Underworld, Aphrodite's Temple.
In the silent glow of polished marble and shimmering bronze, Aphrodite stood before her mirror, tilting her chin slightly to the left, then to the right, her fingers grazing her own jawline as though searching for flaws that were never there.
The goddess of beauty did not need validation, for she was perfection incarnate, yet she found joy in the act of self-admiration.
It was not vanity in her eyes, it was ritual, a reaffirmation of her domain, a reminder to the world and to herself that she was the embodiment of desire and grace.
She spun slowly, her silken gown flowing like waves of dawn, and smiled with satisfaction.
"Perfect," she whispered, her voice carrying the softness of honey.
She pressed her lips together, then let them part into a playful smile, the kind that could make empires crumble if she so wished.
