White light still cut the sky from root to crown.
It did not flicker. It did not fade. It simply remained, a wound that refused to close. Across every realm the pressure of it sat heavy on the air, like the moment before a storm decides to break.
Zeus stood on the highest platform of Olympus with the wind tearing at his cloak. The beam rose far to the east, beyond the reach of ordinary sight, yet every god could feel exactly where it began. The sky itself seemed to lean toward that single point.
"It's not moving," Hera said beside him. Her voice was tight. "Whatever opened it is still there."
Athena's eyes were fixed on the light. "Then we go to it. Waiting only gives it time."
Metis spoke more quietly. "It may not care about time the way we do."
Zeus did not answer at once. He could feel the same wrongness in his bones that every other immortal was feeling. The beam was not simply light. It was an invitation, or a declaration. Possibly both.
He turned.
