The marble halls of Olympus trembled with a storm that had not been summoned by Zeus.
Lightning snaked across the pillars, golden flames guttered in braziers, and the air tasted of salt. The gods had gathered, one by one, answering a call none of them had spoken but all had felt: a shiver in the currents of power.
They knew the source.
Poseidon.
But it was not only him. Beneath his essence thrummed something older, heavier, a presence that made even the ageless gods feel… mortal.
The throne room filled slowly—Athena, eyes sharp as spears; Apollo, his golden radiance dimmed with unease; Hera, regal and cold; and Ares, armor clanking, lips curled into a cruel grin as though he hoped for war.
Finally, Zeus arrived. Thunder rolled as he seated himself upon his throne, the master of storms, his gaze burning with suspicion.
