The moment Hermes crossed the threshold of Olympus, the world became a blur of streaking color and screaming wind. He wasn't running; he was unraveling the distance between points, his mind already mapping a route to a hundred different realms. The weight of Zeus's command was a burning coal in his chest, far heavier than any stolen trinket or piece of gossip.
He shot across the cloud-sea, aiming for the vibrant, chaotic tapestry of the Norse realms first. But as he reached the void between territories, the space ahead of him twisted.
It wasn't a portal. It was a trap. The air congealed into a syrupy, resistant gel, forcing him to skid to a halt, his golden sandals scraping against nothingness. Around him, the void darkened, and from the shadows, they emerged.
Dozens of them. The red-skinned brutes and the smarter, black-hided elites. They formed a perfect sphere around him, blocking every escape route. And at the head of this ambush was a new figure.
