The throne room of Olympus occupied space the way a particularly ambitious dream occupies the mind: imperfectly, impossibly, and with a cavalier disregard for the conventional rules of architecture, gravity, and common sense.
It sat atop Mount Olympus, which was—depending on who you asked and when you asked them—either the most desirable address in all creation or a monument to the triumph of symbolism over practicality. The stairs alone had caused three minor godlings to give up their immortality and become accountants, which was generally considered a fate worse than death, particularly by the accountants.
The columns rose like arguments frozen mid-gesture, carved from marble that had once been starlight and still hadn't quite forgiven the demotion. Upon their surfaces writhed scenes of divine glory, triumph, and the occasional deeply regrettable decision involving livestock. The carvings shifted depending on who looked at them—a quirk of divine enchantment that meant Zeus always saw himself in the best possible light, while everyone else saw considerably more accurate (and embarrassing) versions of history.
Hephaestus—massive, scarred, built like a mountain that had decided to take up blacksmithing—had once stood before his column and watched his own marriage play out in carved relief.
"That's not how I remember it," he'd muttered.
"That's exactly how it happened," Apollo had said, wandering over to look. Beautiful Apollo, golden Apollo, who moved like music made flesh.
"I remember there being more dignity involved."
"The column," Apollo had observed, "disagrees with your recollection."
"The column," Hephaestus had replied, "can fuck itself. Oh wait, that's what it's showing."
The floor was polished marble that showed you lies. Beautiful lies, admittedly, but lies nonetheless. It reflected not what you looked like, but what you *could* look like if you made better choices, tried harder, maybe did something about that attitude problem you've been carrying around since the Bronze Age. It was the sort of enchantment that seemed helpful until you realized it was essentially a floor with opinions about your life, and furthermore, that the floor judged you and found you wanting.
"This floor is a passive-aggressive nightmare," Artemis had announced once, glaring at her reflection with the barely contained violence of a hunting wolf forced to attend a dinner party.
She was small, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and looked about sixteen, which was misleading in the way that a sleeping tiger is misleading. Currently, she was sprawled in her throne with her feet up, because Artemis had never met a formal occasion she couldn't make informal through sheer force of will.
"The floor has *standards,*" Apollo had replied, examining his own reflection, which looked remarkably like his actual appearance but somehow even more luminous, if such a thing were possible.
"The floor has *delusions,*" Artemis had corrected. "Also, your reflection is showing off."
"My reflection is merely existing."
"*Aggressively.*"
"I can't help that I'm—"
"If you finish that sentence with 'radiant' I'm shooting you."
"I was going to say 'appropriately divine.'"
"I'm shooting you anyway."
Apollo had moved to a different part of the throne room, because Artemis's threats were never entirely idle, and her aim was legendary.
The ceiling opened to actual sky—not painted sky, not enchanted ceiling pretending to be sky, but genuine, honest-to-gods sky complete with clouds that probably shouldn't have been physically present indoors but were anyway, because Olympus had never let little things like the laws of physics stand in the way of dramatic ambiance.
The clouds, several gods swore, were listening.
"They're taking notes," Artemis had insisted once, pointing upward. "Look at that one. That's a note-taking cloud if I've ever seen one."
"That's a cumulus formation," Athena had corrected with the patience of someone explaining basic concepts to a particularly slow child.
"That's a *spy,*" Artemis had maintained.
"Clouds don't spy."
"These ones do. They're writing a tell-all memoir. *Clouds: What We Saw on Olympus.* It'll be a bestseller."
"Clouds can't write."
"These ones can. Look at that one—it's literally shaped like a quill."
"That's not a quill, that's wind shear."
"Wind shear that *looks like a quill,*" Artemis had said triumphantly, as though this proved her point.
Zeus sat upon his throne, and the throne was *a statement.*
It wasn't so much furniture as it was a declaration of intent carved from white marble and decorated with enough gold leaf to fund a small kingdom. Lightning crawled around the armrests like decorative snakes made of electricity and poor impulse control. The whole apparatus hummed with barely contained power that made the air taste of ozone and impending violence.
Zeus himself looked like what would happen if you took a particularly handsome bear, gave it divine powers, excellent fashion sense, and a deeply problematic relationship with the concept of marital fidelity. Broad-shouldered, dark-bearded, with eyes that held lightning waiting to happen. He had the build of someone who wrestled Titans for recreation and the expression of someone who'd rather be literally anywhere else, possibly in a different dimension, maybe in a different pantheon entirely.
"Your throne," Hephaestus had observed once, with the blunt honesty of someone who'd been hit in the head with hammers enough times that tact had fled entirely, "looks like what would happen if a tyrant married a wedding cake and they had a very ostentatious baby."
Hephaestus was a mountain of a man, all scarred muscle and brutal honesty. His face looked like it had been carved by someone angry at the stone, then broken several times, then poorly healed out of spite. One leg was twisted—an old injury, an old story, an old humiliation involving his mother and a very long fall. He leaned on his throne like a man who'd never quite trusted furniture not to collapse under him.
"You *made* this throne," Zeus had reminded him.
"Aye, and I stand by my critique." Hephaestus had crossed his massive arms. "Just because I built the ostentatious bastard doesn't mean I can't recognize it for what it is. If anything, building it gives me *more* right to call it out."
"It's *symbolic,*" Zeus had protested.
"It's *excessive,*" Hephaestus had countered. "But then, excess is sort of your whole thing, isn't it?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You know exactly what that means."
Around Zeus sat the Olympian council, arranged on thrones that were each a carefully crafted commentary on their occupant's personality, neuroses, and deeply held grudges about where they sat relative to everyone else.
Poseidon sprawled on a throne carved from a single piece of coral that wept seawater in steady, contemptuous drops. He was built like violence on vacation—all bronze skin, wild dark hair that couldn't decide whether it was wet or dry, arms covered in tattoos that moved when you weren't looking directly at them, and a grin that suggested he found the entire concept of formal council meetings absolutely hilarious.
His throne dripped.
He didn't care.
In fact, the not caring seemed to be part of the point.
"Uncle," Apollo had said once, watching another puddle form on the marble, "could you perhaps... contain your throne's enthusiasm?"
Apollo was beautiful in ways that made mortals write poetry and then immediately regret the poetry because it wasn't nearly beautiful enough. Golden hair, perfect features, eyes like summer sky, and the kind of smile that suggested he knew exactly how attractive he was and considered it a public service.
"Could you perhaps," Poseidon had countered, stretching his legs out further and deliberately sending another wave of seawater across the floor, "contain your throne's aggressive luminosity? It's making music. *Why* is your throne making music?"
"My throne is *artistic.*"
"Your throne is showing off."
"Well, your throne is making *puddles.*"
"Thematically appropriate puddles," Poseidon had grinned, wild and unrepentant. "Unlike your throne, which is just..." He'd gestured at the golden monstrosity that seemed to capture all available light and convert it into smugness. "...that."
"*That* is a masterwork."
"*That* is what happens when someone mistakes more for better."
"You're jealous."
"I'm *wet,*" Poseidon had corrected. "There's a difference. Also, your throne is still showing off."
Apollo's throne did rather look like someone had convinced the sun to hold still long enough to be converted into furniture. It gleamed. It shimmered. It occasionally harmonized with itself in ways that suggested it had opinions about music theory.
Athena's throne was austere marble inscribed with mathematical proofs, strategic diagrams, philosophical arguments, and what appeared to be a detailed list of everyone's mistakes cross-referenced by severity and frequency.
Athena herself sat with the perfect posture of someone who'd never slouched in her life and silently judged those who did. Dark hair pulled back severely, features that were classically beautiful in the way that marble statues were beautiful—perfect, cold, and absolutely certain of their correctness. Her eyes were grey and sharp and saw *everything,* which was deeply unsettling if you had anything to hide, which everyone did.
"Is that a list of my mistakes on your throne?" Apollo had asked once, squinting at the carved text.
"It's a list of *everyone's* mistakes," Athena had corrected. "Alphabetically organized, then cross-referenced by type, severity, and whether they could have been avoided through basic application of reason."
"That seems excessive."
"That seems *necessary,*" Athena had replied. "Also, you have seventeen entries just from last month."
"Seventeen seems high."
"Seventeen seems accurate. Would you like me to read them to you?"
"I would not."
"The one involving the nymph and the supposedly metaphorical olive oil—"
"I said I would *not.*"
Ares' throne was blood-red stone decorated with weapons that were definitely real, probably cursed, and certainly shouldn't have been furniture. Ares sprawled upon it like a wolf pretending to be a chair, all lean muscle and barely contained violence. His hair was wild, his beard was wilder, and his eyes held the manic intensity of someone who found warfare not just exciting but genuinely *arousing* in ways that suggested therapy, if therapy had been invented, which it hadn't, which was probably for the best given what Ares would do to a therapist.
He had the look of a man who'd been in so many fights that his face had given up trying to heal symmetrically and had settled for intimidating instead.
"Is that a real sword?" Demeter had asked once, pointing at the blade embedded in his throne's armrest. "In your furniture?"
Demeter sat on living wood that occasionally sprouted flowers when she got emotional, which was often, because Demeter had raised actual children and therefore had developed feelings about things. She was all blonde hair, kind eyes, and the sort of beauty that was warm rather than perfect—like sunlight through leaves, like bread fresh from the oven, like things that made you feel safe rather than inadequate.
"Maybe," Ares had replied with a grin that showed too many teeth.
"May I touch it?"
"Only if you're fond of that hand."
"That seems unsafe for furniture."
"That seems *interesting* for furniture," Ares had corrected, making the weapons rattle. "Safe furniture is for cowards and people who don't understand interior design."
"I don't think swords are part of interior design."
"*Everything* is part of interior design if you're committed enough."
And beside Zeus, elevated slightly—just *slightly*—above the others in a position that had caused three thousand years of arguments, several minor wars, and one regrettable incident involving peacocks that nobody discussed anymore, sat Hera's throne.
White marble veined with gold like lightning frozen in stone. Peacock feathers worked into the design with such artistry they seemed to rustle despite being solid. And an aura—there was no other word for it—an *aura* of barely contained fury that made the air shimmer with heat and rage and the kind of anger that had transcended emotion and become an independent life form, possibly with its own graduate degree.
Hera herself sat with the rigid posture of someone whose fury had become structural. She was beautiful—devastatingly, impossibly, *weaponizably* beautiful—with dark hair that fell in perfect waves, features that could make mortals weep just by existing, and eyes like green ice that saw through every lie you'd ever told and several you hadn't gotten around to yet.
The kind of beauty that made people build temples and then regret it when she noticed.
Currently, that beauty was somewhat undermined by an expression that suggested she was mentally rehearsing creative applications of divine vengeance, possibly involving transformations into animals with complicated digestive systems.
Zeus had been delaying this announcement for six months.
Six very long months during which he'd hoped for miracles. Perhaps Hera would take up pottery. Perhaps meditation would be invented. Perhaps the universe would collapse and save him from this conversation. The universe, characteristically, had declined to be helpful and had instead continued existing with what Zeus felt was unnecessary smugness.
"My fellow Olympians," Zeus began, his voice carrying the careful tone of someone announcing something important while also calculating the distance to the nearest exit, the second-nearest exit, and whether he could plausibly flee to another dimension.
Several council members looked interested.
Several looked resigned.
Hera looked like she was deciding which of Zeus's organs to remove first and whether alphabetical order might be satisfying.
"I have news," Zeus continued, "regarding my daughter Diana and certain... political developments."
"Your *daughter,*" Hera said, and the temperature dropped so fast that frost crept across the marble and Apollo's musical throne made a sound like wind chimes being murdered. "By the Amazon queen who told us—and I'm quoting her exact words here—to *fuck off.* That daughter?"
"Hippolyta's exact phrasing was 'we decline to recognize Olympian authority over our sovereign territory,'" Zeus corrected with the desperate precision of someone hoping that technically accurate rephrasing might serve as a shield against incoming violence.
"Yes," Hera said sweetly, which was somehow worse than if she'd shouted. "Which is political speak for *fuck off.* That Diana?"
"The very same!" Zeus said with determined cheerfulness that was genuinely heroic in its optimism. "She's ascended to full goddess status. Genuine divine authority. She defeated the cosmic wolves—Skoll and Hati, very dangerous, very impressive—and incorporated Mani's divine essence. She's the moon goddess now. Completely legitimate. Not open to interpretation or creative reframing."
The silence that followed had *texture.*
It had *depth.*
It had the quality of silence that happens right before someone says something they can never take back.
"How *wonderful* for her," Hera said, and each word was individually wrapped in ice and ancient grievances and what might have been arsenic. "Becoming a goddess. Defeating cosmic predators. Making a *name* for herself. I'm sure her mother is very proud."
"Her mother is the queen of the Amazons," Zeus said. "So yes, probably."
"How *lovely.*"
"It is rather impressive," Athena interjected with the diplomatic neutrality of someone who'd seen this exact argument play out five thousand times and knew all the best exits. "Ascending to genuine divinity at such a young age represents remarkable achievement. The defeat of Skoll and Hati particularly suggests combat capabilities that exceed—"
"I didn't ask for your *opinion,*" Hera said, still in that sweet, dangerous voice.
"And yet here it is," Athena replied with a smile that could cut glass, spacetime, and possibly the fundamental concept of smugness. "Free of charge. Wrapped in logic. Tied with reason. There's even a bow made of facts."
"How *generous* of you."
"I thought so," Athena said. "I'm helpful like that."
"*Helpful,*" Hera repeated. "Is that what we're calling unsolicited opinions now?"
"I prefer 'strategically delivered insights,'" Athena said. "But helpful works too."
"She could be a valuable asset," Ares observed, because Ares had the survival instincts of a suicidal hedgehog and the timing of someone who actively enjoyed poking bears with sharp sticks just to see what would happen.
He leaned forward, eyes bright with genuine interest and probably some light mania.
"Defeating two cosmic predators? That's *real* combat capability. Better than half the gods on this council. Better than *Hermes,* certainly, though to be fair, Hermes's combat strategy is 'run away quickly while talking.'"
"I'm not on the council!" Hermes shouted from somewhere outside the throne room.
"You're always *somewhere,*" Ares shouted back. "It's annoying!"
"It's my *job!*"
"I should recruit her," Ares continued, turning back to Zeus. "Train her properly. See what she can really do with actual instruction instead of Amazon teaching methods, which, let's be honest, are very stabby but lack theoretical foundation."
"She's not an *asset,*" Hera snapped, and her throne's peacock decorations definitely moved this time, possibly in alarm. "She's an *affront.* A bastard elevated to divine status, claiming authority that belongs to *legitimate* children of Olympus. My *children.* Who were born within the sanctity of marriage and not as a result of Zeus being unable to keep his cock in his—"
"Diana's legitimacy is not in question," Zeus interrupted, and his voice carried thunder. Actual thunder. The kind of thunder that made the throne room's foundations vibrate and the clouds overhead stop moving entirely.
"She is my daughter. Born of an honorable union with a queen of impeccable lineage. Her divine status is *earned* through capability and courage, not granted through political maneuvering or fortunate parentage or being born on the right side of a marriage contract."
"*Honorable union,*" Hera repeated, and the contempt could have stripped paint from walls that hadn't been built yet and possibly some that had. "Is that what we're calling your infidelities now? Honorable unions? Do they come with certificates? Perhaps commemorative plaques? '*Zeus slept here, and it was very honorable, five stars, would recommend*'?"
"That's not—" Zeus began.
"Perhaps we could get them embroidered on pillows," Hera continued with vicious creativity. "For the palace. '*This is where Zeus had an honorable union with someone who wasn't his wife.*' We could make a whole set. Cover every room. It would be *festive.*"
"We're not relitigating my relationship with Hippolyta," Zeus said with the weariness of someone who'd had this argument ten thousand times and could probably perform it as a one-man show at this point, with intermission. "We're discussing Diana's ascension and the political arrangements that have emerged from it."
"*What* political arrangements?" Hera's focus sharpened like a blade being honed on a whetstone made of spite and bad marriages. "What have you *done?*"
Zeus took a breath.
The kind of breath that suggested the next words were going to cause problems, possibly on a cosmic scale.
"Diana has accepted formal betrothal to Prince Kal-El of Asgard."
The explosion of divine fury that followed made the previous tension seem like pleasant small talk at a garden party where everyone was on their best behavior and nobody mentioned politics or that thing with the Minotaur.
Hera's rage manifested as actual, visible cracks in reality.
The air around her throne splintered like glass being subjected to pressures it was never designed to handle. Her peacock decorations came alive with the kind of supernatural animation that suggested they were deeply concerned about their structural integrity and were seriously considering fleeing to a dimension where queens were less angry and peacocks were less metaphorical.
An aura of barely contained violence radiated outward with enough force that even Ares—*Ares,* who considered violence a hobby, a profession, and a lifestyle choice—shifted uncomfortably in his throne and checked the exits.
"Betrothal," Hera said, and her voice carried harmonics that suggested ten thousand years of accumulated jealousy had achieved critical mass and was now producing its own gravitational field, possibly its own weather system. "Your bastard daughter is marrying into Asgard's royal family. Creating a formal alliance between your *illegitimate offspring* and one of the few realms whose power matches our own. *Asgard.* Odin's realm. The All-Father's court. You've essentially married our family into theirs through your bastard child."
"Well," Zeus said with utterly false brightness that suggested he was hoping optimism might serve as armor against incoming rage, "when you put it that way—"
"When I put it *that way,*" Hera interrupted with surgical precision, "it sounds exactly like what it is. Political advancement for your bastard at the expense of my dignity, my position, and my legitimate children's inheritance. My *children,* Zeus. The ones born within our marriage. The ones who are *actually legitimate.*"
"Diana is not illegitimate—" Zeus began with what little remained of his courage.
"She is illegitimate in *every way that matters!*" Hera's voice rose to levels that made the throne room's enchantments strain like rigging in a hurricane. The floor's reflections went completely haywire, showing everyone's idealized selves having nervous breakdowns. The clouds overhead formed into what was definitely, unmistakably, an extended middle finger.
"Born of an affair with a woman who rejected our authority! Raised away from Olympus to avoid my *entirely justified* anger! And now elevated to goddess status and betrothed to an Asgardian prince as though she *deserves* such recognition! As though she's *legitimate!*"
"She defeated cosmic predators," Athena said calmly, which was either extraordinarily brave or catastrophically foolish or possibly both simultaneously in a superposition of courage and idiocy.
"Whatever the circumstances of her birth—circumstances which, I feel compelled to note, Diana herself had absolutely no control over—she has proven herself worthy of divine status through actions rather than inheritance. Through capability rather than convenient parentage."
"Oh, of *course* you defend her," Hera rounded on Athena with the vicious pleasure of someone who'd been waiting for this opportunity, possibly for centuries. "You're *jealous.* Jealous that another of Zeus's daughters has achieved goddess status without your input. Without your approval. Without asking your *permission.* How does it feel, Athena, to not be the only competent daughter? To not be *special?*"
"I'm not jealous," Athena replied with a smile that didn't reach her eyes and might have been filed to a point. "I'm *pleased.* Genuinely, honestly pleased that another goddess has joined our ranks through merit rather than politics. Pleased that Diana has proven capability and courage. Pleased that Zeus's daughter has succeeded despite having *you* as a stepmother, which frankly should qualify for its own divine achievement, possibly its own constellation."
The throne room collectively held its breath.
Even the clouds stopped forming rude gestures.
"I defend her," Athena continued with dangerous calm, "because merit deserves recognition regardless of political complications. Because Diana's achievements speak for themselves. Because her parentage is ultimately irrelevant to her capabilities, though I understand why you'd focus on birth circumstances rather than actual accomplishments. It's easier to attack bloodlines than to acknowledge capability. Less emotionally complicated."
"Everything is relevant to *legitimacy!*" Hera insisted with desperate conviction. "Birth. Lineage. Family. Marriage. These things *matter!* They determine who deserves elevation and who should remain forgotten! They determine who sits at this council and who gets erased from history! They determine—"
"Whether children live or die based on their father's infidelity?" Poseidon interrupted with the blunt assessment of someone who'd watched this exact pattern play out for millennia and was frankly tired of it.
He stretched in his throne, seawater dripping from his hair, arms, the tattoos that covered his bronze skin.
"Because that's what your obsession with legitimacy has produced, sister. Dead children. Cursed heroes. Countless casualties of a marriage dispute they had absolutely nothing to do with. Innocents punished for their father's failures."
"They're not *innocent,*" Hera insisted, and there was something desperate creeping into her voice now, something raw. "They're not casualties. They're *symbols.* Reminders of betrayal. Living evidence that Zeus values momentary pleasure over his marriage vows."
"They're *children,*" Demeter said quietly, and her maternal voice made everyone stop.
Made everyone listen.
"Whatever Zeus's failures as a husband—and they are *legion,* we could fill entire libraries with documentation of Zeus's failures as a husband, we could create a whole new writing system just to properly catalog Zeus's failures as a husband—his offspring deserve protection rather than persecution. Diana has done nothing to warrant your hatred except exist."
"Her existence," Hera replied with cold certainty, "*is* the offense."
Silence fell with the weight of thunder waiting to happen.
The kind of silence that felt like the pause before the universe says something it can never take back.
"Then perhaps," Athena suggested with diplomatic precision that was also quite pointed, possibly sharp enough to draw blood, "the solution is addressing your marriage's fundamental problems rather than punishing children for their father's behavior. Novel concept, I know, revolutionary thinking, but hear me out—what if you actually dealt with the person who wronged you rather than murdering his offspring?"
"Don't presume to lecture me about my marriage," Hera said, and her fury reignited like Greek fire—the kind that burned on water and couldn't be extinguished through conventional means or reasonable conversation. "You've never been married. Never loved anyone enough to feel *betrayed* when they break their promises. Never trusted someone completely only to discover that trust was misplaced, that faith was foolish, that love was a weapon they used against you."
"I understand enough," Athena replied coolly, "to recognize that Perseus didn't deserve the serpents you sent to his cradle. That Hercules didn't deserve the madness you inflicted. That countless children across millennia haven't deserved your creative cruelties simply because you were angry at their *father.* You're punishing the wrong people, Hera. You've been punishing the wrong people for ten thousand years."
"They're not the wrong people," Hera said with bitter conviction that sounded like it had been rehearsed, refined, repeated until it became truth through sheer repetition. "They're *available* people. Zeus is immortal, indestructible, and apparently immune to consequences. His children are not. If I can't hurt him directly, I'll hurt him through every bastard he fathers."
"And that," Zeus said with quiet intensity that made lightning crawl across his knuckles and the throne room's foundations tremble, "is *exactly* why Diana has my protection."
He stood from his throne.
The movement was thunder made vertical, power made motion.
"Diana's betrothal," Zeus continued, his voice carrying the weight of divine authority and possibly some personal growth, "has the full support of Asgard's royal family, Themyscira's Amazon warriors, and my own formal blessing. Any attack on her welfare will be treated as an attack on multiple realms simultaneously. Any curse, any persecution, any creative application of your extensive catalog of vengeance strategies will be considered an act of war."
The threat landed like a hammer through glass, like lightning through stone, like ten thousand years of enabling behavior finally, *finally* coming to an end.
"You're *threatening* me," Hera said, her voice gone quiet and deadly in the way that suggested impending violence and creative retaliation. "In front of the entire Olympian council. In front of our family. You're threatening your *wife* with war if she objects to your bastard daughter's political advancement."
"I'm establishing *boundaries,*" Zeus corrected with unusual firmness, with something that might have been actual backbone. "Boundaries that should have been established millennia ago but weren't because I was a coward who enabled your jealousy at the expense of innocent lives. Diana is under protection that transcends my authority alone. If you attack her, you face consequences from Asgard, Themyscira, and Olympus itself. I won't allow you to persecute another of my children simply because their existence offends your pride."
"My *pride,*" Hera repeated, and something in her voice cracked, just slightly, just enough to hear the pain beneath the fury. "That's what you call this? The justified anger of a wife whose husband has fathered *countless* children with other women? Pride? I don't have pride, Zeus. I have *grievances.* I have a *list.* It's very long. It's very detailed. Would you like to hear it? I've organized it several ways—chronologically, alphabetically, by severity of humiliation—"
"I'm aware of my infidelities," Zeus said heavily. "I was there. I remember them."
"Do you?" Hera's laugh had no humor in it whatsoever. "Do you *remember* them? Because I remember every single one. Every name. Every child. Every humiliation. I could recite them in my sleep. I probably do. I could perform it as a one-woman show."
"Please don't," Apollo muttered.
"I could add *music,*" Hera continued, ignoring him. "Make it a whole production. 'The Infidelities of Zeus: A Musical Tragedy in Fifteen Hundred Acts.'"
"That seems excessive," Apollo said.
"*Everything* about this is excessive," Hera snapped.
"Justified anger," Poseidon said, because someone had to, "doesn't usually include murdering children or driving them mad with creative curses. Your grievances with Zeus are legitimate, sister. Your pain is real. Your anger is understandable. But taking revenge on innocent offspring has always been an excessive response. Possibly illegal. Definitely immoral."
"They're not *innocent,*" Hera maintained. "They're symbols. Breathing reminders of betrayal."
"They're *children,*" Demeter repeated with maternal firmness that had ended arguments for millennia. "Children who didn't ask to be born. Children who didn't choose their father. Children who deserve protection rather than becoming casualties in your marriage dispute."
"Perhaps," Apollo suggested with the careful tone of someone trying to be helpful while also remaining several feet away from the enraged queen and maintaining clear sight lines to all exits, "*marriage counseling* would be—"
"Don't," Hera said flatly.
"Just a thought," Apollo retreated immediately, holding up his hands. "A terrible thought. An inappropriate thought. Possibly the worst thought I've ever had, and I once tried to date a tree."
"You what?" Artemis asked.
"Long story. Not relevant. Forget I spoke."
"Diana has my protection," Zeus stated with finality that made the pronouncement legally binding and possibly enforceable through divine contract law, celestial bureaucracy, and really expensive lawyers. "As Queen of Olympus, your authority is second only to mine. But in matters regarding my children's welfare, my word is law. You will not harm Diana. You will not curse her. You will not employ any of your creative persecution strategies, and we both know you have an *extensive* catalog that probably includes footnotes and appendices."
"And if I refuse?" Hera asked with dangerous curiosity, leaning forward slightly.
"Then you discover," Zeus replied grimly, "what happens when you force me to choose between my wife and my daughter."
The throne room went very, very quiet.
The clouds overhead stopped moving entirely.
Someone—probably Hermes, who was *always* somewhere—dropped something in a distant corridor, and the sound echoed like thunder.
"I've allowed your jealousy to harm too many innocents," Zeus continued with resolve that sounded like it had been excavated from somewhere deep and painful. "That pattern ends with Diana. Right now. Today. With this announcement. No more dead children. No more cursed heroes. No more casualties."
"You would *divorce* me?" Hera's shock transcended her fury and achieved something approaching genuine disbelief, possibly horror. "After ten thousand years of marriage, you would cast me aside for a bastard daughter?"
"I would establish boundaries that protect children from their stepmother's vindictiveness," Zeus corrected. "Divorce isn't necessary if you can control your behavior. But if you force confrontation by attacking Diana, then yes—I will choose her welfare over your pride. And before you tell me it's not pride, that it's justified anger, remember that justified anger doesn't excuse infanticide."
The threat was unprecedented in Olympian history.
Zeus and Hera's marriage had survived countless infidelities, divine drama, political crises, minor apocalypses, and that deeply regrettable incident with the swan that nobody discussed anymore because discussing it raised too many questions about Zeus's decision-making processes and possibly his sanity.
"The council should vote," Apollo suggested with diplomatic wisdom that was also getting him away from this argument as quickly as possible. "If we're establishing that Diana falls under Olympus's formal protection, that decision should reflect collective judgment rather than Zeus's unilateral decree. Democracy, for once. Novel concept."
"Agreed," Athena said immediately, because she enjoyed democracy when it produced results she approved of. "All in favor of formally recognizing Diana's betrothal and establishing that attacks on her welfare constitute attacks on Olympus itself?"
Athena voted yes, obviously, because Athena believed in merit-based achievement and also enjoyed anything that irritated Hera.
Apollo voted yes, because he liked the idea of not being involved in murder plots, having learned from experience that murder plots rarely ended well and frequently involved cleanup he didn't want to deal with.
Artemis—who'd been watching this entire drama with the dark-eyed intensity of a hunting wolf forced to sit through a family dinner—spoke for the first time.
"Yes." Her voice was young but carried absolute conviction. "Diana's my sister. My family. She's under my protection too. Anyone touches her, they deal with me."
The threat would have been more impressive if Artemis hadn't looked about sixteen and been slouching in her throne with her feet up. Instead, it was somehow more disturbing. Like a knife disguised as a toy.
"Also," Artemis added, "I like her. She's practical. She doesn't talk too much. She knows how to hunt. She's better company than most of you."
"Thank you?" Apollo said uncertainly.
"That wasn't a compliment to you," Artemis clarified. "That was an insult to everyone else."
Demeter voted yes, with maternal conviction.
Poseidon voted yes, grinning his wild grin. "Hera's revenge schemes are getting old anyway. Same strategies, different targets. Where's the creativity?"
"I'm not *boring,*" Hera said with dangerous offense.
"You sent serpents to kill Perseus," Ares observed with the blunt assessment of someone whose entire personality was violence. "Then serpents for Hercules. Then serpents for—"
"They're *effective!*"
"They're *predictable,*" Ares corrected. "Anyway, I vote yes. She defeated Skoll and Hati. That deserves respect. Also—" He leaned back, making his throne's weapons rattle. "—I'm curious to see what happens next. This should be entertaining."
Even Hephaestus, who'd been working on something mechanical throughout the entire argument, looked up long enough to grunt "Aye" before returning to his project, massive hands moving with surprising delicacy.
Only Hera opposed.
"The council has spoken," Zeus declared. "Diana is under Olympus's formal protection. Any attacks on her welfare will be treated as treason."
Hera rose from her throne with the rigid control of someone whose fury had been temporarily contained but absolutely not eliminated. Her expression promised future complications, creative retribution, and the patient vindictiveness that characterized her entire approach to grudges.
"You've won this *battle,*" she said with quiet menace. "Diana has protection I cannot overcome. But understand this, husband—I will remember this humiliation. And when opportunities present themselves—and they always do—I will demonstrate exactly what I think of arrangements that privilege your infidelity's offspring over your legitimate wife's dignity."
She departed with movements that were both graceful and threatening.
Peacock patterns trailed behind her like visible manifestations of rage.
"Well," Poseidon said into the silence, "that went better than expected."
"She didn't kill anyone," Apollo agreed with genuine relief. "Or curse anyone. Or turn anyone into livestock. For Hera, that's practically restraint."
"She's not restraining herself," Artemis said darkly. "She's *planning.*"
"She'll find ways to express her displeasure," Athena warned. "But the formal protection means whatever she attempts will have to be subtle. She'll have to be clever."
"Hera is many things," Ares observed with the grin of someone who enjoyed chaos. "Clever is definitely one of them. This should be fun to watch."
"Should we send representatives to the ceremony?" Demeter asked practically.
"Athena and I will attend," Apollo decided. "Diplomatic presence. Tasteful gifts. Appropriate behavior."
"Please don't seduce anyone at the ceremony," Athena said tiredly.
"I'm not going to seduce anyone at a *children's betrothal ceremony,*" Apollo protested with wounded dignity.
"Your track record—"
"*One time* I seduced someone at a diplomatic function—"
"It was twelve times."
"Some of those were very diplomatic seductions!"
"There's no such thing as diplomatic seduction."
"I'll write a book about it."
"Please don't," Athena sighed.
"Agreed," Zeus confirmed, because someone had to end this. "Diplomatic presence. Diana should have Olympian representation."
As the council dispersed, Zeus remained on his throne, processing what had just transpired.
He had threatened divorce.
He had overruled his wife through council vote.
He had established boundaries that had been necessary for millennia but never implemented because implementing them was terrifying.
Diana's betrothal had forced his hand in ways that centuries of previous complications hadn't managed. Perhaps because this time his daughter had protection that made standing up to Hera's jealousy politically viable. Perhaps because he'd finally found his spine. Perhaps because even he had limits.
Some family dynamics improved through patient negotiation.
Others required dramatic confrontation and willingness to accept consequences.
This had been the latter.
And Olympus would spend decades processing the implications of a day when Zeus chose his daughter's welfare over his wife's pride.
In some distant realm, Diana felt a sudden sense of safety she couldn't quite explain.
In Olympus, the clouds overhead rearranged themselves into what looked suspiciously like applause.
And in her chambers, Hera began making lists.
Lists were how Hera's best revenges began.
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