Prometheus strode through the grand hall of Mount Olympus, his bare feet echoing softly against the marble floor, polished by years of divine celebration and excess.
The golden pillars stretched toward the heavens like the bones of titans, and the air itself pulsed with intoxicating music and the scent of divine wine.
Around him, gods and goddesses reveled without restraint—drunk on power, lust, and victory.
Laughter echoed, mixed with moans and the soft clinking of goblets. Divine bodies writhed in corners, tangled in euphoric embraces.
A satyr played the pan flute while a minor river goddess danced without care, her silver veil long discarded.
But Prometheus did not look. He didn't stop. Even when a goddess reached out to him with slurred laughter and glowing eyes, he gave her a courteous nod and walked past.
One offered him a goblet of ambrosia. Another whispered a promise in his ear, tugging gently on his arm.
He ignored them all.
