The stars blinked slower that night.
All of Olympus… held its breath.
In the Crystal Garden, silence wrapped around Metis like a cloak. Her hands gripped a polished stone slab smoothed by ancient waters, the curve of her belly heavy with the weight of something the world had never seen before. Around her, the garden pulsed—trees made of light trembled gently, crystal leaves shimmered with tension, and the ground itself hummed low, like it could sense what was coming.
Metis didn't scream. That wasn't her way.
Her face was still, but her grip left cracks in the stone. She panted once. Twice. And then her knees buckled. Oceanus moved to catch her, but Styx was already there, her shadowy form folding behind Metis, steadying her with long, cold fingers.
"She's close," Styx whispered.
Oceanus narrowed his eyes, his deep sea-blue robe trailing in the garden mist. Beside him, Tethys—his wife, the ancient mother of rivers—stood with arms crossed tightly. Her face was stone.
