On Olympus, the air shimmered with golden light.
The wind that swept through its marble halls carried the scent of olive blossoms and divine ink. But Athena felt none of it.
Her gaze pierced the veil between realms as she stood upon her balcony, eyes locked on a distant battlefield where fate was being rewritten by mortal hands.
In one hand, she held a scroll—aged but blank, waiting.
In the other, her quill—feathered from the wing of a chimera, hunted and given to her by Artemis, dipped in ink brewed from the wisdom of ages.
She watched, breathless, as Herios—king not by blood, but by soul—stood with sword raised beneath the looming shadow of six divine champions.
The chosen of Olympus hovered like suns above him, yet still he did not flinch.
Athena's heart beat faster. Not in fear, not even in concern, but in thrill.
"So this is the pivot," she whispered, her gray eyes alight with fierce wonder. "This is the beginning."
She began to write.
