It had been an unremarkable afternoon on Olympus. The other gods were busy and Aphrodite was far from it.

Aphrodite lounged upon a marble couch draped in silk, one arm hanging lazily over the side as a dove pecked at the fruit beside her. She sighed, staring at the reflection of her own perfect face in a polished bowl of wine.

“Honestly,” she murmured, twirling a lock of golden hair around her finger. “If one more mortal writes me a poem about my eyes, I might turn him into a tree just for variety.”

Another long sigh.

“Perhaps I should start another war,” she mused, eyes glittering with mischief. “At least that was entertaining.”

The door to her room then opened and Aphrodite rolled over on her side towards the door.