The clouds curled and split as Athena cleaved through the sky like a silver spear hurled by fate itself.
Wind coiled around her bronze-plated form, her cloak of owl-feathers flaring like wings behind her.
Lightning surged far below, thunder groaning like a weary beast beneath her feet.
But she paid none of it any mind.
She was angry.
Not the kind of fury that scorches the earth, like Ares.
Not the cruel, coiling rage of Zeus.
This was the cold, cutting kind.
A diamond-edged wrath that brewed in silence until it bled into every breath.
"Fool," she muttered. "Foolish old tyrant."
Her fists clenched at her sides, gauntlets groaning from the pressure.
Her eyes glared ahead, but she didn't see the mountains or forests.
She saw him—her father—sitting on that blasted throne of white marble and lightning, his hand resting on his chin in that lazy, arrogant posture.
Zeus.
