Zeus crossed the threshold between worlds without fanfare.
No thunderous entrance. No crown of storms. Just a single step through a tear in reality that bled black and gold. The air tasted of ozone and regret. Souls streamed past him like inverted rain — rising from the depths toward the fragile surface of the mortal realm. Each one brushed against his divine essence, whispering accusations, prayers, and broken dreams.
He felt every one.
Hera's final words before he left Olympus echoed in his mind: Do not lose yourself down there. The sky needs its king.
Zeus clenched his jaw. The sky. His sky. A fragile thing held together by will and stubbornness. How ironic that the greatest threat now came from below.
The boundary resisted him at first — Hades' realm pushing back like a living wound. But Zeus was the Sky Father now, whether he wanted the title or not. He pushed forward, and the tear widened with a sound like cracking bone.
He emerged into madness.
