The sun had barely climbed halfway through the sky before Hera moved. Her sandals struck marble with sharp, measured precision as she walked through the high halls of Olympus, her crimson robes flowing behind her like silent fire. Her eyes were cold, her mind clearer than it had been in years.
She entered her private hall, flanked by tall silver columns wrapped in blooming ivy. The room was quiet, lit only by the filtered glow of sunlight through polished bronze latticework. A few handmaidens bowed low as she passed. She ignored them, her gaze fixed ahead.
At the far end of the hall, several gods stood waiting. They turned as she approached – gods of lesser domains, gods whose loyalties shifted like reeds in the wind. There was Kratos, tall and broad-shouldered with eyes like dark iron. Bia, his sister, silent and sharp-eyed. There was Icelus, the dream-bringer, his pale robe drifting around him like mist. Beside him stood Phobos, god of fear, his young face handsome and cold.
