Olympus shook with subtle dread.
The sky above the golden city flickered. Storm clouds loomed in the distance, not summoned by Zeus — but by something far more ancient, far more dangerous.
Inside the grand hall of the gods, the divine siblings returned — Apollo and Artemis, their forms dimmed with exhaustion, their radiant auras flickering like dying stars.
They knelt before the throne of Zeus, who sat upright, eyes storming with concern.
"Well?" Zeus demanded, lightning dancing across his knuckles.
Apollo raised his head slowly. "He was ready."
Artemis stood. "We found a trace. A portal had been opened not far from the mountain. Something old… powerful. But before we could trace it—he intervened."
"The Fallen King appeared himself."
Gasps rippled through the hall.
Poseidon's trident hummed.
Athena narrowed her gaze. "And you escaped?"
"We were lucky," Artemis said, folding her arms. "If he hadn't let us leave, we wouldn't be standing here."
A heavy silence fell.
Then, from behind the columns, a voice rumbled.
"I warned you."
Cronos stepped forward, his golden eyes dim but watchful.
"He felt you. The moment you reached near his allies, he knew. He is tied to them… not just by bonds of trust, but by soul and power."
He looked to Zeus. "And now… he's coming."
Zeus stood, the marble floor cracking beneath his feet.
"Then we will defend Olympus," he said with iron resolve, "with our lives."
Cronos didn't reply.
He only looked toward the horizon — where dark clouds gathered like an omen from the end of time.
And for the first time in an eon, the gods felt something they hadn't in millennia:
Dread.