The sun had not risen clean.
Its light broke against the smoke that smothered Athens, turning gold into red, dawn into ash. What once was a proud city groaned like a wounded beast—streets cracked, temples blackened, rivers choked with debris.
Athena descended into it.
Her sandals touched the cracked stones of the agora, and her cloak swept dust from the ground. Where her feet landed, the rubble stilled, and the air grew softer, as if the city itself recognized its daughter. Her gray eyes swept over the ruin. Statues of her likeness lay broken, her temples gutted, the cries of her people echoing from every shattered street.
Her heart twisted, but her face remained calm.
"Children of Athens," she whispered, and her voice carried like a breath of wind through smoke.
Mortals crawled from hiding—bloodied, soot-streaked, clutching one another as if to anchor themselves in the wreckage. They saw her, and many fell to their knees, their tears falling freely.
