High above the mortal realm, beyond clouds and the veil of storms, the marble gates of Olympus stood defiant and shining—unchanged by time, untouched by mortal decay. The golden spires of the gods pierced the heavens, but a storm unlike any before rumbled overhead, restless and laden with an ancient force none had felt for millennia.
Inside the grand hall of Olympus, twelve thrones stood in a circle. Only six were filled.
At the head sat Zeus, god of the skies and king of Olympus. His chiseled face, usually carved with smug certainty, bore an uncharacteristic edge of concern. Thunder crackled in his veins, dancing at his fingertips. Beside him, Hera, queen of Olympus, wore her emerald robes like armor, her gaze hard and fixed on nothing in particular.
Across from them sat Hades, veiled in a shadow that flickered unnaturally. The god of the underworld had not graced the halls of Olympus in over a century. His return alone signified the severity of the threat.
