The first strike did not come from Olympus.
It came from the edges of the world.
Mortals called it dawn, but every god knew better. The sky over the eastern seas bled red without a sun. The air thickened, the winds froze, and then the sound came. Not thunder, not flame. Something deeper. Like stone breaking under the skin of the earth.
That was how the Primordial War began.
The War of the First Light.
The Breaking
At first, mortals thought it was an eclipse. Farmers in Attica dropped their plows and stared. Fishermen in Rhodes pulled their nets and prayed. But then the horizon itself cracked.
A jagged line split the morning, running from sea to sky, glowing with pale fire. The waters heaved as if pushed by an unseen hand. From that wound in the world poured shapes—too vast to be mortal, too raw to be divine.
The first army of the Primordials had come.
