Months bled into a year, and the Genesis Forge began to rise. In a remote, heavily guarded valley in the Ural Mountains, a structure unlike any on Earth took shape. It was a project on a scale that dwarfed even the great pyramids, a fusion of hyper-advanced physics and brutalist industrial might. Under the direct supervision of the Bogatyr Alexei, thousands of workers and hundreds of scientists toiled to construct the machine that would weave a new reality. The project was a voracious beast, consuming a significant portion of the Empire's energy output, but Mikhail knew it was the ultimate strategic investment.
While the Forge was being built, the Celestial Duma convened regularly in their shielded sanctum beneath the Winter Palace. It was in one of these sessions that Captain Orlov, the Bogatyr of Protection, delivered the report that would open the first front in the War of Mythology.
"Your Highness," Orlov began, his voice calm but the psychic weight behind his words causing the air to feel dense. "My senses have detected a significant energy surge, similar to our own but… chaotic. It is centered on a remote, uninhabited island in the Aegean Sea."
General Denisov, the Bogatyr of War, called forth a detailed map of the region in his mind, projecting it onto the table for the others to see. "The location is strategically significant. It overlooks the primary naval routes into the Suez Canal. Any hostile force based there could disrupt global trade. A show of force is warranted. A naval task force could impose a blockade and demonstrate our authority."
"A blockade against a force we do not understand would be reckless," Alexei countered, his mind perceiving the raw, chaotic energy signatures Orlov had described. "Their power output is unstable but immense. We are dealing with a different kind of physics. To attack without data is to invite disaster. I advise sending unmanned scientific probes to analyze their nature from a safe distance."
Mikhail listened to his divine council. The Shield advised caution and intelligence. The Sword advised a show of strength. The Mind advised scientific analysis. He synthesized their counsel.
"We will do all three," he declared. "Alexei, begin designing probes capable of analyzing this 'chaotic energy.' Denisov, you will assemble our most advanced naval task force, the Black Sea Fleet, and position them in the Aegean, outside the anomaly's immediate sphere of influence. They will be a scalpel, not a hammer. And Orlov, we will initiate first contact." He turned to his wife. "Sofia, your understanding of courtly intrigue and diplomacy is unmatched. You will be our emissary."
Weeks later, Princess-Regent Sofia stood on the bridge of the Tsarevich Alexei, the newest and most powerful dreadnought in the Russian navy. It was the flagship of a formidable task force that now sat in the calm waters of the Aegean Sea, a ring of gray steel just beyond the strange, shimmering haze that hid Mount Olympus from view.
On Mikhail's instruction, Sofia did not attempt to land or send a messenger. She used a powerful, directional radio transmitter, a technology Alexei had perfected, to broadcast a message directly at the mountain's peak. She spoke not in Russian, but in the classical Greek that Alistair Finch's mind had supplied.
"To the sovereign power residing on Olympus," her voice, clear and regal, echoed into the heavens. "I bring greetings from the Lord Regent Mikhail Volkov, master of the Russian Empire and the North. We acknowledge your awakening. We recognize your ancient claim to this domain. We invite you to a parlay, to discuss our respective spheres of influence in this new world, so that a lasting and mutually beneficial peace may be established between the powers of the Sky and the powers of the Earth."
For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, the sky above the fleet, which had been perfectly clear, began to darken. Clouds boiled into existence from nowhere, churning with an unnatural, violent energy. The sea grew choppy. A massive thunderstorm had formed in minutes, centered directly over the Russian ships.
A single, blindingly brilliant bolt of lightning, thicker than the flagship's mainmast, tore through the sky. It did not strike a ship. It struck the sea a hundred yards from the Tsarevich Alexei's bow. The sound was a deafening, world-splitting crack of thunder. The water exploded upwards in a colossal geyser, drenching the deck in saltwater. It was a warning shot fired with the power of a god.
Then, a new voice crackled over the ship's radio, overriding the frequency. It was not a voice of crackling energy, but one of perfect, booming, and impossibly arrogant clarity. It spoke not in ancient Greek, but in flawless, modern Russian, laced with a faint, unidentifiable accent.
"We are the storm," the voice thundered. "We are the power that your ancestors prayed to. We are Olympus. If your 'Lord of the North' wishes an audience, he will come to our mountain himself. He will come bearing gifts. And he will come as a petitioner, not as an equal."
The radio went silent. The thunder ceased. In a matter of moments, the black clouds tore apart, revealing the clear blue sky above. The violent waves calmed, and a sudden, eerie quiet settled over the water. On the bridge of the Tsarevich Alexei, sailors stared at the spot where the lightning had struck, their faces pale. They had been sent to observe a location; they had instead received a message from a god.
Sofia relayed this response back to the Winter Palace.
In his War Room, Mikhail listened to the recording of the voice. He had made his first move in the great game of gods. His invitation, a cautious and respectful offer of diplomacy, had been met with a contemptuous display of raw power and a demand for fealty.
He looked at the map, at the small pin marking Mount Olympus. The Olympians did not want a parliament. They wanted subjects.
"Denisov," Mikhail said to his Bogatyr of War. "Update your contingency plans. It seems diplomacy will require a more… forceful persuasion."