The stars that night burned brighter. Not in omen—but in celebration.
A feast of celestial proportions had been prepared in the great halls of Olympus. The banquet table stretched farther than mortal eyes could follow, carved from moonstone and glass, resting atop a suspended garden of twilight. Banners woven by Hestia's flames danced with familial warmth, while the very constellations above swirled into ancestral symbols of unity.
The gods and goddesses were not gathered as rulers tonight. They were family.
Aazmirius sat at the head of the table, his black-gold throne now restored. The divine crown shimmered above his brow, alive with the movements of galaxies. Hera sat to his left, a mix of regal pride and shy affection in her eyes. To his right, Hestia, hands warm as ever, watched him with tears unshed.
Demeter, gentle and firm, offered him bread made from celestial wheat.
Zeus raised a cup. "We thought you were gone forever, brother."
Aazmirius gave him a glance—and a rare smile.
> "You thought wrong."
Laughter broke. Deep, real laughter.
Poseidon slapped his hand on the table, cracking a jade goblet. "Still sharper than your sword."
Hades, eyes narrowed in mirth, added, "And still too stubborn to say hello first."
Apollo began to strum his lyre. Music filled the air. Notes of the old age—the notes they once sang together before Olympus was born. The melody turned ancient, echoing with forgotten memories.
> "Do you remember," Artemis whispered to her twin, "when he taught us how to hold a bow?"
Across the table, stories flowed. Tales of the ancient wars. The day Aazmirius forged the boundary between time and chaos. How he calmed Kronos's madness not with war—but with love. How he left… not because he was betrayed. But because he feared what his power might become.
Flashbacks lingered in the gods' eyes. The day he walked into exile, cloaked in silence. The day he placed his crown upon the stone altar, saying:
> "Let Olympus grow. I will return when it is ready."
And now, he was here.
At the edge of the feast, Hermes leaned toward Athena. "The mortals won't believe it."
Athena's eyes glinted. "They will."
And far below Olympus… in dreams, whispers began.