The sky over Olympus boiled with thunderclouds, the kind that only Zeus himself could summon. The air tasted of copper and ozone, and the mountain trembled under the weight of his fury.
The doors to the Grand Hall flew open with a deafening crack, the marble splintering at the edges as Zeus strode in, each step echoing like a drumbeat of war. Poseidon followed close behind, his trident in hand, sea-spray clinging to his bronze armor. Neither spoke at first, but the silence carried more threat than any roar.
Hera stood at the far end of the chamber, her back to them, gazing at the vast mural of the cosmos that adorned the wall. She had chosen not to be seated upon her throne—perhaps because sitting would make her look too much like she still claimed the right to rule beside him.
"Do you intend to keep your back to me, wife?" Zeus's voice rolled like distant thunder, restrained but seething.
