The skies tore open when Zeus got angry.
For a moment, all of Olympus—no, the entire world—seemed to hold its breath.
He hovered high above the mountain's fractured summit, every inch of his body radiating pure, unchecked power. His skin on that moment shone like molten gold, and lightning danced across his form like it couldn't bear to be apart from him. His hair whipped in the hurricane winds he conjured with each breath. His voice, was now more deep and loud.
"I AM THE STORM THAT BIRTHED KINGS," he bellowed. "AND I WILL NOT BE DETHRONED!"
He raised both arms to the churning skies and the clouds answered to his will.
Above him, the heavens writhed into a singularity of darkness and storm. Lightning didn't just fall anymore—it spiraled, forming the eye of a storm, like a hurricane. Bolts hundreds of meters long curved through the vortex like serpents, drawn into the gravity of Zeus' wrath.
