The autumn air in New Jersey carried a strange charge that week — a faint, metallic tang that no mortal could sense, but which made Hera's divine blood hum with warning. For days, the Queen of Olympus had wandered the mortal forests and ruins in disguise, her white garments cloaked beneath an illusion of modern simplicity. To the few mortals who glimpsed her, she appeared as nothing more than a beautiful woman with storm-grey eyes, walking the forgotten paths of the Garden State's wild places.
But she was hunting.
And though she had ruled Olympus for eons, though she could trace her power across the winds of the earth itself, this weapon — the Blade of Twilight — resisted her completely.
Hera paused near an abandoned quarry north of Newark. The ground here trembled faintly, almost imperceptibly, as if something deep below stirred when she drew near.
She closed her eyes, her divine senses stretching outward. For a moment, she caught a flicker — a shadow among shadows — and then it was gone.
"Clever thing," she murmured to herself. "You hide even from me."
Her tone was calm, but beneath it ran a sharp thread of frustration. For days, she had followed every whisper, every omen, and every trace of Hephaestus's old forge-magic buried in the mortal soil. The Blade of Twilight was here somewhere. She felt it. Yet every time she reached for it, the presence slipped away, as though mocking her.
Perhaps, she thought grimly, it was not hers to find.
Still, the thought of giving up never once crossed her mind. Hera had been defied by Titans, betrayed by gods, and mocked by men. She would not be denied by a sword.
And yet… the unease gnawed at her.
There was one mortal — no, not mortal — whose presence she could feel even here. A soul bright enough to attract anything divine, even by accident.
"Harry Black," she whispered.
The name carried weight.
If the Blade of Twilight had awakened anywhere near him, the consequences would be catastrophic. A weapon forged to magnify divine power could not coexist safely with someone who already wielded ancient magic as potent as his.
Please, she thought silently, let it not have chosen him.
By late afternoon, the golden sun dipped low over the treeline. Hera followed the flickering trail of magic to a small clearing — and froze.
Standing there, hands in his coat pockets, was Harry Black himself. His emerald eyes reflected the fading light, and there was an unmistakable aura about him — calm, controlled, but deep enough to drown in.
He turned slightly when she stepped into view. "Lady Hera."
Even though he spoke with casual politeness, Hera could hear the faint tone of amusement in his voice. She straightened her posture instinctively, like a queen before her subject, though both knew that such roles didn't quite apply between them.
"Harry," she said, composing herself. "I did not expect to find you here."
He smiled faintly. "Funny. I could say the same thing."
Hera stepped closer, her sandals barely disturbing the fallen leaves. "You've felt it too, haven't you?"
He tilted his head, genuinely confused. "Felt what?"
"The Forge's pulse," she said. "The last weapon born of Hephaestus's fire — the Blade of Twilight."
Harry frowned. "You mean one of those divine weapons your family's been chasing all over the world?"
"So you've heard," Hera said softly. "Yes. It's the last of the Seven. And the most dangerous."
He watched her carefully. "Dangerous enough that the Queen of Olympus herself is walking through mortal forests alone?"
"Dangerous enough," Hera said evenly, "that I would rather face it alone than let another Olympian find it first."
Harry leaned against a rock, folding his arms. "You think it's here?"
"I know it is," Hera replied. "It was forged to hold both light and shadow — a blade that balances creation and destruction. My son made it during the war against the Titans. And he made it too well."
"Too well?" Harry echoed.
"The sword learns from its wielder," Hera said quietly. "It grows stronger with them, amplifies their will, their emotions, their power. It makes the weak feel invincible, and the strong… unstoppable."
Her expression hardened. "Hephaestus told us it was the weakest of the seven. He lied. He wanted it for himself."
Harry was silent for a moment, the wind brushing through his dark hair. "And now you think it's hiding here. From you."
"Yes," Hera admitted. "I can feel it — faintly, like a heartbeat under the soil. But I cannot touch it. Its wards reject me. Perhaps because it senses my intent… or because it belongs to no god."
She looked up, her voice lowering. "I prayed it had not chosen you, Harry."
He blinked. "Chosen me?"
"The Blade bonds to souls of power," Hera explained. "If it had sensed you — your magic, your will — it would have bound itself already. And once it does, it cannot be unbound without death."
There was a long pause. Harry exhaled slowly. "Well… you'll be happy to know I haven't found any cursed talking swords lying around."
The faintest smile tugged at Hera's lips. "Thank the Fates."
Harry studied her for a long moment. "You've been searching alone for days, haven't you?"
Hera's composure wavered slightly — not much, but enough for him to see it. "Yes. I didn't want Olympus involved. Not until I knew where it was."
He nodded. "Then you could use a second pair of eyes."
She arched an eyebrow. "You would help me?"
"You helped raise my godson," Harry said simply. "You watched over him when others didn't. You've earned my trust, Hera. That's not something I give lightly."
The goddess hesitated — pride warring with gratitude. Finally, she inclined her head. "Then I accept your offer, Harry Black."
He smiled faintly. "Where do we start?"
"Below," Hera said, glancing toward the old quarry. "The Forge left traces in the stones here. If the Blade fell through the mortal realm, it will have sought shelter in places that remember fire."
Harry raised his hand, murmuring a few words under his breath. The ground shimmered with faint runes — ancient, shifting symbols that burned like veins of light.
"There's something buried deep," he said. "Something powerful. It's… awake."
Hera's heart quickened. "Then it's here."
Harry looked up at her. "You realize if it's sentient, it may not want to go back to Olympus."
"Then we'll make it want to," Hera said sharply.
Harry's smile returned, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You Olympians always say that before something explodes."
As the sun vanished completely and twilight settled over the forest, the ground beneath them pulsed faintly — once, twice — like a heartbeat.
Hera and Harry exchanged a single glance.
Then the whisper came.
Harry frowned, feeling the tremor through his boots. "That doesn't sound like a sword humming underground."
Hera's eyes narrowed. "No. It's something else."
The vibration grew until pebbles began to jump on the ground. Then, with a sound like an engine roaring to life, the earth cracked open. Heat blasted upward, and a blinding orange light poured out.
Harry shielded his eyes as something massive rose from the fissure — a bull made entirely of metal, stitched together from bronze plates, gears, and fragments of old machinery. Steam hissed from its nostrils; its hooves sparked against stone. It wasn't sleek or divine like an Olympian artifact — it was ugly, patched together, with mismatched plates and runes carved crudely into its sides.
Hera's face hardened. "Oh, for the love of Olympus. Not this again."
Harry glanced at her. "You recognize it?"
"Yes," she said bitterly. "It's one of Hephaestus's early experiments — an automaton. Not divine, not sentient. Just pure, stubborn craftsmanship given too much power and no sense."
The bull stamped, snorted steam, and pawed at the earth. Sparks flared from its joints. Then it charged.
Harry barely had time to dive aside as the metal beast tore through the trees, uprooting one with a single swipe of its head. The creature bellowed, its voice a screech of grinding gears.
"I thought you said it wasn't powerful!" Harry shouted, rolling to his feet.
"It's not!" Hera yelled back, dodging another swipe. "But Hephaestus made it indestructible enough to survive centuries of rusting in a hole!"
The bull turned toward her, eyes glowing white-hot. It opened its mouth and spewed a stream of molten slag. Hera threw up a shimmering golden shield, the molten spray splashing harmlessly across it — though the ground beneath her feet began to smoke.
"Alright," Harry muttered, brushing dust off his coat. "Let's see what this thing thinks of magic."
He extended his hand, no wand needed, and shouted, "Bombarda Maxima!"
The explosion tore through the air, striking the bull square in the chest. For a moment, the beast staggered backward, chunks of metal flying — but then it steadied itself and roared, the gaps in its armor glowing molten red as they sealed themselves back together.
"Self-repairing," Hera said grimly. "Typical Hephaestus design. He always hated replacing parts."
Harry scowled. "Great. It's a self-healing death cow."
The bull lowered its head again, charging at him this time. Harry slammed his palm into the ground. "Protego Totalis!"
A massive barrier of translucent light erupted in front of him. The bull hit it with full force, shaking the entire quarry. Cracks spread through the magical shield, but Harry's eyes flared bright green as he poured more power into it.
"Not today," he muttered, and with a twist of his wrist, the shield folded inward like a net, trapping the bull.
The creature thrashed, snorting fire and molten smoke. Harry's magic wrapped tighter, chains of green energy constricting around its legs. Hera joined in, raising her hands to summon golden bindings — divine light coiling around the bull's body.
Together, they pressed their power downward.
The bull struggled once, twice — then fell still. Its inner light dimmed, and the metallic growl in its chest faded into silence.
For a long moment, the quarry was quiet except for the hiss of cooling metal.
Harry exhaled slowly. "You sure it's done?"
Hera walked closer, inspecting the creature's side. "Yes. Just a failed creation. Hephaestus must have abandoned it here long ago. It probably woke when it felt the Forge's energy rising again."
Harry eyed the faintly glowing cracks around the fissure. "So the Blade's still down there?"
Hera's gaze followed his. "I don't know."
Hera and Harry had been searching for days, combing through forests, old ruins, and patches of ground where divine energy had once burned bright. Each time they thought they were close, the trail went cold. The Blade of Twilight was elusive — alive, cunning, and mocking their every attempt to corner it.
By the fifth day, Hera's patience was wearing thin.
"Another false resonance," she muttered, lowering her hand from a half-collapsed wall that still faintly glowed with magic. "This place reeks of old enchantments, but not the Blade's kind. Hephaestus must have scattered a dozen of his experiments here just to confuse me."
Harry leaned against a tree, brushing dust from his jacket. "Then it's doing a fine job. We've circled this area twice already. If the sword wanted to be found, it would've shown itself by now."
Hera shot him a sharp look. "You suggest we give up?"
"I'm suggesting," he said calmly, "that we take a break before you decide to level the entire county."
Her lips tightened. For a moment, it looked like she would argue—but then she exhaled. "Fine. A short one."
Harry smiled faintly and held out his hand. "Then come on."
She hesitated for a heartbeat before placing her hand in his. Her fingers were warm, steady. The moment their palms met, the world folded around them in a rush of light.
To mortals, it would have felt like a violent wrench through space, but to Hera — an Olympian born of eternity — it was merely a ripple.
When the light faded, they were standing in the familiar green expanse of the Black Mansion's backyard.
"Looks like we've got company," Harry said, nodding toward the field.
Two figures were locked in a mock duel near the garden fountain — Percy and Teddy, both sweating and laughing as they swung swords that sparked with harmless bursts of light. The weapons were enchanted — Harry's handiwork — crafted to deliver the sensation of impact without injury.
Ever since Percy had learned the truth about his divine heritage, sword practice had become a daily ritual. And, like a shadow that refused to leave his side, Teddy followed him everywhere, demanding to train too.
"Keep your feet steady!" Percy called, ducking under Teddy's swing. "And stop trying to chop my head off!"
"I'm not!" Teddy said between giggles. "You move too fast!"
Harry smiled faintly. "I've been watching them do this many times. It's their version of bonding."
Hera folded her arms, her expression softening despite herself. "The child is quite… spirited."
"Six years old and already thinks he can duel a demigod," Harry said fondly. "He's got more guts than sense."
They started walking toward the mansion when the air suddenly rippled with energy — a subtle pulse that made Hera freeze.
"Do you feel that?" she asked sharply.
Harry frowned. "Yes. Like… divine resonance."
Before either could react, Percy came flying backward — quite literally. He crashed into the side of a parked car with a metallic thud, denting the door before rolling onto the grass, groaning.
"Percy!" Harry shouted, rushing forward.
Teddy stood frozen in the center of the lawn, holding his sword — except it wasn't one of the enchanted training blades. The weapon in his small hands shimmered with a deep, eerie glow. Its blade was smooth and black as obsidian, etched with runes that pulsed like a heartbeat. It fit Teddy's grip perfectly, the handle molding itself to him as if it had been made for his hand alone.
Hera's breath caught.
"No," she whispered. "It can't be."
Harry turned to her. "What is it?"
"The Blade of Twilight."
Author's Note:
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