Prologue
Recorded by Phoebe of Argýris
The Olympians were born in a system that should not have sustained life. Most star systems hold only stone and silence—worlds too cold, too violent, or too fleeting to endure. Yet ours carried two living planets. Olympia was one of them. Its sister world, Ceres, orbited nearby, watched over by three moons: Luna, Celeste, and Neoma. Both thrived, their rivers, forests, and skies following paths that should not have been possible. Life endured there, not merely surviving, but with quiet strength.
Long before Earth knew of itself, our civilization was already ancient. Three capitals governed our territories. Authority passed through bloodline—not as mere inheritance, but as obligation. Every citizen was trained. Every role carried weight. Leadership was not granted lightly, nor obeyed without cause.
Before the rivers learned their paths, before the forests grew thick enough to swallow the sky, Olympia was whole. Not untouched, but whole in the way things are when nothing has yet gone wrong. Elohim had already spoken the worlds into being. Not one, but many. The Heavens and the Earths, each set where they were meant to be, each carrying life in its own way. Olympia was one of them. And like the others, it began in a garden.
There were many trees there. Not all were the same. Among them were placed Aktor and Eikōna—not as rulers, not as owners, but as those meant to live within what had already been given. They understood what was theirs, and what was not. They were told what to take, and what not to. For a long while, they chose rightly. Long enough that no one remembers exactly how long it lasted.
Until something came—not as a force, not as destruction, but as presence. Quiet. Patient. Threading thoughts into their own. Apollyon. Not a name yet. Just a temptation.
"You've been told not to," it whispered.
A pause.
"But one bite won't kill you."
They did not see it as evil. They saw only choice—and they chose the wrong tree.
When Elohim came to the garden, His presence was great and terrible. He asked what had been done. Aktor and Eikōna hid and lied. For their disobedience, they were driven from the Garden. The change moved outward—from them, into everything else. Angels had already fallen, unheeded. Some lay with human women, and from them came the Katheúdontes—giants who would rise later, shaping mountains, valleys, and forests, inheriting both the world's beauty and its corruption.
Corruption spread quietly, then loudly, until even the skies and rivers were touched. Yet Elohim's mercy endured. Those who remained were given another chance. They rebuilt civilization into three capitals, and bloodlines were established to maintain order: Argýris, Anthrax, and Chará. Halls were built where meaning could hold: Phaós, Hypomonē, Agápē—Light, Endurance, Love. For a time, they chose rightly. For a time, it held.
Then Cronos arose. Once faithful, listening to Elohim, ambition grew, and he stopped hearing the voice of the One who had created all. His generation followed, attempting to conquer Ceres. Zeus, Hades, and Poseidon resisted, defeating Cronos and his followers, save for the few who remained righteous. Cronos subtly changed what things meant: Anthrax became Phthorá, Chará became Mîsos, but Argýris resisted, and it remained.
The wrong choice never stays small. It never does. Even now, forests grow thick, rivers follow their paths, and the Katheúdontes remain—sleeping beneath the land, or walking among the ruins. And Apollyon—the voice that first tempted the choice—has never stopped asking:
"One bite won't kill you."
So tell me, reader: which tree are you choosing?
