The marble halls of Olympus were not often so tense. Usually, their polished columns stood as monuments to eternal order, to divinity's unshakable confidence. Yet on this day, shadows clung to every corner, and even the golden light filtering down from the dome above seemed dim, as though the very sun recoiled from what was being spoken.
The Twelve had gathered.
On a throne sculpted of white stone and crowned with eagle motifs, Zeus leaned forward, fingers drumming against the armrest. The King of the Gods was not a man given to fear—his wrath could split mountains, his thunder could silence empires—but unease lined his face now.
He broke the silence first.
"You all felt it," Zeus said, his voice low but heavy, carrying across the chamber. "The surge beneath the seas. Not mere tremors, not mortal storms. This was power. Old power."
