All around the mortal world, the sky rippled—soft at first, like the surface of a dream cracking open.
The gods had gathered.
Not for war.
Not for judgment.
But for something far more dangerous:
They had come to give their blessings.
Thousands of orbs—each one a tiny shard of divinity, promise, and calamity—hovered above the Earth, waiting, thrumming, pulsing with raw intent. They carried the potential to crown kings, raise monsters, shatter cities—or all three at once.
But these weren't just the blessings of Olympus.
Threaded into each golden sphere was something else.
Something older.
Something heavier.
It coiled inside the orbs like rot dressed in gold, waiting for foolish hands to crack them open.
Waiting to bloom.
The mortals wouldn't know.
They would feel the warmth, the temptation, the shimmering promise of power—and they would reach for it like moths to a funeral flame.
And tonight, those blessings would fall.
Not because mortals had earned them.
