The air over Olympus began to thicken as dawn broke across the mortal world. The sky was a bruised gold, and the first rays of sunlight slid across the marble terraces like hesitant fingers. The world was waking, but the mountain was already alive.
From every corner of the realm, divine power pulsed toward its peak. The decision had been made. The war was no longer an idea—it was a heartbeat, and that heartbeat was quickening.
Zeus stood at the edge of the great terrace, high above the clouds, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The wind rippled through his cloak, and faint arcs of lightning danced around his arms like restless spirits. Behind him, the gods of Olympus waited in tense silence. Odin leaned on Gungnir, Hades stood beside Persephone, Athena's eyes gleamed with cold calculation, and Artemis rested a hand on her bow. Even Poseidon, the eternal skeptic, stood still. They knew what was coming.
