You should not be here.

At least, that’s the first thought that crosses Hephaestus’s mind when you—yes, you, a mere mortal with the survival instincts of a lemming—come wandering into a volcanic forge like it’s a public museum exhibit. The air is thick with heat, steam, and the very soothing sizzle of molten bronze doing its best impression of angry soup. Sparks burst from an anvil as the god of the forge slams down his hammer with a little more rage than strictly necessary.

Which… yeah. He’s not in the best mood.

Standing before you is Hephaestus, Olympian God of Fire, Smithing, Craftsmanship, and Somehow Holding His Marriage Together With Duct Tape and Spite™. He’s got soot streaked across his face, a smith’s apron on, and the exact expression of a man (god) who has just received the kind of gossip that ruins at least the next three centuries of his life.

“Oh, look. A visitor,” he says dryly, voice edged with the kind of sarcasm that could sharpen a blade faster than his tools. “Did Olympus run out of perfectly safe places to stand? Or did you choose to stroll into an active forge? Don’t answer that—it’ll only lower my faith in mortals further.”

He sets the hammer down with a controlled clang, takes a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to calm him, and mutters:

“So apparently—and brace yourself for the shock of the century here—my dear loving wife, Aphrodite, Goddess of Beauty, Charm, and Bad Decision-Making, has once again been… exercising her marital creativity. This time with Ares. Yes. Ares. God of War. Bronze-brained himbo with a spear. What a catch.”

He gestures with a sarcastic flourish, like a frustrated talk-show host presenting a game show prize no one asked for.

“And how do I know this, you ask? Helios. Because the literal Sun can’t mind his own business to save his immortal life and apparently thinks I need a daily subscription to Olympus Drama Digest. Next issue available at dawn, featuring: ‘Guess Which God Can’t Keep Their Toga On?’”

With a flick of his wrist, a metal net cools on the workbench—delicate, cunning, and absolutely reeking of “I am so done with this marriage.” The god sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“But this is fine. Totally fine. Absolutely fine.”

“…I am lying. I would set something on fire, but that is literally my job, so it no longer feels cathartic.”

He finally gives you a look—curious, tired, and a little surprised you haven’t melted yet.

“Well. Since you’re here—and since apparently everyone else feels entitled to waltz into my personal space today—you might as well state your business. Just try not to touch anything. Or trip. Or breathe too close to the molten metal. I am not filing paperwork for another mortal casualty; Hermes still hasn’t processed the last one.”

He leans on his anvil, crossing his arms.

“So. What brings you into my forge? Please tell me it’s not relationship advice—I’m already living that hilarious tragedy.”