The silence around Hera’s chamber was thick.
No priest. No oracle. No herald dared approach. Even the maids who helped her had slipped away the mont she gave the order. The gold doors stayed sealed, heavy with the weight of her wrath and exhaustion.
And yet... the air shifted.
A breeze moved through the chamber, even though the windows were closed. The golden curtains fluttered, and the candle flas bent all at once.
Then the doors creaked.
Slow.
Heavy.
She snapped her eyes up from the bundle in her arms, her voice sharp. "Who dares—"
And then she saw him.
Zeus.
He stood just inside the threshold, his white robe half-open, hair a ss like he hadn’t slept in days, shoulders broader than the doorfra. No guards. No servants. Just him.
Her eyes narrowed. "How?"
Zeus stepped forward without a word, his boots silent against the marble floor. The storm in his aura was gone—calm now, like the sky before it weeps. He looked at the boy in her arms, not at her.
Then his voice ca, low, smooth.
"I’m the Godking," he said, as if it explained everything. "If I don’t know sothing as small as this, I might as well give up the throne."
Hera looked away.
She wasn’t dressed in silks or gems. Just sweat, blood, and exhaustion. Her hair clung to her face, her body trembled with the aftershocks of pain, but her grip on the baby stayed firm.
Zeus walked closer.
She didn’t stop him.
He stopped beside her bed, looking down at the boy—red-faced, squirming in Hera’s arms. His eyes were still sealed shut, his tiny fists trembling. But there was heat in his breath. Power humming beneath his skin.
Zeus let out a short breath through his nose, then sat on the edge of the bed.
"He’s strong," he said.
Hera didn’t reply.
She didn’t need to.
Zeus reached out slowly, giving her ti to pull back if she wanted to. But she didn’t. She let him lift the child gently, his large hands cradling the small weight with more care than expected.
Zeus stared at the boy for a long ti.
The way he twitched.
The strength in his cry.
The rawness in his soul.
He rubbed his thumb across the child’s cheek, and the baby stilled a little, blinking beneath the lids.
Then Zeus smiled.
Not wide.
Not proud.
Just quiet. Like he understood sothing no one else did.
"I’ll na him," he said.
Hera looked at him then, her voice sharp again. "You think you can—"
"Ares," Zeus cut in softly, still not looking at her. "The god who won’t wait to be asked. The fla of war. Not war itself, not yet. But the fire that leads to it."
He held the child close, pressing his forehead gently to the tiny one.
"Ares," he whispered again.
The baby twitched... and stopped crying.
Hera stared.
"You shouldn’t be here," she said quietly. "This is my chamber."
"I know."
"I didn’t want you to co."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because he’s mine," Zeus said, eyes still on the baby. "Just like she is."
Hera blinked. "She?"
Zeus finally looked at her, and there was a flicker in his gaze. Sothing deep.
"tis gave birth tonight too," he said.
Hera’s body tensed.
"Of course she did," she muttered. "You always wanted a goddess of strategy beside your throne."
"She didn’t ask for the throne."
"And yet you’ll give it to her."
"No," he said plainly. "She wouldn’t take it even if I did."
Hera’s lip curled slightly, but Zeus didn’t react.
"Do you want to hold him again?" he asked softly.
She didn’t answer. But she extended her arms.
Zeus placed Ares back into her grip, slow and sure. The baby shifted again, as if trying to find the warmth he liked best.
Hera looked down.
Her eyes weren’t warm. But they weren’t cold either.
Just... tired.
"I will raise him my way," she said.
Zeus nodded once. "I expect nothing less."
She looked up at him. "You’ll favor her daughter."
"I won’t favor anyone," Zeus said. "I’ll guide them. All of them."
"You’ll fail."
"Maybe."
He stood.
And for a second, Hera thought he’d walk away just like that.
But he didn’t.
He reached down again, touched Ares’ little hand. The boy grabbed it—tight, strong.
Zeus gave a small, surprised smile.
Then let go.
"Train him well," he said, turning toward the door.
"You’re not even going to ask what I’ll teach him?" Hera asked behind him.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I already know," he said without turning back. "You’ll teach him how to survive. And one day, I’ll teach him how to rule."
The door opened again.
The cold outside slipped into the room.
Zeus paused for a mont in the threshold.
"Ares will be his own storm," he said. "But I’ll be the sky that holds him."
Then he left.
The golden doors shut behind him with a soft click.
And Hera sat alone again—with her son.
The na lingered in her ears.
Ares.
God of raw strength. Of fury. Of breaking things before they can break you.
She looked down at him.
And for the first ti, she smiled.
Just a little.
Outside, Zeus walked down the empty halls of Olympus, the marble echoing beneath his feet.
He didn’t look back.
Didn’t stop.
He felt the weight in the air shifting. Two gods born tonight. Two forces pulling the sky in opposite directions.
He passed a window.
The stars shimred low in the sky.
Still blinking slow.
As if Olympus itself had started breathing again.
Tartarus
Tartarus stirred with the birth of Ares.
"Finally the promised child of Hera, but the Olympians likes to play dirty, she might not bring the kid again but I hope that’s just my wishful thinking, or else I will have to step in myself."
He said as he looked at the direction of Olympus, to the very part of Hera breastfeeding her boy.
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