Athena takes her seat in the council chamber before Zeus arrives. She knows what he will declare today. She has seen the signs in how he dismissed Themis yesterday, in how he leaned toward Ares when the war matter came up. Her father will choose force over diplomacy. The council will applaud. And mortals will pay. Zeus enters. The golden statue of him at the chamber's center seems to glow brighter, as if responding to his presence. He raises his hand. "We strike at dawn," he says. No debate. No questions invited. Around the table, heads nod. Ares grins. Athena's fingers press against the edge of her seat. She has mapped every argument that would change his mind. But she also knows which words will make him double down, which tone will make him suspicious. She stays silent. After the council ends, she walks to the library. The building rises white and gold against the sky, columns holding up knowledge that Zeus never consults. Inside, she pulls a book from the highest shelf. The owl emblem on its cover catches the light. She opens it to a page she wrote decades ago, a strategy that would have prevented this war before it started. The ink has faded, but the logic holds. It always has. She closes the book and returns it to its place. Tomorrow, she will plant a new thought in Zeus's mind, one small enough that he will not notice where it came from. It will not stop the dawn strike. But it might limit the damage. She has learned to measure victory in disasters avoided, not in wars prevented. The council respects Zeus's authority. Someday, she will teach them to respect wisdom itself. Until then, she works in the margins he leaves her.

The council chamber fills before Zeus arrives. Athena takes her seat and watches the others settle into place. Today he will speak the idea she planted three days ago as if it were his own. She shaped it carefully, made it small enough to pass unnoticed through his pride. Zeus enters and climbs to the golden stage at the chamber's center. The divine council stands at their benches, waiting. He raises his hand. "We will redirect the western flank through the mountain pass," he announces. "This wisdom came to me in the night." Around the room, heads nod. Ares leans forward with interest. The strategy is sound. It will save mortal lives. And every god here believes Zeus thought of it himself. Then Zeus turns to her. "Athena. You have studied warfare. Does this plan hold merit?" The chamber goes quiet. She was not supposed to speak. She holds the golden aegis shield across her arm, its weight familiar and steadying. This is the trap she did not see coming. If she affirms too quickly, she looks like a follower. If she questions it, she reveals the idea as hers and he will reject it out of spite. She stands and meets his eyes. "The plan is sound," she says. "But it requires supply lines established two days before the strike. Without preparation, the flank will be exposed." Zeus's expression shifts. She has just made his revelation incomplete, dependent on work he did not think through. Ares frowns. Hera watches with sharp attention. Zeus cannot reject the addition without looking careless, but now the idea is no longer purely his. "See to the supply lines," he tells her. She bows her head. The council moves on. She has won something today, though it cost her the invisibility she relies on. They are watching her now.