The Grand Azathoth Hotel - Chapter 9

Chapter 9

The moment Leto stepped through the threshold, she felt small.

It was an alien sensation, one she had not known for millennia—not since she had been a child, cradled in the immense arms of her grandfather. But even that memory, distant as it was, paled in comparison to what she felt now. This was not the smallness of being young. It was the smallness of being noticed. Of stepping into a space that was not merely larger than her, but greater—an expanse of existence woven from something older than the gods themselves.

She swallowed. The weight of exhaustion, of pursuit, of divine curses pressing on her bones did not disappear. But here, within these walls, it felt… muted. Distant. Like a storm outside a thick glass window.

Leto forced herself to breathe and take in the room before her.

The Grand Hall was a paradox, a seamless marriage of past, present, and future. Pillars lined the space—some tall and slender, smooth black granite etched with delicate Greek meanders. Others were broad and regal, carved in the likeness of Egyptian papyrus stalks, their golden capitals catching the glow of strange, hovering orbs of light. And then, interspersed among them, were structures of impossible design—pillars that were not stone, not metal, but something else, shifting subtly when viewed from the corner of her eye, as though they had been lifted from a future that had not yet been conceived.

Leto’s fingers brushed the edge of her tattered cloak, steadying herself. This was a place of power. But whose?

Then—

“Hello, Miss. Can I help you with your luggage?”

The voice was smooth, deep—tinged with a casual confidence that suggested he was very pleased with himself.

Leto turned—And froze. Standing before her was a man—tall, broad-shouldered, radiating power with the ease of one who had never once doubted his own strength. His uniform, neatly pressed, marked him as a porter, a fine silver badge pinned to his chest reading:

Dgraig – Small Kitty Wanting Coffee.

She blinked.

What.

His hair was a rich, vivid red, cascading in waves down his back, the color so deep it looked like it had been kissed by embers. His jaw was sharp, his smirk even sharper, and his golden eyes practically glowed with smug amusement. A scar curved along his cheek, a faint mark of battles long past, only adding to the effortless air of self-assurance he carried. His uniform fit him well—a little too well, the tailored vest emphasizing the powerful muscle beneath, the sleeves rolled up just enough to expose strong, veined forearms.

But that was not what made her breath hitch. It was the power. It coiled around him, within him, woven into the very essence of his being—vast, primal, godly. Yet… she recognized no pantheon. Not Olympian. Not Chthonic. Not even the deep, unfathomable energies of the Titans. This was something else entirely. Her body moved on instinct—her upbringing as a Titaness, as one raised among gods, demanded respect before the unknown. She lowered her gaze ever so slightly, offering a polite and measured bow.

“My lord,” she began, her voice steady despite the sheer absurdity of the situation, “I am pursued and require sanctuary. If your establishment allows, I humbly request a few hours of respite.”

She had expected many reactions—scrutiny, caution, even dismissal.

Instead—

Ddraig’s smirk widened, golden eyes glinting with something deeply self-satisfied. He folded his arms over his broad chest, looking for all the world like a conquering warlord granted an audience with an emissary.

“Ah,” he said, drawing himself up with grand importance. “Then you are fortunate, for you have come to none other than the domain of the mighty Ddraig! And I, in my infinite generosity, shall see to it that—”

Footsteps.

Ddraig stiffened.

The shift was instant, almost comical. His shoulders, once thrown back in boastful grandeur, locked up. His tail—wait, did he have a tail?—gave the faintest, involuntary twitch before curling inward. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

And then, in a movement so unnaturally quick for someone his size, Ddraig bowed. Deeply. Formally. As if someone had just yanked his spine into submission.

“If, ah, the lady has no luggage,” he said, voice unnaturally stiff, “then I shall respectfully take my leave.”

And then—he fled.

Leto barely had time to process this ridiculous behavior before another voice—smooth, pleasant, and entirely human—broke the silence.

“Oh, you’re one of ol’ K’s descendants, aren’t you?”

Leto turned. And stared. Before her stood…

A man.

A perfectly normal human man. Dark hair, slightly messy, a simple dress shirt and vest, sleeves rolled up with casual ease. He looked like a barista, like someone who should be managing a café, not radiating an aura of quiet omniscience. But what sent a shock of cold recognition through her veins was the name he had spoken.

Ol’ K.

Her breath caught.

Did he mean… Khaos?

That was impossible. No mortal could speak of the primordial void so lightly. No human should even recognize what she was. Yet he stood there, smiling as if he had merely mistaken her for an old acquaintance. And then—he tilted his head, studying her with mild curiosity.

“Yeah, definitely,” he said, nodding to himself. “You got the same nose.”

Leto’s brain completely shut down. Ok. So definitely not Khaos — what had she thought, a mortal would know about him ?

“…What.”

“So, I apologize if my porter was impolite,” he said, gesturing vaguely to where Ddraig had vanished. “He just started a few hours ago, and I still haven’t taught him all the rules about the Hotel yet.”

Leto swallowed hard, her pride warring with her exhaustion. It was one thing to stand before a king or even a god and demand what was rightfully hers. It was another entirely to explain her situation to a mortal. And yet, she had been guided here, to him, and she could not afford to let pride stand in the way of her children’s safety. She straightened her shoulders as much as her aching body allowed and forced herself to speak.

“I… I was guided here,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Something led me to this place, though I do not know what. And I had no choice but to follow.”

The man across from her—this strange, infuriatingly relaxed mortal—leaned on the counter with an easy smile, as if she had told him she was lost on a morning stroll rather than fleeing for her life.

“Oh, yeah, that happens sometimes,” he said casually.

Leto blinked. “It… does?”

James shrugged. “People show up when they need to. Hotel’s weird like that.”

She had no idea what to do with that answer, so she simply moved on. “I am being pursued.”

He nodded along, like this was completely normal. “Yep. Classic stuff, huh?”

She stiffened. “Not exactly.”

He tilted his head, waiting.

Leto took a breath. “I… bore the interest of a powerful man.” She chose her words carefully, unsure if a mortal could comprehend the weight of names like Zeus or Hera. “I did not seek him out. I did not wish for his affections. But he does not take kindly to refusal.”

James let out a short, knowing sigh and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Old guys with power are always a pain in the ass.”

Leto stared. That was… not the reaction she had expected.

She hesitated, then continued. “His wife was not pleased when she learned of me.”

James exhaled. “Yeah, that’ll do it. Women have a way of getting creative when they’re pissed off.”

Creative? Creative?

She bit her tongue. She would not let herself be distracted.

“She cursed me,” Leto said, pressing forward. “She swore that I would never give birth. She bound her will into the land itself—no place that touches the earth will grant me shelter. No home, no temple, no city will welcome me. I have wandered endlessly, and wherever I go, I am turned away. And she has sent hunters after me—beasts, assassins, creatures that exist only to break me.”

She touched her belly, feeling the faint stirrings within. “But I will not let her win.”

James listened with an expression that was far too neutral for someone hearing this story. He nodded to himself, then sighed, shaking his head.

“Man,” he muttered, rubbing his jaw. “Families really know how to screw each other over, huh?”

Leto’s brain stalled.

“I swear, you put a bunch of people together long enough, and it always turns into some insane drama.” He clicked his tongue. “Old man with too much power does something stupid, his wife gets mad, kids and innocent suffer for it. Classic. Very sad, but unfortunately classic.”

Leto’s mouth opened, then closed.

She could not tell if he was a fool or if he somehow understood the nature of Olympus perfectly.

Before she could find words, James clapped his hands together. “So! You need a room, right?”

Leto blinked. “This is… truly a hotel?”

“Yep! Welcome, new guest!”

The words settled around her. The air shifted—just slightly, like the world had accepted his declaration. And for the first time in months, the weight of Hera’s curse did not press down so hard on her. And…what ? She could no longer feel the curse — did…no, it could not be lifted. Just, maybe, the Queen of Olympus had no power in the Hotel. But as soon as she got out…

She hesitated, uncertain. “I—what is the cost?”

James opened his mouth. Then, for the first time since she had met him, he hesitated.

“…Huh.”

Leto narrowed her eyes. “Huh?”

James scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, so. That’s… a good question.”

He paused, clearly thinking. Then, under his breath, he muttered, “Shit.”

Leto did not like the sound of that.

James coughed, straightening. “Okay, so. Before, uh. The guy who ran this place before handled payment.”

Leto raised an eyebrow. “And… where is he?”

“Left. With Tulzscha, the accountant” James said flatly. “Didn’t exactly leave a handbook.”

She stared.

James sighed. “Man, I should’ve asked what the hell we charged people. Aaaand…thinking about it, I've no idea what the current six VIP guests pays for staying.”

Leto, for the first time in months, almost laughed. James coughed into his fist and waved a hand. “Whatever. First night’s free. No way I’m throwing a pregnant woman out into the cold.” He shrugged. “We’ll, uh, figure it out later.”

Something in her chest eased. She bowed, lower than she intended. “Thank you.”

James grinned. “Don’t mention it.”

And just like that, Leto had found sanctuary.

— — — —

Ddraig huffed, arms crossed over his chest, his foot tapping against the floor in irritation. He stood at the entrance of the Hotel, dressed in the black-and-gold uniform that James had so graciously assigned him, the badge pinned to his chest reading in smug, handwritten letters:

Dgreg – Small Kitty Wanting Coffee — apprentice doorman.

He had yet to find an opportunity to burn it.

The True Door loomed before him, the threshold between the Hotel and outside—not that he could actually see what was beyond. His eyes worked fine. He knew that much. Inside, he could see every detail of the Hotel with perfect clarity, from the flickering light of the lanterns to the slight imperfections in the marble floor. But outside? Nothing. Not darkness, not mist, not anything. Just an absence, a void where his mind simply refused to process what lay beyond.

He had tested it, once, stretching his senses out, pushing his draconic awareness toward the threshold. He had nearly blacked out from the sheer wrongness of what he had found. He had asked James about it, of course.

“Oh yeah, don’t worry about that. It’s to protect your brain, man.”

And that was the end of the conversation. Ddraig ground his teeth. It bothered him, being shut out from knowledge, from understanding. He had once been a being of war, of fire, of unyielding destruction, stretching his power across battlefields, feeling the pulse of the world beneath his claws. Now, he was a porter, a glorified doorman, standing at a threshold he wasn’t allowed to comprehend.

His tail—hidden beneath his uniform—twitched in irritation. He thought back to earlier, to how he had fled the moment he had felt James approaching. The shame burned inside him, clashing against his pride, but what else could he have done? Standing in the presence of that thing was like standing beneath the weight of an entire collapsing star. Ddraig knew power. He had stood against gods, against monsters, against forces that could split the heavens themselves.

James was not power. James was something else.

And he could make Ddraig stronger than Albion…But would it mean Ddraig had become strong ? Did strength still mean something when he knew there were being like James ?

A sigh escaped him as he tried to focus on something else. His last guest, for example. A minor god from a pantheon he hadn’t recognized. That, more than anything, had piqued his interest. The divine energy had felt… wrong. Or not wrong, exactly, but different. As though godhood itself had taken another shape, another path. It gnawed at him, the need to understand clawing at the back of his mind.

And then—

A voice.

“Oh, so you’re the new doorman?”

Ddraig stiffened.

The voice was light, feminine, almost amused, the kind of casual, easy tone that should have put him at ease. But it didn’t. It did the opposite. It sent something cold slithering down his spine, something primal, something he didn’t understand.

He turned -- it was a client.