She descended like starlight forgotten by heaven—silent, slow, inevitable.
Her body—divine and blasphemous—wore the night like a second skin. The Greek tunic she draped over her sinful figure clung and fluttered at once, as if reality itself couldn't decide whether to expose her or veil her. The cloth whispered at her thighs, traced her waist, hugged the soft deadly curves of her breasts without shame. Her legs, long and sculpted by the cruelty of gods, hovered just above the earth, untouched by the mortal dust.
Hera wasn't dressed to impress mortals.
She was dressed to remind existence why it bowed.
Her crown gleamed cruel and sharp—no jewels needed, no gold. Just a jagged splinter of midnight wedged into her brow, humming with old authority.
In her hand, she carried a box.
