The Council of Twelve convened beneath the ancient marble dome of Olympus, the skies above unnaturally turbulent. Crackling streaks of divine lightning forked across the clouds, yet the summit remained untouched. Tension clung to the air like the chill of a thunderstorm on the brink of eruption.
Zeus sat in his grand throne at the head of the crescent. But there was no pride in his posture, no arrogance in his gaze—only suspicion. The recent omens had been too consistent, too many. The vision from the Fates, the dead silence from Atlantis, and the uneasy stillness in Tartarus were signs of something more ancient than war.
Hera stood by his side, draped in regal purple, her hands tightly clenched around her sceptre. "It's not just Poseidon," she said, eyes sweeping over the gathered gods. "There's something beneath the sea. Something old."
