The sun never set on Olympus.
That was the point. Apollo had designed the space himself, fourteen billion years ago during a particularly inspired weekend, and he remained proud of the work. Golden light cascaded through columns of living marble. Clouds arranged themselves into seating that cost more per square foot than most mortal civilizations produced in a century. The air tasted of ambrosia and consequence.
Today it tasted of argument.
Apollo reclined on his throne, a modest affair of solidified starlight that he had spent three millennia perfecting, and watched the other eleven members of the Dodekatheon tear each other apart over one eighteen-year-old boy with a baseball bat and a pornographic number of girlfriends.
