The chains dragged Zeus down hard—straight through the stormclouds, through what remained of the palace ceiling, slamming him into the shattered floor like a meteor.
Smoke rose.
The gods watching from afar—Odin, Tsukuyomi, Thoth—stood frozen, the pressure too thick to breathe in.
But then…
The world slowed.
The shadows behind Zeus flickered again. The grip on his ankle loosened. The voice that had whispered from beneath—the cold, cruel voice—went silent.
A presence stepped into the room.
Not from the sky.
Not from below.
From the shattered doors of the palace.
Barefoot.
Slow.
Unbothered by the debris or the gods or the weight of divine war.
Hera.
But this wasn't the Hera anyone remembered.
This wasn't the woman who stood behind Zeus during council meetings. This wasn't the quiet goddess who ruled the hearth and oversaw oaths.
This Hera… glowed.
Not soft golden. Not divine light.
She glowed with rage.
Pure. Controlled. Focused.
