The sword of Themis rose high, gleaming like moonlight carved into steel, ready to strike divine judgment upon the monstrous form of Porphyrion.
But just as her blade began its descent, the sky screamed.
A sound not of thunder—but of anger.
The shattered ceiling of Olympus roared as a cascade of lightning tore through it, bursting from the broken rubble of a once-great column.
From the rubble rose a god.
His skin glowed like burning marble, his veins surged with stormlight. His beard, wild and crackling, flowed with electric wind, and his eyes—his eyes were twin storms, spinning with blinding fury.
Zeus.
King of Olympus.
King of Gods.
Lord of the Skies.
He stood among ruin, cracked and scorched, blood running down one arm, but still godly, still the king.
His gaze locked on the giant.
More specifically, on what the giant held.
"Metis…" he whispered.
