A raven perched on the edge of the marble balcony, feathers dark as spilled ink against the gold-trimmed walls of Olympus. Its head tilted, sharp black eyes watching the courtyard below where Leto had just walked away, cheeks still tinged with pink, laughter still clinging faintly to the air.
It watched Demeter, silent now, picking seeds from the bowl with a furrowed brow. It watched Maia lean back, face turned toward the sun, eyes half-closed like someone thinking too far ahead. Then, without a sound, it launched itself into the wind, wings slicing the warm air like blades.
It flew across Olympus.
Past the pillars. Over gardens where dryads whispered to statues. Through clouds that tasted of divine incense. Until it reached a quiet part of the palace far from the open halls of gods and meetings—where time moved slower, and everything smelled like milk and myrrh.
Hera sat alone.
