Sanctum of Threads – A Few Days Later
Olympus. Late Morning.
The sanctum wasn't loud. It breathed.
Warm light bled through the slits in the marble dome above, casting pale lines across the smooth floor. Incense drifted lazily, soft tendrils of lavender and something sweeter curling in the air. Crystalline jars lined the alcoves, each filled with tiny runes and dried herbs, shimmering faintly like they remembered something.
Metis sat near the center of it all, barefoot, robe loose, a curl of her long blue-black hair pinned behind her ear. Her fingers gently rocked the cradle beside her, where baby Athena slept—quiet, curled like a little flame waiting to grow.
Metis didn't hum. She just breathed with her.
It had been quiet for days. A rare peace. No thunder shaking the sky, no divine decrees echoing across Olympus. Just whispers. Movement. Little things.
Like Leto showing up every morning.
