Olympus lay in absolute silence.
It was not the solemn quiet of divine assemblies, nor the gentle stillness of gods at rest. This silence was oppressive, heavy, as though the heavens themselves were holding their breath.
Within his private chamber, Zeus sat upon a throne carved from storm-forged marble. Pale lightning crawled faintly across his fingertips, flickering like a dying star struggling against extinction. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his eyes betrayed the weight of the decision he had made.
Before him stood a towering figure.
Nearly twelve feet tall, broad as a fortress gate, unmoving like an ancient mountain. He wore black celestial armor that absorbed the chamber's light rather than reflected it. His face remained hidden beneath a dark helm, yet within the shadows, two faint glimmers shone — like distant stars swallowed by night.
"What have you ordered, Father?"
