The envelope arrives at dawn, sliding under the door of his cottage while Thanatos is sharpening his scythe. He knows what it is before he opens it. Hera's court does not send casual letters. The marble paper feels heavy in his hands, and when he breaks the seal, he reads Nyx's name where his should be. The summons accuses Nyx of neglect. Of fading from mortal memory by her own choosing. Of refusing to assert her divinity while younger gods plant orchards of golden apple trees and build temples at crossroads. Thanatos reads it twice, then a third time. Each word feels like a trap designed by someone who has never understood what protection means. He walks to the statue in the clearing behind his cottage. Nyx carved from obsidian, taller than any temple, her stone robes pooling across the ground like spilled ink. He built it himself over the course of thirty years. Mortals come here sometimes and leave offerings at her feet. They remember, even if the court claims otherwise. Thanatos folds the summons and slips it into his coat. He will go to Mount Olympus. He will stand before Hera's court and answer in Nyx's place, because this is exactly what he has always known would happen. They cannot diminish what is sacred without first calling it guilty of its own erasure.