The next morning, Zeus woke up sore.
Not the pleasant kind of soreness from running or climbing trees—but the deep, honest ache of someone who had been trained without being asked whether she agreed to it.
She stared at the sky through the leaves above her and groaned. "I knew it. Letting me rest yesterday was suspicious."
Little Ha lay beside her, tail flicking lazily, silver fur glowing softly in the morning light. The wolf let out a low huff that clearly meant I warned you, despite the fact that she absolutely had not.
Zeus sat up and stretched, lightning flickering faintly around her fingertips before she consciously suppressed it. Ever since yesterday, her power had felt… denser. Like water before it boils—quiet, heavy, impatient.
"You feel it too, don't you?" she murmured, patting Little Ha's head.
The wolf's ears twitched.
Before Zeus could say anything else, the air shifted.
The ground beneath her feet pulsed once, like a heartbeat.
Gaia appeared.
No dramatic entrance. No thunder. No warning.
She was simply there, standing barefoot on the earth, her expression calm in the way that only made things worse.
"Up," Gaia said.
Zeus sighed. "Good morning to you too, Grandmother."
"You had your leisure," Gaia replied flatly. "Now you will have discipline."
And so the day began.
—
Gaia did not strike Zeus.
That would have been too simple.
Instead, she made Zeus move.
Run until her legs burned, then run again. Channel lightning without letting it escape. Balance on stone pillars that sank into the earth the moment Zeus relaxed. Summon power, disperse it, summon it again—over and over—until control became instinct instead of thought.
Whenever Zeus complained, Gaia only said one sentence:
"Power without restraint is how gods die."
By noon, Zeus collapsed onto the grass, staring blankly at the sky. "You know… you could have said you wanted me stronger instead of pretending this was optional."
Gaia did not answer immediately.
She knelt and placed her palm against the ground. The earth responded, roots shifting, stones settling, the island itself listening.
"When you leave," Gaia finally said, "no one will remind you to be careful."
Zeus's smile faded.
"Leave," she repeated softly.
"Yes."
The word hung between them.
Gaia stood. "You will not stay here forever. Crete is a cradle, not a fortress. And cradles are meant to be left."
Zeus was quiet for a long moment.
Then she hugged her knees and muttered, "You're really bad at giving comforting speeches, you know that?"
Gaia allowed herself a small smile. "And you are very bad at pretending you are not afraid."
Zeus glanced away. "I'm not afraid."
"Then you wouldn't be stalling."
That earned Gaia a sharp look.
"Tch. Exposed already."
—
That evening, Zeus sat by the fire while Little Ha gnawed happily on something that definitely used to be a rock.
Gaia watched from a distance, arms folded, gaze unreadable.
"You're thinking again," Zeus said without looking up.
Gaia raised an eyebrow. "And you are listening better."
"Hard not to," Zeus replied. "Everything feels louder lately. The wind. The ground. Even you."
Gaia said nothing.
Zeus poked at the fire. "When I leave… I won't come back the same, will I?"
"No," Gaia answered honestly.
Zeus nodded, as if she had expected that.
After a pause, she smiled—bright, reckless, unmistakably Zeus. "Then I guess I should enjoy being clueless while I still can."
She leaned back against Little Ha, staring at the stars as if trying to memorize them.
Gaia turned away.
Tomorrow, the path would begin.
And once Zeus stepped onto it, even the Earth itself would not be able to pull her back.