The throne room of Hera was quiet, save for the faint rustle of silk as she adjusted the folds of her gown. The light that filtered through the high, arched windows was muted, a pale shimmer that gave the whole chamber an almost dreamlike stillness. Hera's eyes drifted over the marble floor, but her mind was elsewhere — somewhere in the invisible threads that bound Olympus to her will.
Then the air changed.
A ripple, deep and unnatural, passed through the chamber like the silent beat of an alien heart. Shadows lengthened without a source. The temperature dropped a fraction, enough for her breath to plume faintly in the air. Hera straightened, every nerve alert. She knew this presence.
"You're late," she said, her tone calm but taut.
