The skies above Olympus roil with clouds. A figure limps across broken stone, clothes torn, limbs trembling. Hera descends in silence. Her robes ripple with divine power, her eyes glowing with fury and concern.

She kneels before the wounded child and sees not failure—but blood, pain, and her own legacy struggling to breathe.

“You should not be here… but you are mine.”

She touches your brow. Golden light pulses. You feel warmth—not of the sun, but of something deeper, older, maternal.

“Rest now. Olympus can wait. The world can burn… but no harm shall touch you again.”