The chains of prophecy lay cold on the marble floor, their power bled dry.
But the weight of what they symbolized remained—like the scent of storm after lightning, sharp and electric, coiling around the gods like a predator circling prey.
No one spoke. Not for a long moment.
Then Athena moved, her boots clicking against the marble as she stepped toward the chain. She crouched, eyes scanning the ancient runes etched into the links—runes that hadn't glowed in millennia. Runes meant to bind the Primordial Leviathan, Thalorin, beneath the Abyss of Aeons.
"These shouldn't be here," she muttered. "If they've broken… then what's keeping him dormant?"
Zeus's voice was slow and deliberate. "Nothing."
The word struck the council like thunder. The gods straightened, posture sharpening like swords drawn at dusk.
