The sky screamed.
Not in sound.
In resistance.
The locked clouds above Manhattan shuddered violently, spirals breaking apart into jagged fractures of stormlight as two divine authorities pressed harder, closer, grinding against the limits of the Old Accords like tectonic plates on the verge of shearing.
Ares' war-mist surged.
Not outward.
Upward.
It climbed his frame like living armour, crimson bleeding deeper into black, veins of molten intent pulsing across his arms and shoulders. The spectral weapons hovering around him screamed in resonance, vibrating as if begging to be used.
Artemis did not retreat.
But she shifted.
Not her stance.
Her priority.
Her silver eyes flicked once—not to Ares—but to the skyline beyond him. To the city. To the millions of unaware lives packed into glass and concrete beneath the collapsing heavens.
Her jaw tightened.
Artemis lifted her bow.
Not to aim.
Not to threaten.
