Athena's fingers pause mid-weave as silver threads form shapes she doesn't recognize. The tapestry shows armies clashing under strange banners, cities burning in patterns that match no war in her memory. She pulls back, studying the prediction with narrowed eyes. This is impossible. She reaches for her journal, the one where she records every conflict, every prophecy, every pattern of mortal fate. Her fingers trace the pages. Nothing. No reference to these symbols, no mention of these weapons. The threads predicted the Trojan War three decades before it started. They showed her the fall of Mycenae, the rise of Sparta. They have never been wrong, and they have never shown her something she cannot verify. Athena stands and walks to the marble statue at the forest's edge. Ares carved in stone, frozen mid-strike, his shield raised and spear ready. He commissioned it himself after the last border skirmish, another monument to his supposed greatness. But now dust covers the marble face. No fresh offerings sit at the base. His priests have sent no challenges, no insults, no provocations in weeks. The war god has gone completely silent. She looks from the statue back to her loom where the mysterious battle unfolds in silver and crimson thread. If Ares knows something she doesn't, if he's planning something beyond her sight, then this is her chance. Beat him to whatever comes next. Prove her strategy superior to his brute force once more. She sits down and begins weaving faster, pulling every detail from the prophecy, searching for the weakness that will give her eternal glory.