The great hall of Olympus had never felt so silent, nor so small. Zeus stood before his throne, the weight of the silent heavens pressing down on him. He looked at the assembled faces—Odin's grim resolve, Hades's stoic calm, the worry in Persephone's eyes, the fierce determination in Artemis's.
"We cannot fight him here," Zeus said, his voice cutting through the quiet. It was not a suggestion. It was a conclusion he had reached on the lonely peak.
A murmur rippled through the room.
"Here, we are defending a house made of glass," he continued, his gaze sweeping over them. "Every clash of power, every stray bolt of lightning, every burst of hellfire—it scars the earth, poisons the rivers, terrifies the mortals. We might win a battle, but we would leave behind a broken world. And that…" He looked pointedly at Lucifer's words, "…would be a victory for him. It would prove his point that we are just destroyers."
