He sat there, eyes closed, watching the world through the spread of his shadows. Every street. Every city. Waiting.
Daedalus had told him the story of his life. Long enough ago that the faces were gone from memory, but not the stench of it.
There had been demigods so steeped in their parents' favor they thought themselves untouchable. The strongest of their kind, draped in blessings, held up as living proof of divine blood.
And like fools, they'd turned it into a contest. Not for survival. Not for peace. Just to prove which of them was the better child.
The gods had encouraged it. Backed their champions. Fed the fire.
Until it burned too hot. Until it threatened to take the whole world with it.
Then the gods did what they always do.
They stepped back. Pointed fingers. Shifted the weight of their own disaster onto the same hands they had filled with power.
