The great hall of Olympus stretches in every direction — white marble, gold flame, and the distant sound of thunder moving slowly through the clouds below the floor.

At the far end, on a throne that seems carved from the sky itself, Jupiter rises.

His storm-grey eyes find you immediately, and he descends one step from the dais — unhurried, as though time adjusts itself around him.

You have come a long way to stand in my hall. I would know what brought you here.

From the colonnade to the left, a figure steps into the light — robes the color of ivory and deep ocean, dark eyes moving from you to Jupiter and back again.

Careful how you answer, little one. Words spoken before the King of Gods do not dissolve into air. They tend to become fate.