I Am Zeus

The oath still hummed through Olympus long after the amphitheater had emptied. The Styx did not whisper and fade quickly. It lingered, binding every chest with an invisible hand.

Zeus stood alone for a moment at the broken railing, lightning silent under his skin, before he finally turned away. There was no more time for speeches. War was no longer a storm on the horizon—it was crawling through their seas, their skies, their roots.

And Olympus moved.

Athena

The courtyard was alive with the scrape of bronze, the thud of shields locking, the bark of orders. Athena stood at the center, bronze gleaming against her shoulders, owl perched silent but watchful. With a single wave of her spear, glowing maps unfolded into the air above her—mountains etched in gold, seas shifting in blue light, rivers pulsing faintly.

"Here," she pointed, her voice crisp, "Crete's strait. They'll test the waters first. Poseidon will hold the depths, but we'll place bastions above. Hermes, I want scouts on every island within reach."

Hermes saluted with mock cheer, but his sandals were already sparking, his form blurring into streaks of gold as he zipped across the map.

Athena turned again. "Ida, Hymettus, Parnassus. Pillars. Bastions. Nets woven above and below. Aegis lines powered by the storm."

The lesser gods—river spirits, winds, minor deities—nodded, their voices rising in unison.

She didn't smile. She didn't soften. She simply kept speaking, every order another piece of armor for Olympus.

Ares

Far from the order of her courtyard, Ares paced like a beast in a cage. His armor was half-fastened, his blade glowing faint with Surtr's essence still humming through it. His breath came heavy, his eyes sharp, red, restless.

Every clang of steel, every shouted order in the distance, only made him grind his teeth harder.

"I am war," he muttered, again and again. "And war waits for no one."

He slammed his fist against a pillar, cracking it down the center. "Let me march. Let me cut them first. Let me bleed them before they even step on our soil."

Nike stood nearby, wings folded, her expression steady but cold. "Not yet," she said. "Not until the king calls it."

Ares turned, snarling. "The king binds me like a dog!"

Nike didn't flinch. "No. He saves you for when it matters."

The war god seethed, pacing again, but the truth in her words gnawed at him. His rage burned hotter—but it held. For now.

Hephaestus

In the forge, sparks flew like stars. The air was thick with fire, iron, and sweat. Hephaestus's hammer fell again and again, each strike sending waves of heat into the mountain.

But his brow furrowed deeper with every blow. The weapons he reforged—swords, shields, spears—were strong, yes. They burned bright with divine fire. But he knew. Against what was coming, against what had already moved in the shadows, they would not be enough.

And then the air shifted.

Hephaestus lifted his head, his hammer still glowing in his hand. The flames bent back, quivering.

Zeus stood in the doorway.

"Father," Hephaestus said slowly, voice rough from the heat.

Zeus didn't speak at first. He only looked at the weapons, at the flames, at his son's sweat and labor. Then he stepped forward, placing his hand on Hephaestus's shoulder.

"Not here," Zeus said. "Come."

They descended together, deeper than the forge of Olympus, deeper than the breath of gods. Mount Dikti swallowed them in stone and heat until, at last, the cavern opened.

The World Forge.

Older than the Titanomachy, older than even the thrones of Olympus. Here, the Cyclopes had once shaped the thunderbolt, the trident, the bident—gifts that had crowned Zeus, Poseidon, Hades in the first war.

The forge pulsed. Rivers of molten metal ran like veins across the cavern, feeding into an anvil the size of a temple. Hammers hung in the air, moving without hands, driven by the will of the fire itself.

And the Cyclopes stirred at their entrance. Brontes. Steropes. Arges. One-eyed giants, their skin like stone, their arms thick with raw strength. They bowed—not to Hephaestus, not yet—but to Zeus.

The storm king raised his hand, stilling them. Then he turned to his son.

"Son," Zeus said, his voice steady, carrying over the roar of fire. "This belongs to you now. The forge. The Cyclopes. The beating heart of Olympus's weapons."

Hephaestus froze. His eye burned wide. "Me?"

Zeus nodded once. "You have always carried fire in your veins, but Olympus has only ever seen your limp. That ends now. You are our maker. Our smith. Our shield. These are yours to command. They will follow your hand. Not mine."

The Cyclopes lowered their heads, their one eyes glowing faintly in the firelight.

Zeus gripped Hephaestus's shoulder tighter. His voice softened, but the weight of it pressed harder than the storm.

"Now make me proud."

For the first time in centuries, Hephaestus's throat tightened with something beyond the forge's smoke. He set down his hammer and turned toward the anvil of the world. The fire bent for him. The Cyclopes lifted their tools at his side.

And Olympus gained its master of war's heart.

When he left the forge, when he climbed back toward the mountain's crown, Zeus walked alone.

No gods followed. No Cyclopes bowed. No cheers rose.

Only silence.

And in that silence, his storm turned restless.

Every step, every breath, carried a weight heavier than the sky. The Primordial power clawed at his veins, begging to be freed. His lightning was no longer lightning. It was the roar of the abyss, the fire of Surtr, the breath of Ouranos. Every spark that slipped from his skin bent the world around it, warping stone, cracking marble.

He clenched his fists tighter. He forced it down.

But his temples throbbed. His heart pounded too loud. His veins felt stretched, stretched until they would tear.

Zeus leaned once against the wall of the stair. His jaw tightened.

If they saw him like this—Athena, Poseidon, Hades—they would see weakness. They would see cracks in the sky.

So he straightened. He calmed his breath. His storm hummed quieter, folding back into his chest like a blade sheathed.

But he knew.

The strain was already eating him.

Back above, Athena's voice carried across the maps, Ares's roars echoed in the halls, and Hephaestus's hammers shook the mountain. Olympus braced itself like a warrior tightening armor before the first charge.

And Zeus stood at its heart, calm and silent.

The storm inside him begged to break free.

And he wondered—when the war truly came—if even he could hold it back.