Days passed.
Not the grey, broken days of the war. Something else. Something that felt like breathing after drowning. Zeus stood at the edge of the camp, looking up at the cracks that had spread across Heaven's ceiling. They were still there. Still bleeding light. Still waiting.
He had been holding them for hours. Days. He wasn't sure anymore. Time moved differently when you were the center of everything.
The chaos in his chest had quieted. Not gone. Just... settled. Like a storm that had finally found its shape.
He reached up.
Not with his hands. With his will. The chaos flowed from him like water from a spring, touching the cracks, feeling their edges, their depths. He had been afraid of this power once. Had tried to control it, contain it, keep it from changing him.
He wasn't afraid anymore.
