The horizon of Africa spread before him like an endless drumbeat.
The air here was different—not heavy with hymns like India, nor steeped in incense like Egypt. It was alive. The soil itself hummed with rhythm. Rivers whispered like voices carrying old names, and the trees swayed as if listening to ancestors speaking in the wind.
Zeus stood at the threshold of that realm, sparks crawling across his shoulders, his cloak snapping faintly in the storm that curled around him. He had left the silence of Egypt behind, left his kin to their own war in the east. Hades had gone where only abyss belonged. Zeus had chosen this path instead—the west, the cradle of drums and fire, where gods no one dared call minor waited with blades of thunder and roots of earth.
His eyes narrowed. "Africa."
The word cracked with weight.
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