The camp had been waiting for an explosion.
Not the kind that cracked the sky. The kind that came from a god who had been pushed too far. Word of the attack spread through the tents like fire through dry grass. Angels lowered their heads. Gods gripped their weapons. Even the healers moved faster, as if speed might outrun whatever came next.
They had seen Zeus angry before. Had watched him tear through Heaven's host. Had felt the chaos roll off him in waves that made reality itself hesitate.
They expected thunder.
They expected lightning.
They expected the storm.
But Zeus wasn't in the camp when Hermes arrived.
He was at the edge again—the place where Heaven crumbled into void, where the mortal world spun below like a wounded animal. He had been sitting there for hours, maybe days, watching the storms gather and the lights drift and the crowds swell at the pyramids.
Athena found him first.
