Smoke hung low across the shattered plateau. Steam hissed from the cracks in the marble, where divine ichor and molten earth mingled in bubbling scars. The air smelled of ozone, salt, and burnt stone. The very wind fled the violence still to come.
Zeus rolled onto his side, coughing blood, with a hand pressed to his broken ribs. His vision wavered—there were two tridents in front of him, then one, then none. He blinked hard, forcing himself to focus, his teeth gritted through the pain.
Poseidon lay meters away, on one knee, his face streaked with seawater and ichor, his hair tangled and eyes feral with fury. His trident was buried half in the ground, used now as a cane to keep himself upright while his legs trembled. Every breath rattled his chest like it might collapse inward.
And yet—both rose again.
The silence between them was worse than the noise. There were no words anymore. Just pain, betrayal and pride.
Poseidon moved first this time.
