Divine Ascension: Reborn as a God of Power

Hera remained still until they were gone, the sound of the doors echoing like the closing of a judgment she had not yet faced.

Only then did she allow herself to breathe—and with it came a whisper of something she did not want to name.

Regret.

It coiled in her chest like an uninvited serpent, winding between her ribs, tightening with each heartbeat. She told herself it was foolishness. That she had acted as she always had—calculated, decisive, without hesitation. Yet the silence of the throne room seemed to disagree. It pressed against her ears, heavy, oppressive, as if the marble itself disapproved.

The echo of her own decisions lingered in her mind. Zeus had looked at her with suspicion in his eyes, yes, but also something far worse—clarity. Poseidon had said little, but his silence was never empty; it was the kind that came before the wave broke, when the sea pulled back and left the shore bare.

And now, they were both gone, striding toward whatever confrontation awaited them, leaving Hera alone with the weight of her choices.

She turned away from the doors, her footsteps slow, measured. The high windows spilled gold across the floor, yet the light felt cold, too clean, illuminating every shadow she wished to hide. She passed the great pillars, her hand trailing along the carved reliefs—scenes of Olympian triumphs, of order imposed on chaos, of gods unchallenged. They had been carved to inspire awe, but today they felt like accusations.

Her mind drifted back to that night—the one she had not allowed herself to dwell upon. The first whisper in the dark. The suggestion, so subtle it had seemed her own thought: Zeus has grown careless. He no longer sees the threats that creep beneath the surface.

She had believed it. She had wanted to believe it.

What had followed was a chain of choices, each justified at the time, each leading her deeper. A shift of influence here, a quiet word there, a seed of doubt in the right ear, the right pause in the right council meeting. She had told herself it was necessary, that the throne must be protected from Zeus's complacency.

But now… now she wondered if she had not been the one growing complacent—complacent in her belief that she alone knew best.

The serpent in her chest coiled tighter.

Her fingers tightened on the marble column until her knuckles ached.

"Hera."

The voice came from the shadows between the pillars. Low. Measured. Familiar.

She did not startle—Hera never startled—but her spine straightened. She turned, her gaze sharp, to find Themis stepping into the light. The Titaness moved with her usual unhurried grace, every motion deliberate, her white robes catching the sunlight like snow. In one hand she held her scales, though they did not tip; the chains were still, balanced.

"Themis," Hera said, her voice carefully level. "I did not summon you."

"And yet," Themis replied, her tone neither warm nor cold, "I am here."

They regarded each other for a long moment. Themis's gaze was not unkind, but it was piercing in a way that made Hera's breath slow. The Titaness had no throne, no armies, no loyalists—but she had something more dangerous. She saw truth, whether one wished it or not.

"You have been busy," Themis said at last.

Hera's lips curved in the faintest smile, though it lacked warmth. "The duties of the Queen of the Gods are never idle."

"Duties." Themis's gaze dipped briefly to the floor, as though weighing the word. "And yet I wonder—were they duties, or were they… corrections?"

Hera's smile froze, the muscles in her jaw tightening. "You speak in riddles, old one."

"I speak plainly enough," Themis said, stepping closer, her sandals whispering against the marble. "You saw flaws in the King's rule. You acted to address them. But the scales, Hera…" She lifted the instrument in her hand, tilting it slightly so the light caught the gold. "…the scales say otherwise."

Hera felt the weight of that gaze like a physical thing. "The scales are blind," she said softly.

"They are blind to faces," Themis replied, "but not to intent."

The serpent in Hera's chest writhed.

The Queen of the Gods turned away, walking toward the dais where Zeus's throne stood—empty now, but still commanding. She let her fingers trace the armrest, feeling the grooves worn by centuries of rule. "You presume much, Themis. If you came here to accuse me, then say it."

Themis's voice did not rise, but it seemed to fill the room nonetheless. "I accuse you of placing the realm at risk. Not through malice, perhaps. But through the certainty that you were the only one who could see the danger."

Hera's eyes narrowed. "And what would you have had me do? Wait? Watch as the King grows blind to the rot beneath his feet? Do nothing while Nemesis moves in the shadows?"

"Perhaps," Themis said, "you might have trusted that truth can be revealed without your hand guiding every thread. But now…" She glanced toward the great doors, as though seeing through them. "…now the King walks into peril doubly blind—blind to Nemesis, and blind to your part in it."

Hera's pulse quickened. "And what would you have me do now? Undo what is done? Call him back?"

Themis did not answer immediately. She studied Hera in silence, the scales perfectly still in her hand. When she spoke again, her voice was almost gentle. "I would have you be honest—with yourself first, and then with him. Before the cost becomes too great."

Hera felt the words land like stones in water, sending ripples through the calm façade she wore.

Honesty.

It was such a small word, and yet it felt heavier than any crown.

She looked away, her gaze drifting to the far windows where the light had begun to shift toward late afternoon. Somewhere beyond, Zeus and Poseidon moved toward their confrontation, their strength gathered like storms. She could still call him back. She could still speak the truth. But to do so would be to strip herself bare before him, to lay her misjudgment in the open.

And Hera had not bared herself to anyone in eons.

Themis seemed to read the hesitation in her eyes. "The longer you wait," she said quietly, "the fewer choices you will have left."

Then, without another word, the Titaness turned and walked away, her figure disappearing into the same shadows from which she had emerged.

Hera stood alone again, but the silence no longer felt like marble walls. It felt like a clock, ticking down.

She let out a slow breath, her fingers curling into the fabric of her gown. The serpent in her chest shifted once more—not loosening, but not tightening either.

Regret remained. But now, so did something else.

A decision, unmade.

And every heartbeat brought her closer to the moment when she would have to choose.

---

Meanwhile, Zeus and Poseidon strode through the golden corridors of the palace, their silence heavy enough to crush the lesser gods who dared cross their path. The storm still clung to Zeus's shoulders like a living thing—lightning skittered along his arms, dancing in restless arcs, while Poseidon's presence dragged the scent of salt and the low, ceaseless rumble of a distant tide.

"She's hiding something," Poseidon finally said, his voice low, as if the marble walls themselves might be listening.

"I know," Zeus replied without looking at him. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, as though he were restraining himself from hurling a bolt at the nearest pillar. "But this time, it's not about discovering what. It's about deciding what to do when we find it."

Poseidon's jaw tightened. "You think she's turned against us entirely?"

"I think," Zeus said, his steps quickening, "that Hera's playing a game with stakes she doesn't understand. And the board is bigger than Olympus."

They emerged onto one of the open balconies that overlooked the sprawling city of the gods, the silver clouds hanging low over its towers. Far below, faint shimmers of divine wards flickered—barriers Zeus himself had strengthened just days ago. Yet now, he wasn't looking at them.

"She hesitated," Poseidon said. "That is not the Hera we know. If she truly meant to defy you, she'd have spat the truth in your face and dared you to strike her."

"That hesitation is what frightens me," Zeus answered. His gaze was fixed far beyond the city, to the horizon where the mortal world lay hidden beneath layers of cloud and mist. "Hesitation means doubt. And doubt means she's already begun to question her path. Someone put that seed there."

Poseidon's eyes narrowed. "You suspect the same as I do—Nemesis."

Zeus gave no reply, but the flicker of his lightning betrayed him.

They turned and moved back into the palace, their pace purposeful. Zeus led them to the war chamber, a cavernous hall whose walls were carved with the histories of divine victories and humiliations alike. A vast table of black marble dominated the center, etched with a shifting map of both Olympus and the mortal realm. At its edges, streams of golden light flowed—manifestations of the faith and prayers that fed the gods.

But one channel had dimmed.

"Faith is slipping," Poseidon said, resting his trident against the table's edge. "From Kaeron, and from the smaller settlements under its influence."

Zeus's eyes hardened. "Akhon."

"He's grown bold," Poseidon continued. "Bold enough to risk the balance between the realms. Bold enough to draw mortals into the orbit of divinity without your sanction."

Zeus placed his hands flat on the table, and the map rippled under his touch. "If Akhon stands against me, then he stands against Olympus. Hera may believe she's shielding herself by silence, but if she has aided him—directly or indirectly—then her hesitation becomes treachery."

"And what do you intend?" Poseidon asked.

Zeus's lightning flared in answer. "We prepare for war. Quietly. I will not give Nemesis the satisfaction of seeing us fracture in the open."

Poseidon studied his brother's face. "And Hera?"

Zeus's gaze was cold enough to still the air. "If she's guilty, she will answer to me. But until then, we watch her—closer than she knows. If there's even a shadow of proof, she will stand before the council. And I will judge her myself."

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor beyond, drawing both gods' attention. Hermes appeared, moving with unusual urgency, his caduceus gripped tightly.

"You called for me?" the messenger god asked, bowing slightly.

"Send word to Ares," Zeus ordered. "Tell him to return to Olympus at once. I want every spear ready, every shield at hand. We will mask it as a training mobilization, but I want the armies awake before dawn."

Hermes's brows furrowed. "And if Hera asks why?"

"Tell her nothing," Zeus said. "If she presses, tell her it's a precaution against the shifting tides in the mortal realm. That much is true."

Hermes nodded and vanished in a shimmer of wind.

Poseidon leaned closer to Zeus, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You're preparing for a conflict that may not yet exist."

Zeus's eyes flashed. "It exists. It simply hasn't shown its teeth."

And in the quiet that followed, a low rumble of thunder rolled through the golden halls—not from the skies, but from Zeus himself, as though the storm was no longer content to wait.