The sky did not break with thunder. It whispered.
Clouds parted as if obeying something older than the storm, and the stars dimmed—not in fear, but in reverence. The constellations bent subtly, aligning in an ancient pattern seen only once before: the mark of Aazmirius, eldest of the divine, the Flame of Creation, the First Crowned.
Far above Olympus, time itself seemed to hesitate.
Mount Olympus, carved from divine marble and wrapped in starlight, shimmered at its edges. The throne room stood atop its pinnacle—a cathedral of flame and time, veined with cosmic light. Twelve thrones, vast and elegant, encircled a roaring flame at the center, the Heart of Olympus. Behind the central throne of obsidian and gold, an arch of starlight shimmered with cosmic law.
The gods gathered, stirred by a summons they had not heard in ages. They knew what it meant. They just didn't dare to believe.
Zeus clutched his lightning bolt. "It can't be."
Hera stood first, eyes welling—not with fear, but love.
Poseidon set his trident down, a rare smile tugging at his lips.
Hades simply whispered, "He returns."
The gates of Olympus, sealed for a thousand years, groaned open—not with force, but with inevitability.
And there he stood.
Aazmirius.
He moved like time incarnate, robes woven from the abyss and crowned with the shimmer of galaxies. His skin gleamed with the warmth of divine fire. His eyes—radiant gold, brighter than Helios' sun—burned with ancient knowledge. His presence was the silence between thunderclaps. The breath before creation.
He stepped forward, and the flame at the heart of Olympus bowed.
The gods—twelve mighty beings, rulers of all realms—knelt.
Even Kronos, hiding in the shadows of eternity, watched with silent reverence.
Not a word was spoken.
He did not need to speak.
For the King had returned. And Olympus would never be the same.