Date: The Titanomachy – The Tenth Year: The Final March
The defeat of Oceanus, his ambitious ritual to drown our allies unravelled by a whisper of conceptual truth from my Tome, sent a palpable shockwave through the cosmos. For nine long, brutal years, the war had raged, a series of desperate defenses, hard-won footholds, and bloody skirmishes. Ida, then Olympus, had become our defiant bastions. The Eastern Campaign against Hyperion had proven our reach. Now, with Oceanus himself forced to retreat, his primal power thwarted, a new, almost fearful, silence emanated from Mount Othrys. My Achieves registered it clearly: the confident roar of Titan power was faltering, replaced by discordant murmurs of doubt and rising panic.
Word of our victories spread. Now, more frequently, nervous-looking sprites or minor river godlings would appear at Olympus's periphery, offering carefully worded intelligence or tentative gifts. Even the Pelasgian elders, their ancient lands more secure, sent word of their unwavering support. It was clear the old fear of Cronos was cracking. The subtle shifts in allegiance, the nervous energy from Othrys – it all culminated as a specific count of years settled in my thoughts, a stark echo from Alex's memories: the tenth year of the war. A profound stillness seemed to fall over my own perceptions, as if the world itself was poised on a precipice. I saw a change in Zeus too. He was always a conduit of immense power, but now, as he moved and spoke, the air around him seemed thinner, hotter, charged with a dangerous, barely contained light.
He called us to the great, rugged council chamber we had carved near the summit of Olympus, the wind howling outside like a hungry beast. "Brothers! Sisters!" His voice, amplified by the Keraunos that now rarely left his side, boomed through the hall, silencing the conversations of Hera, Poseidon, Hades, and even the low hum of the Cyclopes and Hekatonkheires who stood as honored, if colossal, attendees. Hestia and Demeter, their faces etched with the weariness of the long war but also a fragile hope, watched him intently. "'Othrys is feeling our pressure,' Zeus stated, his voice hard, his eyes reflecting the light from his Keraunos. 'Iapetus, Koios, Hyperion – all have tasted defeat. Oceanus himself was forced to abandon his grand ritual. Even Father Cronos, they say, now seldom leaves his highest halls, his paranoia growing with every report of our strength.' He let that image settle. 'We have been cautious, have built our strength. That phase is ending! We march on Othrys!'"
A roar of approval went up from Poseidon and the giants. Hades offered a rare, grim smile, his silver eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight. Hera's expression was one of fierce, almost predatory, anticipation; the final victory, the establishment of their new order, was within her grasp.
"Othrys is not Ida, nor the scattered forces of Koios or Hyperion," Hades cautioned, his voice a silken rasp. "It is the nexus of their power, fortified for millennia, garrisoned by their most loyal and desperate warriors. Cronos himself will be there."
"And we will meet him," Zeus thundered. "We are armed. We have allies. And we have a righteous fury they cannot comprehend."
"Fury alone will not breach Othrys's gates, brother," I interjected, my voice quiet but carrying in the sudden lull. The Tome of Attainment was open in my hands, its pages already showing me complex, shifting diagrams of Othrys, gleaned from a thousand subtle sources – the memories of captured Titan servitors, the patterns of its defensive enchantments that resonated faintly even here, the very flow of divine energy around that blighted peak. "Its defenses are layered, ancient. Not just stone and metal, but wards of fear, illusions of despair, traps woven from forgotten Titan sorceries."
Zeus turned to me, his expression impatient but, I noted, also expectant. My unconventional contributions were slowly earning a grudging, pragmatic acceptance. "Then your Tome, brother Telos? What paths does it illuminate through their despair? What leverage can we find against their ancient sorceries?"
I focused, my Achieves sifting through the vast quantities of data the Tome presented. Othrys was a fortress of concentric despair, its outer layers designed to break the will before the body. But deeper, at its core, lay Cronos, and his fear was the true foundation of its strength, and paradoxically, its greatest vulnerability. "The main gates are a death trap, designed to shatter any direct assault," I began, tracing a finger over a shimmering, conceptual map that only I could fully perceive within the Tome. "But Othrys, like any great structure, relies on its keystones. Not just physical, but magical and… conceptual. The Tome speaks of three primary nexuses that feed power to its outer wards: The Obsidian Spire, where their darkest enchantments are woven; the Cavern of Echoing Dooms, which amplifies fear and despair across the approaches; and the Chronal Font, a place where Cronos's own temporal power is used to create pockets of accelerated or decelerated time to trap invaders."
"Disable these," I continued, "and Othrys's outer shell will become brittle. The path to Cronos himself will be… less obstructed." My truth-divinity affirmed this; it felt like a core vulnerability.
"And how do we achieve these… disablements, Telos?" Hera asked, her voice sharp, clearly impatient with abstract theories when direct assault was an option she likely favored for its perceived glory.
"Each requires a different approach," I explained. "The Obsidian Spire is shielded against raw power, but vulnerable to a precise application of disruptive harmonics – something my Tome can guide. The Cavern of Echoing Dooms preys on fear; Hades, your mastery over dread, your ability to turn such energies back upon their source, would be key there. The Chronal Font…" I paused, "…that is a direct manifestation of Cronos's primary domain. It will require overwhelming, contradictory force. Zeus, your Keraunos, and Poseidon, your earth-shaking power, concentrated and unleashed at a precise moment of its cycle, could shatter it."
It was a complex, multi-pronged strategy, relying on our unique strengths rather than a simple, headlong charge. Zeus listened intently, his earlier bluster giving way to a focused, strategic consideration. Even Hera seemed to acknowledge the logic, though her expression remained skeptical of methods that didn't involve her own direct command or Zeus's overwhelming might.
"Three teams, then," Zeus decided, his gaze sweeping over us. "Hades, you take the Cavern. Poseidon and I will shatter the Font. Telos," his eyes met mine, "you and your Tome will silence the Spire. The Cyclopes will provide covering fire and create diversions. The Hekatonkheires will be our living siege engines, to breach the physical walls once the magical defenses are crippled."
The plan was audacious, dangerous, and it resonated with a desperate kind of truth. It was an achievement far beyond any we had yet attempted.
Preparations were swift. There was little to pack, little to say. We were gods, armed with divine power and cosmic weapons, our resolve hardened by a decade of brutal warfare. Yet, as we stood on the precipice of Olympus, ready to descend and then march upon the very seat of Titan power, I saw the strain on my siblings' faces. The grim determination in Hades' eyes, the restless, almost savage anticipation in Poseidon's, the fierce, unyielding pride in Zeus's, the anxious hope in Demeter's and Hestia's as they offered silent blessings, even the calculated ambition in Hera's.
I touched the cool cover of the Tome of Attainment. It was filled with the knowledge of battles won, of strategies employed, of truths uncovered. But its final pages, those detailing the fall of Othrys and the end of Cronos, were yet to be written. Alex's memories offered a broad outline, but the specific achievements, the cost, the reality of it – that was for us to forge now.
"For freedom," Zeus declared, his Keraunos held high, a beacon against the darkening sky. "For Olympus! For the new age!"
And with a collective roar that shook the foundations of our new mountain home, we began our descent. The final march, towards the very gates of Othrys, had begun. The weight of knowing, the burden of my foreknowledge, felt heavier than ever, for now it was mingled with the terrifying, exhilarating uncertainty of imminent, decisive action. The greatest, most terrible achievement of all lay just ahead.