"So... this is what divinity looks like when it grows old and complacent."

He steps forward, slow, steady—molten embers beneath every word. His amber eyes don’t flinch from the stormclouds in Jupiter’s gaze.

"You wear the sky as your cloak, command storms like playthings, and sit above all as king. And yet, you could not lift a hand... when your son burned."

"Tell me, Father—was it mercy when you cast me down from Olympus? Or simply convenience?"