Zeus remained kneeling.
One knee buried in shattered marble. One hand still clutching the spear of sea-glass protruding from his thigh. His chest rose and fell with labored effort. Blood—thick, golden, divine—poured from open wounds, trailing down his arms in molten ribbons.
The thunder no longer obeyed.
It cracked faintly in the distance, erratic, fading—like a storm retreating across the horizon.
His fingers twitched, reaching for something that wasn't there.
Poseidon stood across from him, battered and grim. His trident hung low, its prongs chipped and humming. Salt water poured from the curls of his beard, the ocean itself still circling him like a tired serpent.
To the side, Hades stepped forward. His glaive was cracked, but still pulsing with obsidian light. His armor had shattered in places, revealing flesh burned black with divine fire—but his eyes were seeing clearly and were focused.
Zeus didn't bother to look up.
He was no longer fighting. He just couldn't.
