Zeus lay on the broken ground, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. His body twitched from the last blow. Lightning wouldn't come. His breath was shallow. His vision blurred.
Above him, Tartarus loomed.
The world itself bent around the primordial. Walls melted into screams. Space pulsed like a living thing, held together by pain. This wasn't just a battlefield anymore. It was Tartarus's body. His soul. His home.
A prison where the warden was also the god.
Hades fought still—circling. Dodging. Swinging his scythe in clean, deliberate arcs. But even his silver cuts only slowed Tartarus for seconds. Every slash birthed more chains. Every wound sealed itself with shadow.
"This is pointless," Tartarus said, voice rippling like thunder through a swamp. "You came to kill me in my kingdom. With what? Willpower?"
His arm lashed out. Chains shot like bullets. Hades blocked three—but the fourth caught his ankle and yanked him down hard. The scythe flew from his hand.
