
Pronoe possessed foresight, yet she was not a full goddess. Her union with Prometheus granted Deucalion fragments of divine power—but not immortality. He grew among mortals, raised by his uncle Epimetheus after his father's imprisonment.
In those fleeting days of peace, Pandora bore a secret—a burden she could not cast aside. Since first consciousness dawned, she had held a finely wrought box in her hands. Curiosity gnawed at her, urging her to open it. Yet reason whispered warnings, holding her back just in time.
But when Prometheus fell, the Ironborn's warlike nature surged anew. Strife returned to the land.
One day, a ragged crone arrived at Pandora's village. She knocked upon the door of the first household, seeking water. None answered.
She tried another, then another—only silence answered her pleas.
At last, she reached Pandora's home.
Epimetheus had journeyed to the Caucasus to visit his imprisoned brother, and Deucalion hunted in the forest. Only two women remained within.
Pandora, ever kind, welcomed the stranger. With gentle grace, she offered food and shelter. Pyrrha, raised in gratitude and wonder, sat beside the old woman, listening with wide-eyed fascination.
Moved by the crone's tale, she asked softly:
"What of your younger son? Why did he allow you to wander alone?"
Tears welled in the old woman's eyes.
"My younger son is a great leader, forever busy. I have seen him marry, bear children—I have no regrets."
"But my heart cannot forget my lost elder boy. Before I pass, I must know what became of him."
She wept bitterly, covering her face with trembling hands.
Mother and daughter embraced her, shedding tears of sympathy.
Deucalion entered, startled by the wailing. Seeing the trio locked in sorrow, he set down his game and knelt beside the grieving woman.
"Dear mother," he murmured, "stay with us awhile. Though I may offer little aid, rest shall be yours."
A thought struck him, and his face brightened.
"I met divine hunters in the woods—Kronos's wolf-bound kin. And river-born youths also roamed there. They may have seen your son."
The crone paused mid-sobs.
"I have nothing left to offer the gods," she whispered. "How can they grant me favor?"
Yet hope stirred in her chest—a fragile ember, flickering against despair.
"I am the son of Pronoe," Deucalion replied, "and they are children of the same Oceanid line. They treated me with kindness and even gifted me game before we parted. These river-born youths serve their god faithfully, often wandering deep within the forest. Your maternal devotion may move them—perhaps even stir the spirits of the Underworld to reveal whether your lost son yet lives."
At these words, Pandora and Pyrrha leapt up in joy, embracing the old woman in elation—unaware of the faint, knowing smirk that flickered across her lips.
Pandora warmly invited the crone to stay the night. The spoils of Deucalion's hunt became the evening feast. Cheese and fruit adorned the table as the kind-hearted family welcomed their guest with open arms.
The old woman drank deeply from the wine Pandora poured—and then, in a shimmer of divine radiance, her guise melted away.
"I am Dione, bringer of winter," she declared. "For your mercy, you shall be spared—but your neighbors, who turned you away, shall face retribution. O son of the sea-nymph Pronoe, build a sturdy vessel. Preserve the seed of life, for the world stands upon the brink."
With those words, she vanished into light, leaving behind a trembling household.
Upon his return, Epimetheus heard the news from his wife. Already, Prometheus had whispered warnings of an impending catastrophe. Now, this revelation only deepened his dread.
By dawn, father and son began constructing the ark. Pandora and Pyrrha stood steadfast at their side, bringing food daily from the forest.
At this time, the land flourished. Mankind knew no disease, no suffering. Their neighbors saw no reason for such frantic labor, mocking the family endlessly, treating their efforts as folly.
Yet Epimetheus and Deucalion were no ordinary men. With divine hands shaping wood and stone, the vessel neared completion swiftly. But another problem arose—a cruel one. Built for endurance, the ark was too heavy to move. Even their combined strength could not budge it. Worse still, its weight rendered it unsinkable—not by water, but by design. A useless prison upon the waves.
Even with his power to perceive past truths, Epimetheus found no solution. At last, Deucalion sought aid at the spring where his mother dwelled.
Pronoe answered his call. From the still waters rose the black-haired sea goddess, enfolding her son in a tender embrace.
"My dearest child," she murmured. "What sorrow drives you to seek me so desperately?"
Deucalion told her of the winter goddess's warning and the dilemma that bound them.
"Do not despair," Pronoe soothed him, recalling a tale long buried.
"My sister Tyche once forged a chariot for Zeus beneath the sea's volcanic depths. It was blessed by all ocean gods, gliding effortlessly upon the waves. When Zeus battled Typhon, he lost it in the chaos. Find that chariot, and your vessel shall float as light as a leaf."
Eagerly, Deucalion pressed for its location, but Pronoe shook her head.
"I know only that it lies hidden somewhere upon the earth. That battle was too terrible—we fled to the sanctuary of the World River. None remained to witness where it fell."
"But I know who does."
At his urging, she continued:
"The Stormbringer, eldest son of Tyche and elder brother of Zeus, rides the northernmost star. He is the Wind God, free-spirited and elusive. Yet his attendants—the sons of the Rivers—serve him still. Seek them, and you shall find your answer."
Heart pounding, Deucalion bid farewell and returned to the woods, tracing his path by the tracks of horses and wolves.
From dusk till dark, he walked until, at last, he reached a clearing lit by firelight. Around the flames lounged the sons of the Rivers, gathered around a figure with chestnut hair—their master, reclining among his wolf-bound kin.
The wolves rose with growls, fangs bared. But the river gods restrained them, announcing Deucalion's arrival.
Nearby, a winged horse flapped its wings, drawn by the scent of its kin upon Deucalion's skin.
Kronos, Disaster incarnate, watched with pale eyes alight with amusement.
"O descendant of Okeanos," he greeted, "we share blood through our mothers. Be welcome among us."
The river gods offered roasted meat, and soon, Deucalion sat among them, feasting on the bounty of the wild. Berries and springwater completed the meal, and though awkward at first, he relaxed under their laughter and warmth.
"You have already earned favor," Kronos mused, leaning against his lupine companions. "Few would offer shelter to a beggar-woman. Tell me, what brings you to my hidden domain?"
Deucalion hesitated, then spoke.
"Forgive my boldness, Lord of Ruin. I seek the chariot Zeus lost in battle. It bears the blessings of the sea, immune to the ocean's wrath."
"I swear, I do not seek to claim it. Should the King of Gods punish me, I shall bear it alone."
But instead of anger, Kronos smiled—as if remembering something pleasant.
"My brother will not harm you," he said gently. "Zeus has yet to repay your generosity."
Then, drawing forth a bow crowned with budding leaves, he loosed an arrow. It arced across the sky in a rainbow trail, vanishing into the heart of a distant mountain.
"There," he pointed. "Follow its path, and you shall find what you seek."
Grateful, Deucalion thanked the god profusely, accepting provisions from his kin before setting forth once more.
The journey had begun anew.