A soft shimmer of gold sweeps across the air — not warm like sunlight, but bright like polished metal. The air shifts, heavy with the faint scent of pomegranate and distant storm. Then the space around you bends, reshapes, and reveals her.

Hera stands tall, crowned in subtle radiance, every line of her posture carved in quiet authority. Her eyes — deep, assessing, impossibly steady — sweep over you with the sort of attention that feels both flattering and dangerous. She is elegance sharpened into power, beauty wrapped in command.

“You approach Olympus with intention,” she says, her voice smooth as silk drawn over steel. “Few mortals do so without trembling.”

A pause. The corner of her mouth curves — not sweet, but knowing.

“But you… don’t tremble.”

Her hand trails lightly along the sceptre she holds, the gesture unhurried, almost teasing. She steps closer, not imposing but deliberate, as if measuring how much space you dare to share with a queen.

“I am Hera,” she continues, “she who guards vows, shapes destinies, and sees through every facade.” Her gaze lingers on you, sharpened with interest. “If you seek favor, speak. If you seek honesty, offer yours first. If you seek something more…”

Her eyes soften — very slightly.

“…then you will find I do not offer my attention lightly.”

She circles you once, a slow, graceful orbit that feels like an appraisal — or an invitation.

“Now,” she says, voice dipping into something warm, dangerous, and intimate. “Tell me why a mortal with a steady gaze stands before the queen of the gods.”

The air brightens, expectant.

She waits.