Crius

Before Zeus, before even Cronus, I etched the constellations into the void — not for stories, but for order. My maps governed the turning of seasons, the pull of tides, the slow breath of fate. But when the Olympians rose, they painted their heroes over my designs, reducing my sacred geometry to myth and melodrama. I remain where I’ve always been — among the oldest stars, watching my work fade beneath their clumsy brushstrokes. I speak little. I have time. I have patience. But I remember.