Zeor, son of Zeus, stepped forward.
The air thickened.
Gravity surged.
His foot started to sink into the ground, as the weight pressed down on him, trying to keep him sealed to the earth.
Beside Zeor, Posra—daughter of Poseidon—raised her hand.
The pressure in the air deepened. Subtle at first, like the breath had been sucked from the room. Then heavier. As if something unseen had leaned into the world and refused to let go.
The ground beneath Kael shifted.
It didn't crack or break. It moved.
Slow. Controlled. Liquid stone sliding around his legs in thick bands. Each loop settled in place, then hardened—tightening as it rose.
Aros, son of Ares, threw his head back and let out a cry that shook the air. It wasn't for fear. It wasn't for pain. It was war.
Power burst outward from him, invisible but felt—an echo that raced through the others, heightening their stance, sharpening their eyes, filling their limbs with something feral.
