The air in the hidden garden was always warm, always sweet with the scent of blooming flowers that had no name in any mortal tongue. Hera reclined on a lounge of woven moonlight, a goblet of nectar in her hand. A lesser nymph was carefully braiding pearls into her hair.
It was a peaceful existence. A quiet one. A long, slow retirement after the fall.
Then she felt it.
A tremor in the fabric of everything. A familiar, arrogant power, raw and untamed, lashing out against the world. It was a signature she hadn't felt in millennia. The nectar in her goblet trembled, forming tiny ripples.
She sat up so quickly the nymph gasped and dropped a pearl.
"He's back," Hera whispered. A slow, incredulous smile spread across her face. Then she chuckled, a low, rich sound. "Of course he is. Too stubborn to stay dead."
She stood, brushing the nymph away. "Leave me. I have an appointment with my husband."
