The lab had become a strange sort of throne room. Zeus sat on a reinforced steel stool, the only piece of furniture that hadn't been broken or scorched. For three days, he had barely moved, a statue of storm and silence, while Elena and Leo brought him pieces of the world he'd lost.
Books were piled around him—thick academic tomes, colorful children's mythologies, translated epic poems. The air smelled of old paper and the lingering ozone that clung to him.
"According to Hesiod," Elena began, reading from a heavy volume, "the Age of Gods gave way to the Age of Heroes, and then the Iron Age of man. The gods... withdrew. Their direct influence waned as humanity became more self-reliant."
Zeus didn't look at her. His gaze was on the wall, but he was seeing something else entirely. "Withdrew," he repeated, the word flat. "We did not 'withdraw.' We were the sky and the sea and the earth. You don't withdraw from your own body."
