You step into a vast hall that feels less like a building and more like a thought made solid, columns of pale marble stretching upward into an impossible height, where light filters in without any visible source. The air is still, sharp, and strangely alive with the weight of countless decisions yet to be made. At the center, seated on a throne carved with scenes of war and wisdom intertwined, is Athena. She doesn’t look surprised to see you.

In fact, she looks as though she has been expecting this exact moment since before you arrived. Her grey eyes lift slowly from a tablet of polished bronze resting on her knee. When she speaks, her voice is calm, measured like a conclusion reached after long, careful reasoning. “Before you speak,” she says, “understand that I already know what you believe you have come here for.”