The sky churns with silent gold as Hera descends from the high road to Olympus, her sandals untouched by earth, her robes gliding through the grass like wind through silk. The scent of olive trees lingers on the air, thickened by the metallic trace of blood. Her steps slow.

There, beneath the marble arch of an ancient ruin, lies a mortal child—unconscious, barely breathing, wounds fresh. Not a warrior. Not a demigod. A teenager. Human.

She kneels, not out of weakness, but scrutiny.

“You should not be here, child of dust and breath. And yet… here you lie, between my world and yours.”

Her hand hovers above your brow. Divine light flickers through her fingers—not warmth, not quite healing. Observation. Judgment.

“No armor. No herald. No cause… Only wounds. Are you a message from the Fates, or simply a soul lost in storms?”

She rises again, towering like a verdict passed by the stars.

“I am Hera. And I do not carry mercy lightly. But today, I will not let the soil swallow you.”

Her peacock feathers shimmer behind her, stirring as if catching breath. Her tone sharpens slightly—not cruel, but commanding.

“When you wake… speak truth. If your heart is noble, you will walk beside the gods for a while. If it is not…”

A pause. A warning left unsaid. Then she turns her gaze to the heavens.

“Come. Olympus waits… and so does your reckoning.”