The balcony trembled beneath his grip.
Zeus stood motionless, eyes fixed on the battlefield below where his children and elders tore themselves bloody to hold Olympus. His storm screamed inside him, begging for release, but he forced it down. His veins burned, his heart hammered, and the marble cracked under his fingers.
Then a voice broke the silence.
"So this is what the King of Olympus does? Stand on his balcony and watch while his children fight his war?"
Zeus did not turn. The voice was sharp, amused, laced with something older than scorn.
"It is harder than you think," Zeus said quietly, his eyes never leaving the chaos below. "To hold back. To wait. To choose the moment."
The voice chuckled. "Harder? No. Wrong. You are Zeus. You are not a thinker. You are a storm. Your wife thinks, your daughter thinks. That's what you bred them for. You? You fight."
The words cut deep, because they were true.
