Zeus sat upon his throne in the gleaming hall of Olympus, the storm-crowned seat that had borne his weight for longer than mortals measured history. His hand rested on the haft of his scepter, his eyes narrowed not with rage, but with thought.
Most of the gods believed he ruled because of brute force, because his lightning bolts split mountains, because his voice could still storms and rattle the earth. That was true, but not the whole truth. Zeus had not become king of Olympus simply because he was the strongest — he had become king because he watched, listened, and noticed what others dismissed. He saw patterns. He sniffed out weakness. He knew when power shifted, even in the smallest degree.
And now, his sharp gaze had fallen upon Hera.
His queen. His sister. His eternal consort.
For eons she had been the iron spine of Olympus, the jealous guardian of their union. She might rage, she might scorn, but she had never once broken her vows. Zeus had betrayed her countless times — with nymphs, with goddesses, with mortals. Each infidelity had ended in thunder and Hera's wrath, but she never crossed the line herself. That was who she was: unforgiving, but loyal.
And yet…
Lately Hera had changed.
Zeus saw it in small things first. Her wardrobe — once regal robes of Olympus' weave — now mingled with dresses cut in mortal fashion, tailored suits, even denim trousers that looked absurd on a goddess but fit her form with unsettling grace. He had found receipts from mortal shops, items ordered discreetly but arriving through Hermes' hand. Silk from Paris. Shoes from Milan. Jewelry that was not divine but crafted by mortal hands.
And then there was the theater.
Zeus had scoffed when Hera first suggested installing one in Olympus, but she had been relentless. Now, the gods sat together in the dark to watch flickering mortal stories play across enchanted screens. Hera attended every showing. Sometimes she laughed, sometimes she cried. Once, Zeus had seen her lean forward with rapt attention when the story was of mortal love — true, steady, unbroken love. He had not missed the way her eyes glistened.
She was fascinated by the mortal world in a way that was not idle curiosity. It was hunger.
Zeus drummed his fingers against his throne. "Strange, that she seeks these things now. Strange, that she smiles in ways she never smiled for me."
He thought of how she had grown softer in mortal realm. Hera, who once despised mortals, now lingered among them. She watched mortal plays, sat in mortal chairs, wore mortal gowns.
Zeus's stormy eyes narrowed. "This is not my Hera."
For a moment, a whisper stirred in him, one he despised — fear. Not of Hera's wrath. He had weathered that before. But fear of betrayal.
Could it be that his queen… had a lover?
He scoffed aloud at the thought, then fell silent. Hera had never strayed, no matter how he had humiliated her with his wandering. But fidelity was not immortality. Even the most steadfast tree could bend when storms wore it down.
And who better to tempt her than the mortal world she now adored?
Zeus rose, his cloak of stormclouds billowing as thunder rolled faintly in the distance. Lightning flickered at his fingertips as his jaw set.
"I will know," he muttered. "If she has betrayed me, if she has taken another to her bed… mortal or otherwise… Olympus itself will feel my wrath."
But even as he said it, doubt gnawed. Hera had never cheated him. Never.
Which meant either his suspicions were foolish… or her change of heart was the most dangerous omen yet.
Zeus was not accustomed to being denied.
When he commanded, Olympus obeyed — that had been the way of things since the Titans fell and the thunderbolt was first raised. But Hera's new fascinations gnawed at him, a thorn buried deep beneath his skin, and for the first time in centuries, he found himself met with silence, even defiance, from his own children.
He had chosen them carefully.
Athena, the daughter of wisdom, not Hera. Surely she would see that loyalty to Olympus outweighed loyalty to Hera's secrets.
Artemis, proud, aloof, virgin-huntress — not Hera's child either, and one who always scorned Hera's petty jealousies. She, he thought, would expose Hera without hesitation.
Apollo, light-bringer, truth-speaker, and likewise born without Hera's hand. Who better than the god of prophecy to pry into her mysteries?
But he had miscalculated.
It began with Athena. He found her in her temple, scrolls and battle-plans spread before her like pieces on a chessboard. She looked up with those grey eyes that missed nothing.
"You ask me to spy on the queen of Olympus?" she said evenly. "Your wife? My stepmother?"
"You owe me loyalty, not her," Zeus snapped. "She is hiding something in the mortal world. Tell me what it is."
Athena studied him with her cool gaze. "Wisdom is not found in suspicion. If Hera chooses to walk among mortals, perhaps it is because she has found something you do not offer her."
Zeus's knuckles tightened on his scepter. "Do not lecture me."
"Then do not ask me to betray her," Athena replied calmly. "I will not."
Artemis was no softer. She stood at the gates of her silver camp, moonlight in her hair, her Hunters at her back.
"Spy on Hera?" she repeated, her voice like frost. "Do you think me a common thief, Father? I hunt monsters, not secrets."
"She is your queen," Zeus pressed. "But she is not your blood. What loyalty binds you to her?"
Artemis's silver eyes narrowed. "None. And yet I will not betray her. She has harmed no one by spending time among mortals. Perhaps you should ask yourself why you fear her absence so much."
When Zeus bristled, thunder growling low in his chest, Artemis did not flinch. "Strike me if you wish. But my answer will not change."
Apollo, at least, had smiled when Zeus cornered him outside the golden temple. But his smile was wary.
"Father," Apollo said lightly, "you know my gift. If I speak the truth, I must speak all of it. Do you really want to hear what Hera does, and why she does it?"
"Yes," Zeus growled.
Apollo's gaze sharpened. "Then listen. Hera walks among mortals because she is learning joy. Not adultery, not betrayal. Joy. Something you long ago stopped giving her."
Zeus stiffened. "You dare—"
"I will not spy for you," Apollo cut in, his tone suddenly hard. "Not against her." He turned and strode away, golden light trailing in his wake, leaving Zeus standing with clenched fists.
One by one, his children refused him. None would betray Hera. None would answer the questions gnawing at him. And their refusals cut deeper than he expected. For if even they, born without Hera's womb, stood firm in her defense — what did that mean?
Was his suspicion baseless? Or was Hera's secret so carefully guarded that even they could not bring themselves to speak it?
Zeus stood at the balcony of Olympus that night, staring down at the mortal world, where the lights of cities glittered like stars scattered across the dark. His eyes narrowed.
"If my children will not tell me," he muttered, "then I will discover the truth myself."
Lightning flickered along his shoulders as he cloaked himself in cloud. The King of Olympus would descend into the world of mortals — not as Zeus, the all-seeing lord of the skies, but in disguise. He would watch Hera with his own eyes, and woe to the man who had stolen her affection.
Hera had been many things in her long life: the jealous wife, the scorned queen, the unyielding goddess of marriage. But playful? Mischievous? Few would dare apply such words to her.
Yet on this particular week in the mortal world, she discovered she rather liked the feeling.
Apollo's warning had been delivered with that half-serious, half-mocking smile of his: Father suspects. He'll try to follow you. Pretend you don't know, or else use it.
And Hera, sharp as any Olympian, had chosen the latter.
The first time she spotted Zeus in disguise, it was almost laughable. He wore the shell of a mortal man — broad shoulders, strong jaw, eyes a little too stormy-blue to be natural. But the disguise could not soften his arrogance. He stood taller than the crowd, scanning people as if they were ants beneath his boots. His expression screamed I am better than you, though you do not know it.
Hera had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Subtle as a thunderbolt, husband.
So she led him on a merry chase.
The first test was the movie theater. Hera bought her ticket without hurry, a simple mortal dress flowing about her, and took her seat among the crowd. She picked a film of human romance — deliberately, she admitted to herself — and settled into the flickering dark.
Zeus entered minutes later, dressed in his mortal guise, and sat three rows back. He thought himself hidden, but Hera caught the stiffness in his posture, the way he scowled at the glowing screen as if it had personally insulted him. When the mortal couple kissed, Zeus shifted uncomfortably, muttering beneath his breath.
Hera smiled sweetly, sipping her mortal soda. Endure it, my king. Endure every moment.
The next day, she chose the park. Mortals laughed and played, children darting around with kites and balls. Hera bought roasted chestnuts from a vendor, sitting at a bench and feeding crumbs to the pigeons. She wore sunglasses this time, enjoying the feeling of being unnoticed.
Across the park, Zeus leaned against a lamppost, scowling as a child on a scooter nearly ran into him. When the boy shouted, "Sorry, mister!" Zeus actually growled — low and thunderous enough that the pigeons scattered.
Hera smothered her laughter in her gloved hand. You do not belong here, husband, and I will make you stay as long as I wish.
By the third outing, she was bold. The beach.
She strolled along the sand, sandals in hand, enjoying the surf at her ankles. The wind teased her hair, and mortals lay sprawled across towels or splashed in the waves. She even bought a bright umbrella and sat beneath it with a mortal book in her lap.
Zeus followed, of course. He had chosen to wear mortal shorts and a shirt this time, but his discontent was plain. Every time the sea sprayed near him, he snarled at the water as though it had betrayed him. Mortals offered him volleyballs, invitations to swim, even offers of beer. He refused them all with disdain.
Hera turned her page slowly, savoring the absurdity. He, who once ruled oceans and skies, now sat grumpily in a chair a dozen paces away, glaring at seagulls.
So this is what it feels like, Hera mused, to turn the hunter into the fool.
Yet for all her enjoyment, she was careful. Not once did she approach the Black Mansion. Not once did she stray near Harry or Teddy. She would not give Zeus cause to turn his suspicions upon them. This was her game alone, her lesson to him: that she could move in the mortal world freely, joyfully, and he would chase shadows rather than truths.
And if he thought this was a "date," well, perhaps that was punishment enough. To sit near her, but not with her. To follow her, but never lead.
That night, as she returned to Olympus with the faint smell of popcorn, sea-salt, and sun still clinging to her dress, Hera smiled to herself.
"Enjoy the chase, husband," she whispered. "For it is the only intimacy you shall win from me, so long as you mistrust without reason."
Lightning rumbled faintly in the distance — the sound of Zeus grinding his teeth.
And Hera laughed.