The world moved on. It always does.
The Age of Gods didn't end with a bang, or a war, or a prophecy fulfilled. It ended with a slow, quiet fading. The prayers became fewer, the festivals less lavish, the belief less certain. The wells of divine power, once deep and roaring, ran dry. Olympus didn't fall; it was forgotten. Its marble halls, once thrumming with immortal life, stood silent and empty, their grandeur slowly surrendering to ivy and weather. The same happened to every golden hall, every celestial palace. The gods didn't die; they receded, becoming patterns in the static of reality, their stories morphing from lived history into campfire tales and academic footnotes.
They became myths.
