Far away from Olympus, across wind-scoured cliffs and wastelands soaked in silence, there existed a land the gods no longer tread—a canyon carved by wrath and fire, where thunder never ceased rumbling deep below the crust of the world.
It was here, bound upon the jagged rock of a mountain, that Prometheus remained chained.
Years passed. Centuries, even. And still he endured.
Each morning, the eagle came—its wings blotting out the sun as it descended with shrill cries to tear at his divine flesh.
Each evening, the Titan regenerated, pain-wreathed and defiant.
His chains were divine and old, forged by Hephaestus himself at Zeus's order—so ancient now they shimmered with time-forged rust and power.
But on this day, before the eagle could arrive, two goddesses approached.
The winds parted. The skies grew momentarily clear.
From the horizon walked Athena, goddess of wisdom and war, her eyes sharp with thought and her steps brimming with purpose.
