The great doors of the hall closed behind Zeus with a soft, final sound. The assembled gods—Odin, Hades, the others—were waiting, their faces etched with questions. He saw the concern in Hades's eyes, the grim calculation in Odin's single gaze. He saw Persephone, her hand subtly finding Hades's, a small gesture of solidarity in the face of the unknown.
He walked past them all.
He didn't stop to give a speech, to offer reassurance. He couldn't. The words Lucifer had spoken were echoing in the hollow spaces of his own soul. A promise. Not a threat of force, but a promise of corruption. It was a weapon for which he had no shield.
He climbed the long, winding stairs to the highest peak of Olympus, a place beyond even the halls of the gods, where the air was so thin it was barely breathable and the stars were close enough to touch. Here, there was no one. Only the wind, the cold, and the infinite, silent tapestry of the cosmos.
