On this day—the day that would one day be remembered as the Twilight of the Skies—Olympus was ablaze with light and laughter, unaware of the storm that loomed at its gates.
The grand feast of Olympus, a tradition that had once been noble and sacred, had decayed into a hollow excuse for self-indulgence.
The sky palaces thrummed with drunken music, tables overflowed with ambrosia and nectar, and golden goblets clinked while laughter echoed across marble columns.
Gods and goddesses, nymphs and divine spirits filled the feast hall, their figures cloaked in divine light, but their hearts cloaked in darker pleasures.
The younger gods chased nymphs with slurred promises, and the elder gods boasted of past glories they no longer deserved.
Apollo dueled another god in boastful song, Dionysus had long since fallen beneath a table in a puddle of his own wine, and Hermes was trading divine secrets for kisses and wagers.
Amid this gathering of glittering decay, Themis stood.
