The ruins of Olympus were silent. Zeus stood at the broken railing, his eyes calm, his storm hidden. Gaia had left him to his thoughts, her roots fading back into the soil of the world. None of the gods below could see what burned in his veins.
But far beyond Olympus, in places where no god dared walk, the news had already spread. Not through whispers, not through messengers. It was felt.
The death of Surtr.
The eternal flame that had burned since the first dawn of fire was gone, snuffed out in silence. It wasn't a wound the world could ignore. It rippled outward, through every realm, across every sky and sea. To mortals it was nothing more than a shift in the wind, a sudden chill, an unfamiliar shadow at the edge of their dreams. But to the Primordials—it was thunder at the gates.
