The Hall of Accords was a place of cold marble and colder stares. Columns rose like frozen spears into a vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of divine victories—Zeus hurling thunderbolts, Poseidon drowning armies, Athena outwitting giants.
Every fresco glowed faintly, as if the paint itself remembered the glory it depicted. The air smelled of ozone and old incense, and beneath that, the metallic tang of anticipation.
Demigods clustered in loose knots, their armor catching the eternal light that poured through high arched windows. No shadows fell here; Heaven refused them. The light was merciless, exposing every scar, every nervous twitch, every glance that lingered too long.
Atlas stood at the center of it all, flanked by Iris, Bela, and Veil. He wore the plain white chiton they had given him at the gates, the fabric too fine for his frame, as though Heaven itself wanted to dress him up before deciding whether to burn him.
