The days slipped by.
Pelion's skies turned from grey to gold, then grey again. Seasons didn't announce themselves here—just arrived, slow and soft. The village stayed quiet. Smoke still rose from chimneys. Goats still kicked over buckets. And the old oak in the field kept its silent watch over the patch of earth that hadn't been touched again.
No one knew what had happened that day. No one saw the goddess. No one heard Melina cry into her son's hair. Kratos' name was never spoken again, not even in the wind. Just folded away into silence, like the man had never existed.
But in Olympus, silence didn't last long.
Months passed. And with them came whispers.
It started in small corners of the realm—nymphs trading glances, minor gods pausing mid-drink. A rumor with no voice but heavy breath.
Metis… was pregnant.
