Talking To Hera

Hera stood on the balcony, her eyes locked on the distant blue horizon. The dawn breeze brushed against her face, cooling the quiet fury burning beneath her skin. She gripped the carved wolf-head railing tighter, her nails digging into the cold stone.

She felt it – the moment her plans died. One of her shadows in Olympus, a silent crow-pet perched atop the eastern towers, whispered it into her mind. Metis still lived. Her cohort had failed. Rhea had intervened.

Her vision blurred faintly with silent rage. She could hear the feast hall behind her, Skald songs rising with flickering torchlight as gods laughed, cups clinking against bronze plates piled with roasted meat. And amidst it all, she felt his eyes on her.

"Why…" she whispered under her breath, her voice trembling with quiet disbelief. "Why does he always stand in my way…?"

"Hera."