Chapter 274: Hera
The halls of Olympus were quiet that night. Too quiet. The usual brilliance of marble and gold shimmered in lantern light, but beneath it all, there was a tension that no bard’s song could hide. Even the winds that usually caressed the high peaks of the godly palace stilled, as though afraid of what was about to be spoken.
Hera sat alone.
Her throne—silver-veined marble carved into the likeness of peacocks, her sacred animal—stood taller than most, but tonight she seemed smaller, as though shadows clung to her figure. She held no crown, no scepter. Instead, she held only a single vial, its glass fogged from centuries of careful storage.
Inside was not liquid, but a faint golden mist—the essence of her past.
For the first time in eons, Hera allowed herself to open it.
The mist spilled across the floor, weaving shapes. Not visions conjured for others to see, but memories she had buried so deeply even Zeus could not pry them from her. And in those images, her story unfolded.
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A Forgotten Beginning
Long before she became queen of Olympus, Hera had been nothing more than a child of the Titans. Daughter of Cronus, devourer of his children, and Rhea, the mother who wept with every birth stolen.
She remembered the darkness of her father’s stomach—the prison of her earliest years. There had been no sunlight, no freedom. Only the muffled cries of her siblings echoing in the void.
And then—liberation. Zeus had come, the youngest, the cleverest, the defiant one. When Cronus vomited them forth, Hera had emerged into a world of light and fury. The war of gods and titans had begun, and she had fought in it as little more than a weapon, her own rage forged into chains for their enemies.
When they won, she thought there would finally be peace.
But Olympus was never peace.
It was hunger. It was ambition. It was Zeus.
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The Marriage That Was No Choice
The mist swirled, shaping Zeus’s broad figure, lightning sparking faintly in his hand.
He had courted her not with love, but with conquest. Hera had resisted—proud, unbending, refusing to be simply another trophy for the storm king. She had locked herself away, fled to distant mountains, hidden in temples where even the winds could not follow.
But Zeus did not ask. He took.
The memory burned in her chest even now: his disguise, his trickery, his overwhelming presence. What had been forced became bound by divine law, and before she could stop it, she was named Queen of the Gods.
To the mortals, it was a story of love. To Olympus, a story of power. But to Hera?
It was shackles.
Every smile she gave was a mask. Every gesture of grace, a veil over fire.
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The Mother, The Betrayed
The mist shifted again, this time into shapes of countless women—nymphs, goddesses, mortals alike. The trail of Zeus’s infidelity was endless, each union staining Hera’s throne like spilled blood.
She had loved once—truly loved, in her own way. But every betrayal twisted that love into something colder.
Hatred.
Not only toward Zeus, but toward every child born of his wandering lust. Her vengeance was legendary: serpents sent to strangle Heracles in his crib, storms unleashed against mortal mothers, curses whispered into the ears of rivals.
But beneath the wrath was something no one saw.
Hurt.
A deep wound carved into her soul by a husband who saw her not as a queen, but as an ornament. By gods who whispered that she was jealous, petty, cruel—never once asking why she raged so.
The truth was simple.
She had been faithful.
And in return, she had been broken.
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The Silent War Against Poseidon
The mist darkened, swirling into the deep blue of the sea.
Poseidon.
Always the rival. Always the storm beneath her storm.
It had begun during the earliest years, after the Titanomachy. Zeus had claimed the skies. Poseidon had claimed the seas. Hera had been left only Olympus—Zeus’s side, his shadow, his queen.
And Poseidon had laughed.
She remembered his words, cold and cutting as waves against stone:
> "Queen? You are no queen. You are his chain. You are his proof of victory."
From that day, she hated him. Not because his words were cruel, but because they were true.
And Poseidon had never ceased reminding her of them.
Whenever Zeus strayed, Poseidon mocked her. Whenever Olympus trembled, Poseidon accused her. Whenever her wrath burned hot, Poseidon looked at her with that knowing gaze, as though he alone saw the hollow within her.
And now, centuries later, with Poseidon reborn in the mortal shell and rising stronger than ever, Hera felt that old wound reopen.
This time, though, she would not be mocked.
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Hera’s Resolve
The mist stilled, fading back into the vial. Hera sealed it shut, her hands trembling only slightly.
She rose from her throne, her silver eyes burning with quiet fury.
"I was never just his queen," she whispered into the silent hall. "I was never his ornament."
Her voice sharpened, echoing like thunder across the chamber.
"I am Hera. Daughter of Cronus. Mother of gods. The hand that holds Olympus together."
The torches flared as if answering her declaration.
"And if Poseidon rises to unseat us, then I will be the storm that drowns him. Not because Zeus commands it. Not because Olympus fears it. But because I refuse to ever again be told I am lesser."
For the first time in centuries, Hera allowed herself to feel it—not bitterness, not jealousy, not the mask she wore before mortals.
Resolve.
Her story was not one of betrayal.
It was one of survival.
And now, with the seas stirring and Poseidon’s shadow falling across Olympus, her survival would mean blood.
The queen would no longer kneel.
She would stand.
She would strike.
And the drowned god would remember her not as Zeus’s wife, not as the bitter queen, but as the fury of Olympus itself.
Words reach the sea soon