The political circus in the chamber was almost boring to watch. Nicholas sat in the gallery, his grey eyes missing nothing. Mortals scrambling for scraps of power, their motives laid bare to his senses like an open book.
But he wasn't here for them. His gaze, sharpened by prescience, locked onto the real players, the ones trailing the faint, glittering of divinity. His so-called cousins and siblings. And the sight was equal parts fascinating and pathetic.
They were chained. A subtle, golden haze clung to their minds, a complacency spell woven into their very essence in Camp Half-Blood.
It was the gods' masterstroke: give them power but hobble their ambition. Make them heroes, but never the true controllers. They were thoroughbreds running a pre-set course, never looking up to see who held the reins.
He identified two prime candidates immediately.
The first was Marcus Demain, son of Dionysus, whose job officially was a page, someone who assists with delivering messages, distributing documents, and helping congress in the voting process.
The man moved through the chamber with an actor's grace, his presence somehow both relaxed and commanding. When he spoke to members of the House, his voice carried a rhythmic quality that made even the driest statistics feel like poetry. People leaned in when Marcus spoke, their attention captured without understanding why.
Nicholas's prescience activated automatically, analyzing the divine energy swirling around the man. This wasn't just charm or charisma. This was the ability to tap into the fundamental forces of ecstasy, madness, and transformation that defined his father's domain.
Marcus could weave emotions like threads, calming rage with a glance or stirring crowds to passion with a carefully chosen phrase. He could reveal hidden truths by loosening inhibitions, or cloak reality in pleasant illusions.
It was the perfect power for ascending to godhood and weaving a cult around him.
The son of Dionysus was everything the Olympians wanted: powerful, popular, and completely unaware of his potential.
The second candidate was more subtle. Julian Pierce, son of Hermes, didn't hold an official job in Congress.
He was the ghost in the machine, a political consultant whose name never appeared on legislation but whose influence was everywhere.
He moved through the chamber with a dancer's grace, always appearing exactly where he needed to be, a quick, easy smile never leaving his face.
Nicholas focused his prescience, and the truth revealed itself. Julian's gift was such that fragments of conversations from impossible distances, not with his ears, but by "tuning in" to the Hermes-domain of messages and travelers.
He could weave Mist-based illusions of such subtlety that they didn't make you see something that wasn't there; they simply made you overlook what was.
His potential was huge and yet the camp's magic had convinced him this talent was for politics and petty errands for the gods.
Nicholas watched as Julian used his incredible gifts to help a senator "remember" a talking point he'd actually never heard, or to make a compromising document seem unimportant to anyone who glanced at it.
The untapped potential had been reduced to a clever errand boy, thrilled with his small victories.
That night, in his sanctum warded with layers of protective magic, Nicholas opened the Book of Probability. The bone-white pages glowed to life, the silver script flowing like liquid moonlight.
"The son of Wine walks in pleasant dreams," the fused consciousness of Karta and Dekla whispered through their connection, their voice always cloaked in annoying pretentious speak, Nick guessed it was a remnant of when they were truly powerful Gods. "The spell makes him content with surface pleasures. He tastes the wine but never seeks it's source."
"The trickster sees the threads, but not the weaver," the other thought echoed. "He believes his cunning is freedom. He is deceived by his own gifts."
Nicholas leaned forward, his mind focused. "If I shatter the Olympian's confusion spell, what then? Would they be worthy allies? Could they become the first potential Gods of my new Pantheon?"
The silver script swirled, calculating futures with impossible speed. Images formed on the pages, Marcus's power evolving from charming crowds to revealing fundamental truths; Julian's cunning growing from petty tricks to grand strategy.
"The son of the Vine..." the Fates murmured, "his contentment is his cage, but his father's affection is the key. Dionysus is unique among the Olympians, he is known to genuinely care for his children. If you free Marcus and elevate him to godhood, you wouldn't just gain an ally. You might gain his father's favor. Dionysus has never forgotten what it was to be mortal, to be used by the gods. He could be turned."
"The son of Tricks..." the other voice continued, "his pride is his prison. Reveal the scale of his own ignorance. Show him the grand deception, how the gods use demigods as faith-farmers. He will not be able to resist joining the greater game. He would be your new God of Secrets, invaluable, though his loyalty would require... maintenance."
A smile touched Nicholas's lips. Perfect. This was better than he'd imagined. Not just two new potential gods for his pantheon, but also a bridge to an existing Olympian.
Dionysus, the god who understood what it meant to be oppressed by heaven's rules, who had fought for his own divinity.
If Nicholas elevated Marcus to godhood, he wouldn't just be stealing a demigod, he'd be making a statement to the one Olympian who might actually understand his cause and help them achieve it.
He saw the strategy clearly now. For Marcus, he would need to reveal the depth of his own power, show him that his abilities could do more than entertain, that they could reveal truth and shatter illusions.
And he would dangle the ultimate possibility: a father's pride, not in a useful servant, but in an equal god. For Julian, he would offer the ultimate puzzle: the true nature of the divine system, giving him the chance to be the one to truly be in control.
The old gods were planting their pawns for a war. Nicholas would poach those pawns and promote them to queens. Let Olympus have its petty squabbles over which of the Big Three's children would cause the most destruction.
He was building something eternal, and he would staff it with the very beings they had tried to keep enslaved, starting with the son of the one God who might secretly approve of the theft.
He closed the Book of Probability, the silver eye on the cover seeming to gleam with approval. The pieces were identified. The strategy was set.