CHAPTER 95: APHRODITE

Mount Olympus.

Hera didn’t speak a word as she rose from the edge of Tartarus, the molten heat still burning at the bottom of her dress, but she didn’t feel it. She couldn’t feel anything right now except the words Tartarus left behind.

"Olympus must fall."

She rode the skies back in silence, her scepter humming faintly in her grip, not from magic—but tension. Her eyes narrowed against the wind. Deep down, she didn’t disagree.

When she landed back on Olympus, the sky was quiet again. Too quiet. Even the wind didn’t move through the columns.

She walked through the hall like a shadow, her sandals clicking softly against the polished stone. She didn’t go to Zeus. Not yet. She went to her chambers, drew the curtains, and stood by the window that overlooked the courtyard where Ares trained.

He was sparring with two lesser war spirits, both panting hard, bloodied from the blows, but still standing. Ares looked the same as always—raw, uncut fury in human form. Muscles carved like armor, eyes burning with that same spark... that spark Hera knew didn’t belong entirely to Olympus.

That darkness.

That ember from Tartarus.

She saw it the day he was born. Saw it when he cried, not like a baby—but like a scream from deep beneath the earth. She had taken him down there herself, once. Just once. When he was still an infant. Because Zeus wouldn’t stop smiling at Metis and whispering things behind closed doors.

So Hera did what only a wife scorned would do.

She let Tartarus mark her son.

And now... maybe it was time to use that.

But it wasn’t enough. That darkness had faded, buried deep beneath Ares’ loyalty. He loved his father. Worshipped him even. That bond had to break first.

And she knew how.

She stepped away from the window and went to her private shelf, pulling out an old, golden mirror. It wasn’t for makeup. It was enchanted. With a whisper, it showed her what she needed.

Aphrodite.

Beautiful. Wild. Desired by all. Even Hephaestus, poor creature, had loved her with all his cracked, burnt heart. But she never saw him. Not truly. She saw Ares.

And Ares? He gave in every time.

That little affair had been quiet for now, known only to Hera. But it was a pressure point. And pressure points were made to be pressed.

She whispered again, this time not to the mirror—but to the winds. "Bring her to me."

—

Later that evening, Aphrodite arrived. Radiant as always. Long flowing hair, lips like temptation, and that curve of a smile that made mortals kill each other.

"My queen," she said, bowing slightly, but her eyes never bowed. "You summoned me?"

Hera sat, legs crossed, gaze calm. "You’ve been busy."

Aphrodite tilted her head. "I usually am."

"With Ares."

A moment of silence.

"I thought we agreed no judgments," Aphrodite said smoothly.

"I’m not judging," Hera said. "I’m offering a role."

Aphrodite raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

"You will get close to Zeus."

That caught her off guard.

Aphrodite blinked. "You want me to seduce your husband?"

"You’ve done worse."

"I’ve never touched Zeus."

"And yet I’ve seen the way you look at him when you think I’m not watching."

Aphrodite didn’t reply.

"I’m not asking for a child," Hera added. "Just enough to make Ares notice."

Aphrodite leaned on the edge of the marble table. "You want him to see me wrapped around his father? That’s suicide."

"No," Hera said coldly. "That’s insurance."

Aphrodite stared at her, trying to read what game Hera was playing. But Hera’s eyes were unreadable—just a cold flame.

"I’ll think about it," she said.

"You’ll do it," Hera replied.

Aphrodite left without bowing this time.

—

The next morning, the training grounds buzzed with energy. War spirits, minor deities, and even a few curious mortals stood to the sides watching Ares sparring again—this time with Phobos and Deimos.

He broke Phobos’s grip with one twist, then swept Deimos’s legs out from under him with a brutal kick. His armor cracked. His fists dripped blood.

He was smiling.

"Again," he growled.

From the steps above, Hera watched. Then slowly descended, her robes brushing the floor.

"My son," she called.

Ares paused and looked over, breathing heavy.

"Mother."

"Walk with me."

He tossed his gauntlets aside and followed her.

They walked through the lower halls of Olympus, past the empty statues, past the silent guards. Just them.

"You’ve grown stronger," Hera said softly.

"I train every day."

"You fight like a god," she said. "But you live like a soldier."

Ares looked at her.

"You speak in riddles."

"You don’t sit at the high table. You’re a son of Zeus. But he favors the wise, the cunning, the stars. Not the sword."

"He respects me."

"He uses you."

Ares stopped.

"Why are you saying this?"

Hera turned to him. Her voice low.

"Because I saw what you were. What you are. You’re more than just Olympus’s shield. You were born from pain, Ares. From a mother betrayed. You carry the scream of the abyss in your blood."

Ares said nothing. His eyes flickered. That name. That place.

"Tartarus..."

"You remember."

"I have dreams. Of fire. Chains. Something clawing at my soul."

"It’s not a dream. It’s your truth."

"Why did you—"

"I gave you a piece of the truth," Hera whispered. "Because Olympus isn’t built on justice. It’s built on thrones. And thrones fall."

Ares clenched his fists. "You want me to betray him."

"I want you to remember who you are."

They stood in silence, the tension crackling in the air.

Then footsteps echoed behind them.

Aphrodite.

She looked radiant in white and gold, her eyes locking with Ares—then flicking briefly to Hera, unreadable.

Ares’s jaw clenched as he saw her. "What is she doing here?"

"Walking," Aphrodite said simply.

"Wearing that?" he muttered.

Hera’s lips curved just slightly. "You two used to walk together often, didn’t you?"

Aphrodite smiled. "We still could."

But Ares turned away. "I don’t want distractions."

He walked off.

Aphrodite watched him go, then turned to Hera. "That was risky."

"He’s cracking," Hera whispered. "All I need now is the final push."

Aphrodite raised a brow. "And if it fails?"

"Then Olympus burns anyway."

And far, far below... the chains in Tartarus rattled.

Not in warning.

In hunger.