Medusa smiles.
It's not a wide smile, nor a theatrical one, nor cruel in the obvious sense. It's small, restrained, almost serene—the kind of smile that doesn't spring from immediate pleasure, but from the confirmation of something awaited for too long. The smile of someone who finally sees history reach the exact point where she always knew it would arrive.
She takes the first step.
The sealing circle pulsates beneath Athena's feet, runes reacting to the goddess's silent attempt to reorganize her own mind, to rediscover the axis of strategic reason that has always been her absolute domain. Athena is not physically weak; her divine body remains intact. What falters is something rarer and more dangerous for a god: certainty.
