I Am Zeus-Chapter 76: Jealous Hera

A raven perched on the edge of the marble balcony, feathers dark as spilled ink against the gold-trimmed walls of Olympus. Its head tilted, sharp black eyes watching the courtyard below where Leto had just walked away, cheeks still tinged with pink, laughter still clinging faintly to the air.

It watched Demeter, silent now, picking seeds from the bowl with a furrowed brow. It watched Maia lean back, face turned toward the sun, eyes half-closed like someone thinking too far ahead. Then, without a sound, it launched itself into the wind, wings slicing the warm air like blades.

It flew across Olympus.

Past the pillars. Over gardens where dryads whispered to statues. Through clouds that tasted of divine incense. Until it reached a quiet part of the palace far from the open halls of gods and meetings—where time moved slower, and everything smelled like milk and myrrh.

Hera sat alone.

The room was dim, lit only by slivers of sunset sneaking through hanging silks. The walls were painted with old myths—her own, mostly. Stories she no longer cared to hear. She sat in a cushioned chair carved from sacred olive wood, breast bare, cradling a baby that suckled lazily while one of her hands softly rubbed his back.

Ares.

His little hand gripped her finger tight, not yet aware of what power throbbed in his tiny bones. Not yet aware of anything but warmth and milk.

The raven landed gently on the stone sill, claws tapping softly.

Hera didn’t look up at first.

She felt it.

The weight of what it carried.

Her eyes finally lifted.

They narrowed.

"I haven’t even dealt with one," she muttered, voice quiet, tired, sharp like broken glass. "And more are already beginning to circle him?"

Her gaze lowered to the infant at her chest. His breathing was calm. Slow. Innocent.

For now.

She shifted him slightly, adjusting the silk blanket wrapped around his small legs. Her hand moved over his back again, slower this time, as if thinking through her next move.

"It’s time," she said under her breath. "He’s ready for the first gift."

She kissed Ares gently on the forehead, then stood.

The baby let out a sleepy sound, eyes fluttering as Hera walked toward the back of the chamber.

There was a wall there—plain marble to most eyes. But as she stepped close, a strange, cold breeze stirred the air. The silks fluttered. The torches dimmed.

Then, with a whisper like an old promise being remembered, the marble shifted.

It rippled like water.

Then opened.

A black passage revealed itself behind the wall—made of stone that didn’t belong to Olympus. It pulsed with something far older. Something wet, like breath held too long in the lungs of the world.

She stepped through, carrying Ares in her arms.

The door closed behind her.

No one saw. No one would ask.

Not even Zeus.

Not yet.

The tunnel twisted downward.

Not in a straight path, but like a vein burrowed into the divine flesh of the world. The deeper she walked, the colder the air became. The silence turned thick, pressing against her ears like the deep end of a forgotten sea.

Ares whimpered softly in her arms. Hera hushed him with a whisper and kissed his forehead again.

"It’s alright," she said gently. "You were always meant to be more than this."

The tunnel ended in a dark chamber—an altar room with no flame, no godly design. Just raw stone and black roots crawling along the ceiling like veins.

And in the center... a pool of tar.

Still.

Silent.

Until it breathed.

A slow ripple stirred the surface. Then another. And then it spoke—not with sound, but through the bones.

You brought him.

Hera nodded, eyes calm.

"I kept my word."

You were late.

"I bled for him," she said coldly. "That should earn me patience."

A pause.

Then the pool stirred again.

A shape rose.

Not fully formed. Not flesh. Not shadow. Just a presence given shape for the sake of meeting halfway.

Tartarus.

The Abyss made manifest.

A rumble rolled through the chamber like something exhaling beneath a mountain.

What do you want, Queen of Olympus?

Hera didn’t flinch.

"To bind him," she said. "Not now. Not yet. But the seed. Plant it in him. Let it grow. Let it fester. One day, he will tear Olympus down—not for you. Not for me. For himself."

You want revenge.

She smiled.

"No," she said. "I want silence. A world where I don’t have to hear Zeus’s name in every whisper. I want peace, and if the path to that is war, then so be it."

Tartarus shifted again, swirling.

Bring him closer.

Hera hesitated a moment, then stepped forward. Ares blinked up at the darkness, wide-eyed and unaware.

She held him out.

A tendril of black mist rose from the pool and gently touched the boy’s chest.

Ares let out a tiny cry.

Just once.

Then... he quieted.

The black tendril sank into his skin like ink melting into water.

His eyes fluttered. His breath slowed.

The mist receded.

It is done.

Hera pulled him close again, holding him tighter this time.

"He won’t remember this," she whispered.

But he will feel it. Every time he’s pushed aside. Every time he’s denied. The rage. The fire. It will wake him.

She nodded once.

Then turned to go.

The tunnel opened before her again.

As she stepped through, Tartarus spoke one last time—soft, like a curse:

The day he chooses war... Olympus will bleed.

The wall closed behind her.

Back in the soft, golden light of her chamber, Hera returned to her chair.

Ares whimpered in his sleep, then settled.

She looked down at him. Touched his cheek.

"You’re going to change everything," she whispered. "But not yet."

Her eyes trailed toward the window.

Thunder rumbled in the far distance.

She didn’t smile.

She didn’t cry.

She just sat there, cradling the future.

And somewhere, high in Olympus, Zeus suddenly paused mid-step.

He felt it.

A flicker.

A pull.

He looked up at the sky.

But the clouds said nothing.