Soon after, Poseidon, god of the sea, had a son named Halirrhothius, who attempted to violate Ares' daughter, Alcippe. To protect his daughter's purity, Ares slew Halirrhothius. Poseidon, enraged, accused him of murder.
Zeus referred the case to the [Council of the Twelve] for trial, with the gods serving as jurors and even allowing mortals to attend. This became the first divine murder trial ever handled by the Council—Ares as the defendant, Poseidon as the plaintiff, and twelve major gods as judges.
Ironically, the one defending Ares and his daughter was none other than Medusa of the Furies. Her clear reasoning, evidence, and interrogation left Poseidon speechless. After several hearings, Themis ruled that Ares was not guilty of murder, and the gods unanimously agreed to acquit the God of War.
From then on, the [Council of the Twelve] became known throughout Greece for its fairness. In honor of this event—and to celebrate Athena's triumph over Ares—the proud Athenians named the mountain "Areopagus." Over time, the original title "Council" faded, while the name "Areopagus" took root in the hearts of the people and spread across Greece.
Areopagus? The Council?
Recalling this history, Samael's expression turned strange. In his memory, the Areopagus Council was a well-documented organization with real historical presence. Even after the Age of Gods, it still guarded the laws of Athens, oversaw its greatest affairs, and directly judged and punished those who disturbed public order—its power was immense. Even during the Greco-Persian Wars, the Areopagus continued to play an important role.
So… what exactly had I changed?
Samael couldn't help but feel both amused and exasperated. The way history corrected itself was fascinating.
Aside from the [Areopagus], Athens also had another institution deeply rooted in people's minds—the [Academy of Athens]. An educational establishment passed down since the dawn of humanity, it sought to dispel ignorance and enlighten the mind. Founded by the sage Chiron and other deities, it drew talent from across Greece, ushering in an unprecedented age of learning.
Later, many outstanding graduates—including the god of medicine, Asclepius—joined the [Areopagus], further expanding Athens' influence among beasts, demigods, and even gods. Today, Athens stood as the cultural heart of Greece, lauded as "Athens of the Greeks."
Even though the [Areopagus] and [Mount Olympus] often stood in quiet opposition, Zeus—faced with Athens fortified like an iron fortress—could only tacitly accept its legitimacy. After all, Delphi had the Oracle of Apollo, Sparta had the Arena of Ares, and Ephesus had the Temple of Artemis. His divine offspring were all striving to expand their faith, weren't they?
Add to that the usurpation curse of the god of chance, Poros, the watchful eyes of his brother Poseidon, and the endless quarrels with his wife Hera. Even with all his wisdom, how could the King of the Gods manage it all?
For some reason, Samael felt a faint sympathy for that overburdened ruler of Olympus. Since taking the throne, Zeus had known little peace.
Well, the one who wears the crown must bear its weight. He chose that path himself—why should I worry about it?
After sorting through that lost chapter of history, the ancient serpent stretched lazily, a faint contentment flickering across his face. In just a few short centuries, Athena had achieved far more than he'd ever expected. But a century, fleeting as it was, could change everything—people, events, the world itself.
He didn't wish to probe deeper or test her further. Thus, when he reached the Peloponnesus, a strange unease stirred within him—an anxious feeling, as if returning home after a long absence.
So Samael hitched a ride on Atalanta's cat-drawn carriage, bound for Calydon to meet the heroes who would one day be celebrated across Greece.
You have your glories, and I have my plans.
Before our reunion, I should at least have a proper gift to bring.
As the ancient serpent murmured, he lifted his chin slightly, the motion carrying his innate pride and restraint. What Samael never realized was that the traits attracting the proud goddess—beyond his devotion and integrity—were their shared brilliance.
Clatter!
Suddenly, the sharp scrape of cutlery against a plate tore through his thoughts. Feeling a touch of hunger, he looked up—only to find the table bare, every dish gone.
Across from him, Circe sat amid a tower of empty plates, her cheeks puffed out like a hamster's. As two heavy gazes fell upon her, she froze, staring at the wrecked table before her.
"You ate it all?"
"Um..."
"Seems you really liked it."
Just as the Great Witch was about to make excuses—ahem, offer an explanation—Samael casually waved his hand, summoning the restaurant attendant.
"Then let's order another serving. We'll share it."
When the new batch of food arrived, the ancient serpent gestured for Circe to dig in.
He... when did he become so kind? Could it be... he's planning to fatten me up before eating me?
Gazing at Samael now, Circe felt her mind spin with confusion and unease. Ultimately, succumbing to the "it's actually delicious" principle, the Great Witch couldn't resist the food's allure. She accepted the invitation and tucked in heartily.
Only after she was completely full did the ancient serpent show no sign of making a move. Circe finally relaxed, her shimmering iridescent eyes fixed intently on a certain mischievous creature.
Samael, you're such a sweetheart!
Ugh, it's just feeding her a bit. How did she develop Stockholm syndrome? Did I treat her too harshly before?
Seeing the blush spreading across the loli witch's cheeks across the table—her expression both anxious and affectionate—the ancient serpent's mouth twitched slightly as he silently repented.
Once Circe had truly had her fill, Samael casually ordered another portion, intending to take it back for Atalanta to sample.
This action caused the Feast Witch trailing behind him to scratch her head in puzzlement.
"Shouldn't the boss have eaten by now at this hour?"
"You think everyone's as well-fed as us?"
Samael tossed a few gold coins to the waiter, then tapped Circe lightly on the head with an exasperated reply.
"She doesn't even have money for food? What about finding a place to live..."
"Full yet? Just carry it! Stop blabbering!"
Rolling her eyes at Circe's questioning, the ancient serpent tossed the food box to the little girl. After confirming the direction to the fur and herb market, she led Circe toward that area.
...
Half an hour later, Atalanta clutched her money pouch with a sigh of relief, carefully counting the coins before letting out a long breath.
The furs and herbs were finally sold. The buyer recognized their value and paid generously—enough to rent a nearby place for a month or two.
Next step: finding a home.
Just as the huntress stretched her limbs, wiped sweat from her brow, and prepared to press on, two figures—one tall, one short—emerged from the crossroads carrying food boxes, waving cheerfully at her.
Come to think of it, she was indeed getting hungry.
Atalanta's nostrils flared as the aroma of food wafted toward her from afar, prompting her to quicken her pace.