Wind howled over the cracked amphitheater.
The air shimmered with the aftermath of godly blows. Columns burned. Statues bled golden light. The very sky above them flickered, unstable under the magnitude of divine power tearing Olympus apart.
Athena moved first.
Her fingers closed around the broken shaft of her spear. Not a weapon anymore—just jagged wood reinforced by her will. She rolled to her side, coughed blood into the dirt, and stood. Her shield was long gone, helmet missing, her silver breastplate dented and scorched.
Across the ruined plaza, Aphrodite rose as well.
She clutched her bleeding side where Athena had driven the shard into her. Her silk gown was reduced to tatters, her golden skin marred by burns and gashes. Her hair, once flowing and divine, now clung to her face in strands wet with ichor.
Neither goddess hesitated.
They charged.
