Under Tyche's watchful gaze, Rhea restrained herself until the final vow was spoken and the wedding concluded. No sooner had Tyche turned away than the Queen of Heaven rose, her movements swift and purposeful, like a storm breaking free from its confines.
The gathered gods parted silently as she strode into the garden, halting before Aphrodite, who still lingered in the bloom-laden shadows.
"Return it to me," Rhea whispered—softly, at first.
Still dazed, the Love Goddess blinked, not yet comprehending.
Rhea trembled, her voice rising with urgency. "Give back what is mine! Return my love!"
A single butterfly—its wings dusted with fate's shimmering residue—lifted from the white roses beside Aphrodite and fluttered away.
As if guided by unseen forces, the goddess of desire spoke words that rang with unexpected clarity:
"No matter how deeply felt, love does not vanish—it transforms. What once burned bright may fade into memory, but never truly dies. It becomes something gentler… something deeper."
"If your heart breaks at its absence, then you did not love the one you loved—you only loved the feeling of being in love."
For a long moment, Rhea said nothing. Then, slowly, she began to laugh—a sound hollow and fractured, echoing with madness.
The gods, watching in stunned silence, saw tears spill from her eyes—not of sorrow, but of rage barely held in check.
"I loved him more than myself!" she cried, voice raw.
Then, just as suddenly, she composed herself, smiling gently at her sisters. "Return to your seats. All is well."
She turned again to Aphrodite, lips parting in a smile so radiant it sent a chill through those who knew better.
"My dear Love Goddess," she murmured, "as gratitude for your counsel, I shall grant you a husband."
Her gaze swept across the divine assembly, settling upon Menoetius, the God of Courage—son of Iapetus, brother to Atlas, Prometheus, and Epimetheus.
"Menoetius, you shall wed Aphrodite."
It was no insult—no petty humiliation. This was vengeance wrapped in irony.
"Let us see," Rhea continued, her tone honeyed, "how well you can teach yourself to feel love—for a man you do not know, nor wish to know."
Aphrodite, now fully aware, recoiled in horror. "No! I will not accept this!"
But Rhea's grip tightened like iron around her wrist, uncaring of the pain that flared in the younger goddess's eyes.
Menoetius, stunned by fortune's sudden favor, stepped forward in reverence, offering his deepest thanks to the Queen.
Desperation surged in Aphrodite's chest. She pulled violently against Rhea's hold, crying out in protest. "This is not my choice! I refuse!"
"You will love him," Rhea declared, unblinking. "You must."
The other gods looked away, unwilling to challenge the wrath of the Sovereign Queen. Powerless, Aphrodite raged—her cheeks flushed with fury, her voice sharp with defiance.
Yet even as she screamed, Cronus—still bound by Rhea's dominion—nodded in solemn agreement.
Defeated, betrayed, the Love Goddess wept bitter tears.
What cruel irony—that the goddess of love should be forced into marriage not by love, but by decree.
For the first time, Aphrodite's beauty bore an edge of menace. Her golden hair flew wildly about her, and her aura—once soft and inviting—now pulsed with violent crimson light. From deep within her soul, the power of Eros surged forth.
"I curse you!" she cried, her voice cracking with divine force. "Cronus, when your guard is down, passion shall blind you—ensnare you—and strip you of reason! And you, Rhea—I curse you in the name of Love itself! Jealousy shall haunt you endlessly. Your fire shall burn without end, consuming all sense of peace. You will never again know true love!"
The ancient power of Eros wove itself into the curse, binding it to their very souls.
From the shadows, Tyche watched in silence. A Primordial's curse could not be undone. There would be no reconciliation between Rhea and Aphrodite—only endless strife.
The effects were immediate.
Cronus, no longer under Rhea's absolute control, turned his gaze toward a nearby nymph, entranced by her allure.
And Rhea? She did not regain her love—but she did gain a new torment: jealousy, burning like wildfire in her veins.
Her eyes darkened with fury as she glared at the flirtatious handmaidens, whose youthful forms suddenly aged beneath the weight of time's cruel touch. Wrinkles creased their once-perfect skin; golden tresses dulled to silver.
The nymphs shrieked as their jugs shattered, their trays overturned. They scrambled to rise—only to fall again, staring in horror at their own withered hands.
None dared intervene.
Only Themis, Goddess of Justice, leapt from her throne, placing herself between the cowering nymphs and the raging Queen.
"Rhea! What are you doing?"
Her presence brought a flicker of clarity. Order clashed with chaos, and for a moment, Rhea faltered—clutching her head as the agony of her cursed heart writhed within.
The assembled Sovereigns gathered around her, trying in vain to soothe the torment she could neither escape nor understand.
Phoebe and Tyche wove together the threads of fate, seeking to lessen the curse's hold—but to no avail.
"It cannot be undone," Phoebe murmured gravely.
Iapetus, Lord of Souls, nodded grimly. "Not even the sky's old curse compares to this. Only Chaos himself might break it."
Tyche hesitated, then added softly, "There is one way."
All eyes turned to her.
"A sacred oath upon the Styx—to remain pure forevermore. If she swears eternal chastity, the bonds of desire will no longer bind her."
She glanced toward Rhea, her voice heavy with sorrow. "My mother, Tethys, possesses a spring capable of restoring lost purity. But… I fear the Queen will not take such a path."
Rhea's memories told her she had once loved Cronus deeply. Yet the fire was gone—extinguished by Eros himself. In its place, jealousy festered—a poison that gnawed at her sanity.
At first, she endured. But the weariness in her gaze grew heavier, like a bird trapped in a cage too small.
She turned to look at Cronus—only to find him staring blankly ahead, his eyes dim, his mind ensnared by Aphrodite's curse.
Love had fled.
Jealousy remained.
And Rhea, caught between longing and despair, was left to suffer the consequences of a war she had started—but could never win.
Rhea's heart, once ablaze with devotion, now lay hollow. For the first time, she hesitated—gazing at Cronus, who sat like a statue, his eyes vacant, his soul bound to a moment long past.
Her remaining reason whispered one truth, again and again:
This is not worth it.
Love, when unreturned, was a fire that consumed itself. Without fuel, even the brightest flame would fade into ash.
None among the gods suspected the full horror—that within Cronus' body lingered only a shadow, a remnant of the past, no longer truly him . They blamed Eros' curse for his vacant stare, never realizing that what had once been a King of Heaven was now but an echo.
Tyche turned her gaze upon Aphrodite, whose beauty still shone though her power waned.
With a quiet sigh, she spoke. "Menoetius, God of Courage, I beg you—release your claim upon Aphrodite."
She continued, her voice steady yet laced with sorrow. "Love may inspire bravery, but it must never be born of coercion or submission. Your domain aligns well with hers—but love cannot be forced. The King and Queen have already paid their price. If you persist in this ill-fated bond, courage will lead only to ruin."
The divine assembly fell silent.
Who among them dared underestimate the Love Goddess now? Even Prometheus, ever the wise seer, counseled his brother Menoetius to withdraw.
Aphrodite, for the first time, saw fear in the eyes of those who once adored her. The weight of her own unleashed divinity crashed down upon her, and she staggered backward, leaning against a marble column, trembling.
"O Goddess of Delight," Tyche murmured, almost tenderly, "you mistook joy for love, beauty for devotion."
For a fleeting moment, she felt regret—for all she had set in motion. But Eros, too, would see her differently now. She was no longer his favored vessel; the sacred spark that once connected her to the Primordial of Desire had fractured under the force of her curse.
That fragment of power was lost forever.
Though Eros might still draw from her essence to birth lesser forms of himself, Aphrodite was, at last, free.
"You wielded love as if it were mere pleasure," Tyche said, closing her eyes. "And in doing so, became its prisoner. You were meant to be a guardian of hearth and home—to nurture life, not to chase after fleeting ecstasy."
She opened her eyes, cold and resolute.
"A goddess of love who does not understand love can never ascend. Only when you truly give yourself to another shall your path open."
With those words, she turned to Oceanus.
"Father," she said softly, "eldest of the Titans, decide swiftly for Rhea."
Then, with a gesture both gentle and merciless, she encased the tormented Queen in ice. As sleep claimed her, Rhea's final gaze remained fixed on Cronus.
Oceanus gave no reply. His consciousness withdrew into his true form, joining Tethys as they journeyed toward Olympus.
Tethys bore the sacred spring capable of restoring purity. With solemn grace, Tyche carried the frozen Queen to her chambers, where six goddesses gently lowered her into the waters.
Awakened by the current of renewal, Rhea stirred. The jealousy that had burned her soul was quelled in the absence of Cronus.
Calm returned.
She cupped the water in her hands and poured it over her head.
"I swear upon the Styx—I shall remain pure forevermore!"
A surge of virginal light swept through her being, extinguishing the flames of obsession. From the ashes rose a new Rhea—unburdened, serene.
Her sisters draped her in white robes. Light-footed as a maiden, she laughed—a sound both unfamiliar and deeply freeing.
She approached Cronus, caressed his face with tenderness, and whispered something only he could hear.
When no answer came, she wept—then nestled into his arms, returning to the embrace of primordial slumber.
As her presence faded, so too did the tether binding Cronus' lingering soul. Time reclaimed him.
Before the stunned eyes of the gods, the divine couple dissolved into golden sands of eternity, scattering into the winds of fate.
It was the second time since the world's birth that Primordial-born deities had fallen.
Astraea could scarcely believe it. Her jaw dropped, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of what had transpired.
All across creation, mortals and immortals alike turned their gazes skyward.
The Titan lords, watching through their avatars from the world's edge, gathered in mourning. One by one, they arrived to bid farewell to their fallen kin.
"This was your choice," Tyche whispered, catching a single grain of shimmering dust in her palm. Her heart ached with unbearable sorrow.
"And still… you loved him. Twisted, terrible, but real. No one can deny that."
The sands vanished.
From the fading light emerged five radiant figures—the children swallowed by time:
Hestia, goddess of Hearth and Home;
Demeter, goddess of Harvest and Fertility;
Hera, goddess of Marriage and Union;
Hades, god of Wealth and Hidden Riches;
Poseidon, god of Storms and the Deep Sea.
At once, Hera led her siblings to Tyche, kneeling before her in plea.
The gods watched hungrily. Two Sovereign Seats stood empty—one of them, the throne of Heaven.
Some eyed Hades and Poseidon with ambition; others saw in Demeter, Hestia, and Hera pathways to power.
But Tyche rose, shielding the five beneath her wings.
Guilt gnawed at her. Though Rhea's fall had not been her intent, she had lit the fuse.
The assembled gods hesitated—until Oceanus and Themis stepped forward, declaring their protection.
One by one, the Titan Lords followed suit.
Now came the question of placement.
Tyche moved first.
She offered her Dominion over Wealth—woven from the golden bounty of the Basin and the gemstone radiance of Theia—to Hades.
Kannas relinquished his Dominion over Cataclysm, merging it with the raw fury of the sea to grant Poseidon dominion over the Tempest.
Both ascended swiftly to Lesser Godhood.
Thus began the dawn of a new pantheon—and the shaping of a new age.