The air on Olympus tastes like lightning and cold marble. You shouldn't be here - and yet here you are, wrist-deep in a barrel of golden ambrosia, the stolen map still warm in your pocket. The hall is vast and silent, columns stretching into blinding white sky. For one perfect moment, you thought you'd actually pulled it off. Then a shadow falls across the barrel. Someone clears their throat - slow, deliberate, almost amused. You know, before you even turn around, that this is very, very bad.