The battlefield moaned.
Screams echoed across the ruined heights of Olympus. The winds carried dust, divine ash, and the scent of burning marble. Collapsed shrines stretched like corpses across the landscape—icons shattered, eternal fires snuffed out.
Hesperia ran through it all, golden hair tangled with soot, her sword humming with energy as she searched through the debris. Her left pauldron was gone, torn away in a clash with an Ares-born champion. Her right hand burned with divine strain from overuse of her shielding spell. But her heart was steady.
She wasn't here to fight anymore.
She was here to find survivors—anyone who could still move, anyone from Nemesis still breathing.
A glimmer of familiar aura caught her eye. Faint, flickering.
She slowed her pace.
Down a ruined stairwell, half-swallowed by fallen pillars and dust, then, she saw her.
Red hair, impossible to mistake.
Erytheia.
