The air in the ruins shimmered, not with heat, but with a sudden, oppressive charge. The dust motes dancing in the slanting light seemed to freeze for a moment before the space beside Hades rippled like disturbed water.
Zeus stood there, having shed the simple robes of his throne for the day. He wore the same casual drape over one shoulder, but his presence was anything but casual. It filled the dead space, pressing down on the silence. The faint, clean scent of ozone and high-altitude wind cut through the stink of ash.
He didn't look at the ruins. His eyes, alive with that familiar, restless storm-light, were fixed on his brother.
"You're getting sentimental in your old age, Hades," Zeus said, his voice a low rumble, like distant thunder testing its strength. "An old man with a stick. Really?"
