Days passed.
Olympus did not sleep, not even after the storm of Zeus's command. The throne hall was never empty. Messengers crossed its marble floors with scrolls from foreign pantheons, heralds carried offerings into storerooms, scribes knelt at the foot of the dais, waiting for judgment. The air itself was heavy with the hum of power—the storm's echo lingering around Zeus, and the calm weight of Metis, who sat at his side.
She spoke softly, steady, her voice cutting through the bustle without needing to rise. "The Mesopotamians argue still. Inanna swears she will not share shrines with Ishtar's priests. If we do not settle it soon, they'll turn knives against one another."
Zeus leaned against the carved arm of his throne, his eyes sharp, his tone simple. "Give them land apart. A field can hold more than one harvest. Let them divide."
Metis nodded. "And the tribute from the East? Guanyin's envoy waits for an answer."
