The battle raged on, a storm of vengeance and fury between the shattered halls of Olympus.
Apollo danced through the ruins like a wildfire given form—his divine light blinding, erratic, fueled by anguish. His hands released bolts of searing solar fire, each one crashing into the marble floor with the weight of comets, scorching trenches into the battlefield. Every pulse of power he unleashed cracked the heavens, setting the skies ablaze with gold.
Athena was not far behind. Her movements were deliberate, each strike of her spear aimed with surgical precision. She fought with the mind of a tactician, adapting to her enemies' patterns in real time. She parried Hades's glaive, twisted under his shadow slashes, and countered with devastating sweeps of her Aegis shield. Her breaths were shallow, with pain etched in every movement, but she didn't falter.
She couldn't.
Not after what they'd done.
Across from them, Hades fought like death incarnate.
