The invitation arrived at dawn.
Carried by a raven—one of Odin's remaining few—that landed on the edge of each camp and waited. The message was simple. A meeting. The old pantheons. The ruins of the eastern hall. Come or don't. The choice was yours.
Some came.
Others didn't.
The Egyptian envoy never arrived. A young priestess named Khenemet—barely a century old, her sandals still dusted with the ash of fallen temples—sent word back with the raven. "We are grieving. We have nothing to offer. Do not wait for us."
Odin read the message and said nothing. Folded it. Placed it in his coat.
The Japanese kami sent a lone figure. He was young—young for a kami, at least—with moss-green hair and eyes the color of shallow streams. His name was Mizu, and he had been born after the old gods had already begun to fade. He had never seen Amaterasu's light. Had never heard Susano'o's thunder. He had only inherited the silence they left behind.
