This story takes place long, long ago, back when the Olympian gods were more than just myth. In those days, mortals worshipped them widely across the plains of the Mediterranean.

  It has been thirteen years since Heracles’ ascent to godhood. The Olympian gods have gathered for a grand feast in the Great Hall of Mount Olympus, where marble pillars gleam beneath flickering golden torches and divine laughter fills the air. Tables overflow with ambrosia and nectar, their sweet aromas mingling with the tang of incense.

  Music drifts through the evening like a gentle breeze. Each of the gods wears a distinctive banquet toga reflecting their domain.

  At center stage stands Pan, dressed in a bright green toga bearing the symbol of a brown oak tree on his back, its leaves fashioned from gold. He plays the panpipes, performing a duet with Aegipan, who wears a dark blue, almost black, toga adorned with diamond patterns shaped like the Milky Way. Aegipan accompanies him on the reed pipes, their melodies weaving together in divine harmony.

  At one table, Dionysus, in a cream toga adorned with purple amethysts resembling grapes trailing down one side, shares a quiet word with his father, Zeus, King of the Gods. Zeus is draped in a white toga embroidered with a golden lightning bolt across the back, a storm-shaped gold buckle at his waist, and gleaming gold bangles on his forearms.

  His eyes wandered to the wine bottle in Dionysus’ hand, its vibrant purple contents glowing with an otherworldly shimmer.

  “What’s that alluring vintage, Dionysus?” Zeus asks.

  The God of Wine smirks, swirling the bottle. The liquid gleams like molten amethyst. “My newest batch, stronger than any I’ve crafted.”

  Zeus leans forward, eyes glinting. “Then pour your father a glass.”

  Dionysus hesitates, his grin fading. “Are you sure?”

  Zeus’ brow arches. “Of course I’m sure, plus, it’s rude to bring wine to a feast and not share some.”

  “Usually I would,” Dionysus said timorously, then, spotting Asclepius, beckons him.

  The God of Healing makes his way over, dressed in a purple toga adorned with a large emerald serpent coiled around the lower half of his toga. The God of Wine embraced him, wrapping his arm around him.

  “Nephew, examine this wine and tell His Majesty here what potential dangers it yields.”

  Zeus waves a dismissive hand before he can respond. “No need. Pour it.”

  Reluctant to defy his father twice, the God of Wine summons a golden automaton with a flick of his wrist. The radiant figure glides forward, its polished surface catching the torchlight, bearing a crystal goblet.

  Dionysus pours the luminous purple wine, its hue pulsing like liquid starlight, releasing a sharp, intoxicating aroma.

  The King of the Gods inhales deeply, downing the goblet in one swallow, and slams it down with a loud “Ahhh! Another!” he demands, Zeus’ voice full of gusto.

  Dionysus cautions, “This isn’t a game, Father.”

  Zeus’ eyes flash with mischief. “Why not make it one?”

  He gestures to Asclepius, who calls out loud, “Everyone, can I have your attention, please?”

  Everyone stops and stares at Asclepius. Then the God of Healing continued to speak.

  “A moment of silence, as our King wishes to speak!”

  The hall falls quiet. All eyes turn to Zeus, who nods in acknowledgment to his grandson, then addresses his guests.

  “Dionysus has brewed his mightiest wine ever, a purple elixir unmatched in potency. Is there anyone brave enough to challenge me in a drinking contest?”

  Poseidon, in a sea-green and purple toga with a dark gold trident emblazoned on the back, thorns facing up, leans forward.

  “What’s the prize, brother?”

  Zeus grins. “The one that falls first must bestow a boon upon a mortal of the victor’s choosing.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Hera, in a radiant pink toga woven with diamonds, adorned with a white peacock on her back, interjects, “And who here is brave enough to take on my husband’s challenge?”

  A voice calls from the crowd. “I am!”

  “Then show yourself!” Hera demands.

  Heracles steps forward, making his way to the table to join Zeus and the others. Hera’s face falls with disappointment.

  Heracles is draped in a light brown, gold-threaded toga with a majestic lion’s head woven across his back, cinched at the waist by a golden buckle emblazoned with a roaring lion.

  “A goblet,” the God of Courage demands.

  The automaton swiftly brings one over and sets it on the table. Dionysus pours the radiant wine, and Heracles drinks swiftly, settling the goblet back down afterward.

  Heracles spoke out loud for all to hear. “This wine reminds me of the time I drank with centaurs, back when I was mortal.”

  Dionysus pours another glass for each of them. Zeus chuckles, his eyes twinkling, also raising his voice for the crowd to hear. “How did that tale go again?”

  Zeus downs his goblet, his gaze fixed on Heracles as the God of Courage continues his tale.

  “They got rowdy and couldn’t handle the wine, leading them to forget who I was. So I did what any reasonable demigod at the time would do,” Heracles replies.

  He seizes his goblet, gulps the wine, then lets out a satisfied “Ahh.” Slamming the glass onto the table, he turns to the crowd and declares. “I reminded them that I am the son of almighty Zeus.”

  The crowd cheers as Heracles meets Zeus’ gaze. Both gods have now had two glasses. The spectating deities notice their divine composure cracking. The Gods of Lightning and Courage start to sway like willows in a breeze.

  “You don’t look well, Heracles,” Zeus taunts, steadying himself with his fingertips on the table, his eyes dimming.

  Heracles snorts, his voice now beginning to slur. “I think you’re the one who doesn’t look well, Father.”

  Zeus listens to his son, then dismisses his comment with a jestful wave. “Bah, I don’t know what you mean.” His voice starts slurring. “I’m as well as I’ve ever been, merely admiring the tablecloth. You could make a fine toga out of it for a mortal, wouldn’t you say, Dionysus?”

  “Indeed, sire,” Dionysus replies, turning away, rolling his eyes when Zeus isn’t looking, murmuring toward Heracles under his breath whilst readying the next round.“Definitely nothing to do with the wine taking effect.”

  Heracles tries to contain his laughter, only managing a small smile.

  Zeus sees his smile and starts to grin himself, before speaking out loud once more. “See, young Heracles? Dionysus also recognizes the quality of the cloth, it has nothing to do with the wine.”

  Nearby, Ares, in a cream and blood-red toga with black spear sigils on both sides of his chest, stands with Athena, who wears a gray toga adorned with an olive tree made of gems and a gold Aegis shield belt buckle. They wager in hushed tones.

  “I bet Father falls after the fourth glass,” Ares says.

  Athena’s owl flies over and perches on her shoulder, and chirps.

  “Bubo and I say he won’t make it to the fourth,” she replies.

  Ares smirks. “If I win, you stay out of the next war of my choosing.”

  “And if I win,” she counters, “you’ll only watch, no interference, not even if Zeus commands it.”

  “Agreed,” says Ares.

  “Agreed,” says Athena.

  Dionysus finishes pouring the next round of glowing purple wine, its scent so sharp it stings the air.

  Mnemosyne, in an indigo toga with gold woven around the edges and a large gold closed-scroll symbol on her back, stands with Demeter, whose toga is ice blue with an outline of navy blue around the edges, adorned with a large silver snowdrop on her back.

  Hestia, in a black toga with flame patterns around the bottom, crafted from multicolored red, orange, and yellow gemstones, stirs her nectar.

  “Boys will be boys,” Hestia says warmly.

  Demeter scoffs. “You’re right. He still acts like a youth.”

  Mnemosyne smiles. “It’s heartening to see him enjoying himself. Once upon a time, Demeter, you would have prayed for such a moment.”

  Hestia nods. “She’s right.”

  Demeter shrugs. “If you say so. Look, they’re about to drink again.”

  “Ready to submit?” Zeus asks, his words slurring.

  “No more than you, Father,” Heracles retorts, swaying as he speaks.

  “Then let us commence the next round of drinks!” Zeus yells.

  The crowd cheers. Both lift their goblets high and give a nod to the crowd, then the pair starts to gulp.

  Heracles gags halfway, then vomits into his goblet. The crowd lets out an “Aww” of disappointment. The wine is so strong it can only be compared to drinking liquid lava. Heracles sets his goblet down. As he doubles over, Asclepius hands him a bucket.

  Zeus finishes his own drink, slamming his goblet down triumphantly.

  “Good try, Heracles!” he says, tapping him on the back as the God of Courage continues vomiting into the bucket.

  Raising his arms high, Zeus bellows, “Still King of Olympus!”

  The crowd cheers and applauds.

  Zeus, basking in his victory, suddenly lets out a deafening burp.

  The hall falls silent.

  “Excuse me, I wasn’t expecting that,” Zeus says, followed by a hiccup.

  The hall erupts in laughter, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Zeus stumbles, and Dionysus quickly slides a chair beneath him. Sitting heavily, His Majesty glares up, his eyes clouded. “What in Olympus did you put in that wine, Dionysus?”

  The God of Wine shrugs, trying not to laugh. “No idea. I was drunk when I made it.”

  Zeus opens his mouth to reply but lurches forward, collapsing to his hands and knees in pain. His form swells, skin reddening as if choking, eyes flashing white with lightning. He expands tenfold in size; so does his divine toga and jewelry, as his body topples over tables and chairs. With a thunderous retch, Zeus vomits a massive black stone.

  Everyone stares in awe.

  He looks down at the stone before he begins vomiting once more, this time expelling a slime-covered woman in a brown toga on top of the stone. The hall falls silent. The gods and guests freeze, their faces lit by flickering torchlight. Zeus slowly shrinks back to normal. His skin regains its natural tanned hue.

  Dionysus and Asclepius rush to him. “Are you alright, Your Majesty?” they ask as they go to pick him up.

  Zeus shrugs them off. “Tend to Heracles,” he growls.

  Standing tall, he approaches the woman, recognizing her as she wipes slime from her face. “Metis,” Zeus says softly.

  Her eyes flutter open. Her voice is faint. “Zeus, my love?”

  He lifts her from the stone and cradles her in his arms. Their eyes lock. His intense gaze begins to soften, and he whispers. “It’s you.”

  Metis reaches up and touches his face. “Can you stand?” he asks.

  She nods. He sets her down gently. “It’s good to see you again, Metis,” he says.

  “And you, my love. Oh, how I’ve missed you,” she replies.

  “And I you,” Zeus says, embracing her.

  Suddenly, the stone begins to shake violently. Everyone turns to look. Then it stops. Metis whips her head back toward Zeus, hysterical. She pushes against him. “You’re in danger! You must flee!”

  Zeus grabs her arms, restraining her. “What do you mean I must flee? What do you know about that stone moving just now?”

  Metis grows frantic, trying to push him away. “Please, my love—listen to me! You must flee!”

  Zeus’ voice bellows, his eyes turning white, lightning jolts shooting out. “I will not flee. Now tell me what you know about that stone. I command you!”

  Metis cries out, “It’s your son!”

  Zeus recoils, his eyes changing back to brown.

  “What are you talking about? We had a daughter, Athena. Look, she’s over there.”

  He points at Athena. Metis glances at her, then back.

  “See?” he says. “The prophecy never came true.”

  “No, no, no! We didn’t just have Athena, she had a twin brother!” Metis cries.

  “You’re saying that stone is our son?” Zeus demands.

  A voice suddenly emanates from the stone, deep and dark. “What’s wrong, Father? Are you deaf?”

  Zeus’ heart sinks. The stone begins shaking violently. All the guests step back. Then it stops, then starts stretching, taller and thinner, reshaping like clay under invisible hands. It halts again. Cracks form across its surface. Smoke pours from the fissures, engulfing the stone. Within it, the silhouette of a man takes form.