Years had passed.
The world no longer whispered of Olympus as a mountain. The peak still stood, white stone and cloud wrapped around its shoulders, but it was empty now. The halls were silent, its altars untouched. Only one thing remained—a circle of statues carved from marble so pure they glowed under moonlight.
Twelve figures, the Olympians, stood in eternal vigil. Zeus at the center, lightning frozen in his grip. Metis, Athena, Poseidon, Hades, Apollo, Artemis, Demeter, Hephaestus, Ares, Hermes, and Hera—all sculpted with reverence, their faces ageless, watching over the ruins of what had been their first home. Mortals who dared climb Olympus often wept when they reached the summit. Not because the gods lived there still, but because the mountain had become memory itself.
The gods had moved.
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