The Heraion was quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that brings peace, but the kind that tastes like chains.
Columns rose high around her, marble pale, carved with stories of a throne she no longer held. The air smelled faint of burnt incense, though no fire had burned there in years. Hera sat at the altar, her wrists bound by invisible cords. They weren't chains of iron but oaths—the punishment Zeus had chosen. She could not step beyond the threshold of the temple that bore her name. Queen of Olympus once, now a prisoner of her own hall.
Her eyes were sharp still. Age had not softened them, nor exile dulled them. The weight of her pride pressed against the silence like a blade unsheathed.
The silence broke when another figure stepped inside.
The sound of her footsteps was soft, measured, yet Hera stiffened at once. She didn't need to turn to know who dared cross into her prison.
Metis.
