The battlefield smoldered long after the clash had quieted. Frost turned to mist, serpents of the deep reduced to drifting carcasses, wraiths scattered back into nothing. Olympus had survived the first blow, but the mountain looked wounded. Stone cracked down its face, seas around it churned black, and the cries of the wounded gods carried faint under the evening sky.
Zeus stood at the peak, alone. His hands rested on the railing of what little remained of the council balcony. From there he could see it all—the shattered islands, the fires still burning, the blood mixed with seawater. The air smelled of iron and smoke, thick enough to choke even divine lungs.
He had not released it. He had kept the storm chained inside him, even when the rift had grown wide enough to spill Tiamat's brood into the skies. His voice had carried them through. His lightning had burned where it needed to. His brothers had stood, his children had answered. Olympus had not fallen.
But his body shook.