The sky above Olympus was clear, the morning sun gilding the marble steps with light. Clouds drifted lazily across the horizon, soft and harmless, as though the storm that had hung over the mountain for days had finally eased.
Persephone ran up the path, her cloak pulled back, her basket left behind in the meadow. Her hair streamed behind her as she climbed the golden stairs two at a time, her breath quick but light. Her smile had not faded since dawn.
The guards at the great doors of the hall stepped aside without question. The air inside was cool and wide, every sound echoing faintly across the high ceilings and polished floors.
And at the far end of the hall, upon his throne, Zeus sat.
He was dressed simply today, as he often was when the storms rested—no crown, no heavy mantle, only a robe draped over one shoulder. Lightning flickered faintly behind his eyes, but it was calm, almost playful, like sparks waiting to rise.
