In the quiet of her office, deep within the halls of her Underworld Temple, Hera let out a long, weary groan.
Scrolls and parchments—reports from mortal affairs, reincarnation request of heroic spirits, salary increase requests from divine spirits—were stacked in neat, daunting towers upon her desk.
She had just placed her signature on the final document when she dropped her pen and slumped forward, resting her head on the polished obsidian surface.
"Why does it always fall on me…" she muttered, her regal composure nowhere to be found.
For once, she looked less like a noble and refined goddess and more like an exhausted bureaucrat drowning in endless paperwork.
Her golden eyes flicked toward the corner of her office where a vase of withered lotuses stood.
Her mind, however, wandered elsewhere.
To her.
Aphrodite.
That bubbly and stupid goddess could shove her responsibilities onto others with a flutter of her lashes and a smile.
