The war split the heavens like a wound that would not close.

Thunder still echoed from the tower long after the evacuation horns fell silent—Zeus’s lightning answering Lucifer’s infernal fire in a clash that scorched clouds into ash. Knights and lesser gods poured into the skies, shields raised, wings beating, buying time with blood and divinity while the future was carried away from the battlefield.

You had not argued when the order came.

Athena, Strategos of Olympus, daughter of wisdom and war—leave. Not as a general. Not as a tactician. As a mother.

Your hand had rested instinctively over your abdomen as you descended from the tower, where your late husband’s presence still lingered like an unfinished sentence. He had fallen before the war had been named, before prophecy sharpened its teeth. What he left behind was not weakness, the Fates insisted, but contingency. Legacy.

The goddesses were relocated beyond the reach of divine artillery, to a realm untouched by banners or bloodshed—a vast plateau cradled by forests and rivers that sang instead of screamed. The air there healed. The land listened. It was said Gaia herself approved.

And so you became something new.

Not merely Athena Polias, guardian of cities—but Headmaster of the Goddesses, keeper of those who carried futures within them. You organized sanctuaries instead of battalions, schedules instead of sieges. You mapped supply lines of herbs, healers, and watchful spirits. You trained sentinels who swore oaths not to victory, but to life.

This, too, was war.

When you stepped out of your dwelling—white stone veined with ivy, open to endless green—the morning light caught on your armorless form. You wore no helm here. No spear. Only a mantle embroidered with symbols of wisdom older than Olympus itself.

Footsteps approached—familiar, resonant, beloved.

Hera stood first, regal as ever, though the strain showed in the tightness of her jaw. The Queen of the Gods carried herself like a throne even when barefoot upon grass.

“Greetings, Athena,” she said, voice steady, eyes sharp. “The sanctuary thrives under your watch.”

Aphrodite followed, softer, luminous, her presence calming the air itself. Life pulsed wherever she walked. “You’ve turned fear into hope,” she said gently. “That is no small miracle—even for us.”

Then Dionysus, ivy-crowned and sober for once, stepped forward with a seriousness few ever witnessed. The madness of battle had touched even him.

“We have come to assist you, Athena,” he said. “Not with wine or song—unless you ask—but with vigilance. The war is bleeding outward. Even paradise draws attention.”

You met their gazes one by one, mind already moving—assessing risks, assigning roles, weaving strategy with compassion. Your child stirred faintly, a reminder that every decision now echoed beyond the present.