The sky broke before dawn.
It was not thunder, not storm, but a wound. The air tore open above Olympus, a gash spilling blackness across the stars. Out of it came the first wave—shadows thick as tar, writhing like serpents, their whispers loud enough to rattle bone. Behind them came the sea. A tide that had no end, no shore, boiling up into the clouds, carrying with it scales, teeth, and wings.
Erebus had come. And Tiamat with him.
The mountain roared awake. Bells clanged across the courtyards, horns bellowed from the cliffs. Every god, every spirit, every nymph stirred as the sky darkened and the seas rose. The second strike of the Primordial War had begun.
At the front of Olympus's high walls, Athena stood with her helm pulled low and her spear gleaming. Her map had become reality—just as she predicted, the assault came at the straits and through the skies above. She raised her hand, and the formations shifted.
