Zeus stirred from his slumber, his eyes slowly opening to the faint glimmer of dawn streaking across the heavens. For a moment, he remained still, his senses overwhelmed by the weight of his rest. It felt as though he had been asleep for a millennium, his body heavy with an exhaustion that ran deeper than mere physical fatigue.
Was it because he had pushed himself too far?
The last few months had drained him, more than he cared to admit. Supporting the Trojan army—even with a mere fraction of his divine blessing—had taken a toll. Thetis’s plea had been heartfelt, and Zeus, though reluctant, had granted her request. It wasn’t a direct intervention; he hadn’t granted the Trojans his full favor. Instead, he had provided subtle strength, a whispered boon to the hearts of thousands of soldiers. Yet even for him, the King of the Gods, such an effort over the months had proven straining.
Without his quiet support, bolstered by Apollo’s more overt blessings, the Trojans would likely have been crushed long ago. The relentless assault of the Greeks, fueled by the backing of Hera and Athena, had pushed the Trojans to the brink. But Zeus’s intervention, subtle as it was, had been the hidden thread keeping the army from unraveling completely. Even so, he couldn’t deny the toll it had taken—physically, yes, but also mentally. The endless prayers, the ceaseless cries of mortals for salvation, and the constant maneuvering among the gods had left him weary.
And now it was over.
As Zeus rose from his divine couch, the weight of the past week pressed against him. A full seven days had passed since he had closed his eyes, and in that brief span, the battlefield below had transformed into a vision of carnage and madness.
The once-proud plains of Troy were now a blood-soaked wasteland. Crimson rivers carved paths through the earth, and the air reeked of iron and death. The anguished cries of the dying and the vengeful howls of the living mingled into a ceaseless dirge.
But what truly turned his divine blood to ice was not the sight of mortal destruction—it was the chaos above.
The heavens themselves were at war.
Hera, Athena, and Poseidon had abandoned all pretense of neutrality, standing boldly in the midst of the fray. With unabashed fury, they rained destruction upon the Trojans, each strike resonating with their divine hatred. To counter them, Artemis stood tall, her bow string snapping with relentless precision as she unleashed volley after volley of silver-tipped arrows. Athena clashed fiercely with Ares, the battlefield trembling with each brutal exchange. The goddess of wisdom showed no hesitation, her strikes fueled by raw determination as the god of war laughed in bloodthirsty delight.
Elsewhere, Apollo had returned, his radiant form alight with fury. Alongside Aphrodite, he desperately tried to fend off the overwhelming onslaught of Hera and Poseidon. The earth shuddered beneath their titanic blows, fissures splitting the ground as mortal soldiers scattered in terror.
Zeus’s gaze hardened as he took in the horrifying spectacle. This was no longer a mortal conflict. What he beheld was a slaughter on two fronts—mortals tearing each other apart below while gods descended into petty, vengeful chaos above. The sky, once a symbol of Olympus’s grandeur, had become a war zone of divine hatred and madness. Even the lesser gods, those who had no direct stake in the war, had joined the fray. None had respected his decree. His word, the law of the heavens, had been cast aside like dust on the wind.
“Hermes.”
Zeus’s voice cut through the tumult, sharp and glacial. The air itself seemed to still, trembling under the weight of his tone. It was a voice that carried the authority of the cosmos, one that left no room for jest or defiance.
Within an instant, Hermes appeared before him. The messenger god, known for his mischievous smile and carefree demeanor, now bore a somber expression. His bright eyes betrayed no hint of levity. Even Hermes, who always dared to lighten the mood, knew better than to crack a joke at this moment.
“You summoned me, Father,” Hermes said, his voice steady but subdued. He stood straight, his usual relaxed posture replaced by a soldier-like rigidity.
“What happened?” Zeus’s voice was as sharp as winter’s chill, each word carrying the weight of a storm.
Hermes straightened, his usual playful demeanor replaced by a rare solemnity. The messenger god hesitated for a moment, weighing how best to deliver the grim news. Even he had not expected Hera to be so audacious as to deceive the King of Olympus himself. But when he saw Zeus succumbing to sleep weeks ago, he had realized the truth.
“Father,” Hermes began carefully, his tone steady, “it was Hera. She tricked you.”
Zeus’s eyes narrowed, the air around him growing heavy with the promise of fury. “Explain,” he demanded, his voice colder than a mountain’s peak.
Hermes nodded, swallowing hard before recounting the events. “She used Hypnos, the god of sleep, to cast you into slumber. While you slept, Hera, Athena, and Poseidon launched a full-scale attack against the Trojans, throwing their power behind the Greeks.”
Zeus’s brows furrowed as Hermes continued.
“Heiron—one of the Trojans’ greatest warriors and Hector’s stalwart ally—was slain. Agamemnon himself struck him down, but only with Poseidon’s direct intervention. After Heiron’s death, everything began to crumble for the Trojans. The loss shattered their spirits, leaving them on the brink of despair. They’ve been pushed back relentlessly, retreating closer and closer to the walls of their city.”
Hermes paused, glancing at Zeus’s unreadable expression before pressing on. “If not for Apollo’s return, Troy would already have fallen. He alone has been their salvation, holding back the combined onslaught of Hera and Poseidon. But even Apollo’s strength has limits.”
The messenger god’s words grew heavier as he described the grim state of the battlefield. “This past week has been nothing short of a massacre for the Trojans. Their blood stains the earth, and their cries echo through the heavens. Hector—Troy’s final bastion—has fought tirelessly to protect his people. He has not fought alone. Aeneas, Atalanta, and the Amazon queen Penthesilea have stood by his side, but they are faltering. Penthesilea, in particular, was grievously wounded and can no longer fight. Without her, their line grows weaker by the hour.”
Zeus’s fists clenched as Hermes continued. “And now… Patroclus has entered the fray. The Myrmidons march under his command. Though he had no desire to fight at first, the sight of the Greeks’ rising dominance swayed him. He seeks to end this bloody war swiftly, to spare further lives from being lost.”
Hermes’s voice dropped to a grim conclusion. “The Greeks now hold a decisive advantage, Father. If this continues, Troy will fall within a week.”
Silence followed Hermes’s words, a silence so profound that it seemed even the winds dared not stir. Then, slowly, a palpable aura of wrath began to emanate from Zeus. It was a cold, unrelenting rage, the kind that chilled the very marrow of one’s bones. His eyes glowed like lightning, and his towering form crackled with suppressed power.
Without a word, Zeus vanished in a blinding flash of lightning, leaving only the faint scent of ozone behind.
In an instant, he reappeared on Olympus, his arrival marked by a thunderclap that shook the very foundations of the divine realm. He extended a mighty hand toward the heavens, summoning a storm that dwarfed any mortal tempest. Clouds darkened the skies, swirling violently as arcs of lightning danced within them, each bolt brimming with lethal force capable of striking down even gods.
“ENOUGH!” Zeus’s voice thundered, a command that reverberated through both earth and sky.
With a crack of thunder, a bolt of lightning descended, splitting the battlefield asunder.
BADOOOOM!
The heavens trembled, and the gods below scattered like leaves before a hurricane.
Poseidon, locked in combat mere moments ago, barely managed to evade the devastating strike. His trident gleamed as he leapt back, the ground beneath him scorched black where the bolt had landed. Annoyance flickered across his sea-blue eyes, but he knew better than to challenge Zeus directly. Without a word, he retreated, his form dissolving into the ocean mist as he abandoned the Trojan grounds.
Athena, ever cautious, had seen the lightning’s descent and fled before it could reach her. Her armor gleamed as she disappeared into the distance, her calculated mind already plotting her next move.
And then there was Hera.
She did not run.
The Queen of the Gods appeared in Olympus, her face a mask of fury and defiance. Her piercing gaze met Zeus’s, and for a moment, the air between them crackled with unspoken tension. Hera’s lips curled into a sneer, but her fiery eyes betrayed the slightest flicker of unease.
In an instant, Zeus materialized before Hera, his movements swifter than the eye could follow. The air crackled with power as his hand shot forward, clamping around her throat with a grip like iron. His fingers tightened, and the wrath that radiated from him was palpable—a storm of divine fury barely contained within mortal form.
For the first time in tens of thousands of years, Zeus’s rage boiled over, eclipsing his usual restraint. His expression, once regal and composed, was now twisted in unbridled anger, his eyes blazing with light as though he were the storm itself.
Hera’s hands flew to his arm, her nails digging into his flesh as she struggled in vain to loosen his grip. But her efforts were futile. Zeus was immovable, an unyielding force that even she, the Queen of Olympus, could not match.
“How dare you, Hera,” Zeus growled, his voice low and venomous, each word a thunderclap. “After everything I have forgiven you for, after all your treacheries… this?”
His glare was colder than the peaks of Mount Olympus, yet Hera did not cower. Despite the crushing weight of his grasp, her fiery defiance remained. Her emerald eyes locked onto his, her own fury burning just as brightly.
“I don’t care about your forgiveness!” she spat, her voice hoarse but resolute. “I want them dead, Zeus. All of them! The Trojans, every last one of them, wiped from existence!”
Her declaration echoed through the halls of Olympus, defiant and unrepentant.
Zeus’s grip tightened further, his massive hand trembling with the effort to hold back his rage. It would be so easy—so simple—to end this. One twist of his hand, and her life would be extinguished. What she had done was unforgivable. Her betrayal had pushed the world into chaos, her defiance undermining his authority as King of the Gods.
And yet…
For all his fury, Zeus hesitated.
Hera was not merely his wife but also his sister, bound to him by blood and history. Their mother, Rhea, seemed to whisper to him from the shadows of his mind, her voice a faint plea carried on the winds of memory. “She is still my daughter.”
Zeus growled, the sound deep and guttural, his wrath warring with the remnants of his restraint. Finally, with a forceful growl, he released her, flinging her to the marble floor with a thunderous crash. Hera landed hard, her breath rasping as she scrambled to her knees, her pride more wounded than her body.
“This is over,” Zeus declared, his voice cold and final. His towering figure loomed over her, his shadow cast long and foreboding across the golden hall. “No more trust. No more forgiveness. Nothing.”
Hera glared up at him, her expression hard despite the palpable weight of his fury. But for the first time, there was a flicker of something in her eyes—was it regret? Or simply the realization that this time she had gone too far and Zeus had abandoned all trust toward her?