I Am Zeus

The battlefield smoldered long after the clash had quieted. Frost turned to mist, serpents of the deep reduced to drifting carcasses, wraiths scattered back into nothing. Olympus had survived the first blow, but the mountain looked wounded. Stone cracked down its face, seas around it churned black, and the cries of the wounded gods carried faint under the evening sky.

Zeus stood at the peak, alone. His hands rested on the railing of what little remained of the council balcony. From there he could see it all—the shattered islands, the fires still burning, the blood mixed with seawater. The air smelled of iron and smoke, thick enough to choke even divine lungs.

He had not released it. He had kept the storm chained inside him, even when the rift had grown wide enough to spill Tiamat's brood into the skies. His voice had carried them through. His lightning had burned where it needed to. His brothers had stood, his children had answered. Olympus had not fallen.

But his body shook.

He leaned hard on the railing, lightning crawling across his skin like cracks in glass. His veins burned too hot, the Primordial fragments clawing inside him. Surtr's eternal fire. Tartarus's abyss. Ouranos's sky. They were not meant to live together, yet they raged in his blood, fighting, fusing, tearing at him. His chest heaved, his heart hammering too fast.

He dropped to one knee, his hand gripping the stone until it shattered under his palm. His vision blurred. For a moment, he thought he heard the world itself whispering, pulling him in every direction at once.

He almost lost it.

And then the air shifted.

The stars above bent as if the night had leaned closer. A soft laugh echoed across the ruin, too light for the weight in the air.

"You're breaking yourself, Sky King."

Zeus's head lifted slowly. She stood in the shadow of the broken column, silver eyes gleaming against the smoke. Nyx. Night itself. Her robe flowed like a field of stars, her hair trailing into infinity. She stepped forward without sound, and yet every god below, resting or wounded, suddenly shivered. They knew something greater than them had walked.

Zeus forced himself to stand. His hand gripped the broken railing tighter, sparks dripping from his fingers. "You've come to gloat?"

Nyx tilted her head, smiling faint. "If I wanted to gloat, I'd be standing with Erebus and the others, singing dirges about your corpse." She stopped before him, her gaze raking him from crown to chest. "But you're still here. Bleeding. Shaking. Holding a storm that should have destroyed you hours ago. Curious."

He said nothing, only steadied his breath, though every inhale scraped against his ribs like fire.

"You can't keep this up," Nyx said, voice softer now, though it still carried the weight of the void. "Every battle you chain it down, every strike you refuse to unleash, it will eat you alive. Do you know what I see when I look at you?"

Zeus's jaw tightened. "Tell me."

"A god trying to wear a Primordial's skin without letting the bones break first."

He glared at her, stormlight flickering in his eyes. "I am no Primordial. I am Zeus. King of Olympus."

Nyx smiled wider, not cruel but knowing. "And that is your problem. You keep calling yourself 'king.' You still think in thrones and crowns and storms that can be tamed. But the sky itself has already claimed you. Ouranos sleeps, but his veins flow in yours. Surtr's fire burns in your chest. Tartarus breathes in your shadow. You're not one of them anymore." She stepped closer, silver eyes meeting his storm. "You are one of us."

The words pressed harder than any blow. For a moment, the storm in him surged, screaming for release. He gritted his teeth, sparks bleeding from his skin.

"You want me to become what you are?" he growled. "A thing of the first night? A shadow that bends mortals in their sleep?"

Nyx chuckled. "I want you to survive."

Zeus staggered back a step, his hand clutching his chest. The storm inside lashed harder, pulling at the sky, the earth, the air. His knees buckled, and for the first time in centuries, he fell. The king of Olympus crashed to the stone, his breath ragged, lightning burning out of his skin in wild arcs.

The mountain trembled. Gods below looked up in shock, but none dared climb. Only Nyx stayed, crouching low, her hand brushing his cheek. Her touch was cold, but it steadied the chaos for a moment.

"You can't keep being half," she whispered. "Half-Primordial. Half-god. The storm won't stay caged. If you keep refusing it, it will tear you apart and take Olympus with you. Let me teach you. Let me show you how to be what you already are."

Zeus's vision swam, his storm crackling uncontrollably. He stared at her through the glow of his own unraveling skin. "And if I let it go? If I become this thing you call me—what then? Will Olympus even survive me?"

Nyx leaned close, her silver eyes glinting with something sharper than humor now. "Then Olympus will kneel to something it has never seen before. A king who is not just god, but the sky itself. A storm that cannot be chained, not by Titans, not by Primordials, not by fate."

Her hand pressed against his chest. The lightning there sparked against her skin, but she did not flinch. She drew closer, her voice low and velvet.

"Let it in, Zeus. Let it become you. Stop fighting what you already are."

He closed his eyes, his breath ragged, his storm screaming. For a moment, he thought he felt Ouranos again, the weight of endless sky pressing down. He thought he heard Tartarus's whisper, Surtr's roar. He thought he saw the fabric of the world tearing open before his hands.

And yet, he did not break.

The storm pulsed once, hard, rattling the mountain. His veins lit brighter, but he clenched his jaw and forced his voice through the chaos.

"If I become this," he said, every word like thunder. "Then Olympus does not fall. Not while I breathe."

Nyx's smile was sharp and soft at once. "That's the spirit."

She leaned back, her starfield robe brushing against his knees as she stood. The storm around him settled—not gone, not tamed, but balanced. Like a wild beast leashed just enough to follow.

Zeus pushed himself to his feet. His body still shook, but the fire in his chest steadied. The Primordial power no longer clawed blindly; it pulsed, slower, heavier, contained in the rhythm of his heart.

Nyx looked him over, tilting her head. "Better. You'll learn to carry it. Or it'll carry you. Either way, you're done pretending."

Zeus straightened, the storm glowing faintly under his skin, his face calm again. He looked at her, his voice quiet but sure. "If you teach me, then you stand against Erebus."

Nyx laughed, stepping back into the shadow of the broken column. "Erebus is dull. All darkness, no charm. Besides…" She glanced over her shoulder, her grin sly. "You're much more fun."

She vanished into the night, her presence fading like smoke. But the stars above flickered differently, as if they were watching him now, not Olympus.

Zeus stood alone once more. His storm hummed steady, deeper, older. It no longer felt like the lightning he had carried since boyhood. It felt like the sky itself, endless, waiting.

He exhaled slowly. His hand flexed, sparks dripping quietly into the stone. The war had only just begun. The Primordials thought they knew the sky.

But the sky was awake.

And it wore the name Zeus.

Hall Of Olympus

The war hall of Olympus was not made for peace.

It was a chamber cut into the heart of the mountain, lined with stone that hummed faintly with the storm's breath. Long banners of gold and bronze hung from cracked pillars, torn at their edges by the shock of the last battle. The table at the center stretched wide, carved from a single block of marble streaked with veins of lightning ore, glowing faint whenever Zeus's will brushed it.

But tonight, it was Athena's voice that held the room.

She stood at the head of the table, bronze armor polished, helm set aside so that her sharp gaze could cut through every word. A glowing map floated above the table—land and sea etched in shifting light, rivers flowing, mountains rising, cities glowing faintly where mortals still prayed.

Her siblings sat around her, each restless in their own way. Ares leaned forward, elbows on the table, his fingers drumming impatiently against the hilt of his sword. Apollo sat back, his bow across his lap, golden hair dimmed by exhaustion but eyes still sharp. Artemis stood rather than sat, arms folded, her bow slung across her shoulder, owl-feathered arrows ready at her side. Hermes lounged carelessly in his seat, but his sandals twitched, wings fluttering as if he was already halfway gone. Hephaestus leaned heavy on one arm, soot still staining his skin from the forge below. Hestia, quiet, kept her flame steady in the center of the table, grounding the room.

Athena raised her spear and the map shifted. Lines of glowing red light traced across the sea, stabbing toward Greece from every side.

"They are testing our borders," she said. Her voice was calm but edged like steel. "The kami walk our rivers. The Norse hunt in our mountains. The Devas bend prayer away from our shrines. They are not full invasions yet, but they are pushes. Small strikes. The kind that tell us the real assault is coming."

Artemis's eyes narrowed. "They move like predators. Probing for weakness."

"Exactly," Athena said. She gestured to the straits around Crete, where the light glowed brighter. "Here will be their first aim. A narrow pass, easy to choke, easy to collapse. Poseidon can hold the sea. But we will need bastions above. Shields, spears, scouts. If they control the strait, they can divide the Aegean, isolate our islands, cut off prayers flowing from the south."

Ares barked a laugh. "Then we don't defend. We strike first. Burn their camps. Kill their scouts. Spill blood so deep the others think twice before stepping closer."

Athena didn't even look at him. "Your rage blinds you. Strike too soon and we overextend. They want us scattered. We need to hold lines, not chase shadows."

Ares slammed his fist against the table, making the map shiver. "You sound like Father. Always talking. Always planning. War doesn't wait, Athena. War is blood."

She turned on him, her eyes hard. "War is victory. And victory does not come to the loudest roar, but to the sharpest blade."

The two glared across the table, tension crackling like the storm itself.

Apollo's voice cut through, soft but sharp. "She's right, brother. The last time you charged without thought, you nearly lost your head to Surtr's wolf." He tilted his bow, fingers brushing the string. "This time, we can't afford foolishness."

Ares growled but said nothing, sitting back with his arms crossed, eyes still burning.

Hermes lifted his hand lazily. "So, scouts. That's me. I can circle every island in half a day. If anything bigger than a mortal sneezes near the strait, I'll know."

Athena nodded. "Good. I want relay routes woven through every bastion. Iris will carry the heavier messages, but you'll keep the flow alive."

Artemis leaned forward, tapping a finger against the glowing map of the forests. "The woods will be their next target. They know I hunt there. They'll test me, thinking shadows can hide them." Her lips curved faintly. "Let them try."

Hephaestus finally spoke, his voice rough, steady. "The forge is ready. The Cyclopes have bent their fire to my hand. Weapons are being reforged, stronger than before. Shields that can withstand frost and flame alike. But…" He hesitated, his single eye turning toward Athena. "It will not be enough if the Primordials themselves step onto our soil. No blade, no shield, can stop them forever."

The silence that followed was heavy. They all knew it. They all felt it.

Athena let it hang only for a moment before she drove her spear down against the table. The map flared bright.

"Then we make Olympus a fortress," she said. "We cannot stop the storm that's coming. But we can shape where it strikes. Bastions on the straits. Nets woven over mountains. Wards etched into rivers. If they want war, they will bleed for every step they take."