Zeus.
The first thing he felt was the cold. A deep, bone-ache cold that had nothing to do with temperature. It was the cold of being empty.
Then, a thump. A single, stubborn heartbeat that refused to quit.
Zeus dragged air into lungs that felt like shattered glass. His eyes opened. The world was a blur of red and black. The dark blade was still in his chest, a weight that felt more wrong than any wound. It was trying to swallow what was left of him.
Get up.
The thought wasn't a roar. It was quiet. A simple, undeniable command from some deep, forgotten part of himself.
He pushed himself onto his elbows. The hellstone scraped his skin. Every movement was agony. He got one knee under him, then the other. The blade pulsed, sending another wave of that soul-numbing chill through him. It whispered for him to lie down and forget.
He wrapped a hand around the hilt. His fingers trembled.
"Not yours," he rasped, his voice raw.
He pulled.
