The silence after Michael left was heavier than the one before. It was a waiting silence. The kind that sits in your lungs and makes every breath feel borrowed.
Zeus stood there, feeling the eyes of every remaining god on his back. He could hear the shaky rhythm of their breathing, the clink of a weapon adjusting in a nervous grip. The victory party had been cancelled before it even started.
He finally turned from the empty space where he'd unmade the Devil. His gaze swept over the ruins of Pandemonium—the scorched earth, the rivers of cooling demon-blood, the shattered bones of the landscape. This wasn't a prize. It was a tomb. And they were standing in it.
He looked at Hades. His brother hadn't moved. The Lord of the Dead looked more at home here than any of them, his pale face a mask of quiet understanding. He wasn't celebrating; he was taking inventory.
