The familiar air of Olympus tasted like ash.
Zeus sat on his throne, but he didn't fill it. He felt shrunken, a king carved from worn stone. Below, the great halls were too quiet. The usual echoes of laughter, argument, and clinking nectar were gone, replaced by the hushed tones of those who had seen the end of things and were waiting for it to catch up.
His mind wasn't in the hall. It was back in the red dust of Hell, watching a single, silent tear trace a path down a face that had conceived of light. He saw it over and over. The plea. The resignation. And then Michael's cold, final warning.
The Father judges.
A soft rustle of fabric, like leaves turning in a gentle wind, broke his reverie. He didn't need to look up. Her presence was a cool balm on the feverish chaos in his spirit.
