The throne room still echoed with the fading growls of thunder. Zeus stood before us, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths, as though each inhalation was an act of defiance against some invisible force. The golden light in his eyes — unnatural, cold — had finally dimmed. Now there was only the familiar storm-grey gaze, wary and sharp, fixed on the three of us.
"What… happened to me?" he asked, voice low, almost hoarse. "I… I remember rage, and… something pulling at me. Like my will was… buried."
Ares stepped forward, gripping his spear tightly. "You were being controlled. But by who… or what? We don't know."
Hermes gave a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We barely got you free before you turned us into a collection of divine ash heaps."
Zeus's expression darkened. "Then we have a problem. If my mind was shackled… it means the rest of Olympus could already be compromised."
