The air over Olympus grew heavy. It wasn't just a shift—it was a plunge, like the whole mountain had been dropped into an endless night.
Every god froze. Every minor deity, every nymph and spirit in the courtyards below lifted their heads as the sky itself dimmed. Torches bent, their flames stretching toward the ground, shadows pulling longer and sharper as if the world itself feared to stand straight.
An aura filled Olympus. Ancient. Boundless.
Athena's grip on her spear tightened. Ares raised his sword instinctively. Hermes's easy grin faltered, and even Apollo, who thrived in radiance, looked uneasy as his light dimmed.
Only Zeus stayed calm. From the high balcony, his eyes narrowed, patient, knowing.
The night itself thickened at the heart of the training ground, swirling like ink spilled across marble. From it, she stepped.
Nyx.
Primordial Night.
