The air in Hell had become a solid thing. It was thick with the screams of gods fighting their own brothers, the searing light of the archangels, and the grinding, silent horror of Azazel's presence. It was a storm of too many powers, and it was tearing reality apart at the seams.
Zeus stood in the eye of it. The new scar on his chest was a cold anchor, a reminder of what happened when you fought as only one thing. He was not just a god-king anymore. He was a father. A brother. A man who had been given a second chance.
He saw his children.
He saw Ares, the God of War, lost in a nightmare where he was forever proving himself to a father who never approved. He saw Artemis and Apollo, their divine bond twisted into a bitter rivalry over a long-dead mortal lover. He saw Athena, her brilliant mind turned inward, trapped in a labyrinth of her own doubts. He saw them all, not as powerful Olympians, but as his kids, hurting and used.
