The night didn't end.
It had been hours—or maybe days, time had stopped meaning anything—since the sun had moved. The sky hung in permanent twilight, cracks bleeding light that didn't belong, shadows stretching in directions that made no sense. No one slept. No one ate. No one did anything except wait.
The camp had grown quieter as the pressure built.
Not the quiet of peace. The quiet of exhaustion. The quiet of people who had run out of words and were just... existing. Gods sat in small clusters, not speaking, not moving. Angels stood at the edges, watching the cracks, watching the sky, watching each other. The healers had stopped rushing. There was no point anymore. The wounded had been stabilized or left to die, and there was nothing in between.
Athena stood at the map table, alone now. Hermes had left an hour ago to check on the eastern fractures. Odin had gone to speak with Thor. Even Ares had stopped pacing and found a rock to sit on.
No one was arguing anymore.
