The upper halls of Olympus were shattered ruins now, cracked marble soaked in divine ichor, shadows flickering where once glory stood eternal. Hermes stood amidst the chaos, chest heaving, his grip around his caduceus trembling—not with fear, but fury.
Poseidon and Hades were walking away, their towering forms marked by battle, ichor streaking down their arms, as if they carried the weight of justice twisted into execution. Athena and Apollo lay broken but breathing somewhere behind Hermes, and yet his eyes were locked on the two gods who had done it. Who had killed Zeus.
He stepped forward, barely breathing.
Another step.
Then suddenly—
A figure blocked his path.
Akhon.
Dust clung to his silver hair, his chestplate was scorched and cracked. One side of his tunic was torn open, stained red with dried ichor. But his presence was steady. Grounded. Golden eyes met Hermes', not with hostility—but with something worse.
Understanding.
