Far above the mortal realm, Olympus towered above the clouds—a shining palace of marble, gold, and mist, unreachable by any mortal hand. From its highest balcony, Zeus stood, gazing into the distance. His robes rippled in the wind, and his face, sculpted like a storm-god's crown, was tight with worry.
He felt it—the stirring of something ancient, something born of his own recklessness.
A child.
Kaelos.
Zeus closed his eyes. The Fates had warned him in riddles: "The storm you lay beneath will one day rise above. He shall be your silence, your reckoning."
He had not listened. For a moment of weakness, of longing for the mortal world, for Myrene's warmth, he had planted a seed that would now grow into thunder.
But to acknowledge the boy would be to spark war in the heavens.
Hera would not forgive him. She never did.
At that very moment, Hera appeared behind him, veiled in flowing emerald, eyes sharp and cold.
"You dream again of your mistakes," she said flatly.
Zeus didn't turn. "It was long ago."
"You made her a promise, didn't you?" she accused, stepping closer. "The mortal. Myrene."
He clenched the edge of the balcony. "She asked nothing from me."
"But you gave her everything," Hera snapped. "Power. A child. And now I hear whispers that lightning stirs in a village that should be nothing more than a dot on a map."
Zeus turned, his silver eyes fierce. "He is no threat. He's… a boy."
Hera's gaze did not soften. "You thought the same of Heracles before you nearly brought the heavens to ruin."
"I will not kill my son," he said through clenched teeth.
Hera tilted her head. "Then you leave it to me."
Zeus flinched, but Hera had already vanished in a flash of emerald light.
---
Back in Cliffhaven, the wind had grown strange again.
Kaelos, now ten, stood outside the cottage, arms outstretched, as storm clouds gathered above. His fingers danced with sparks, the thrill of it lighting his face. Myrene watched him from the doorway, smiling, though her heart twisted with fear.
She had told him stories—of heroes and monsters, gods and mortals—but had shielded him from the truth of his blood. Yet with each passing day, the sky listened to him more.
That night, she woke in a cold sweat. Something was wrong.
The fire had died. The cottage was still.
Outside, the storm had vanished—replaced by a heavy stillness. A figure stood at the edge of the forest. Cloaked in green. Radiating power.
Hera.
Myrene stepped out quietly, shielding Kaelos with her body.
"You are not welcome here," she said firmly.
"You were warned," Hera replied. "The boy is an abomination."
"He is a child!" Myrene cried. "He has done nothing—"
"Yet," Hera said coldly.
Power shimmered around the goddess. Myrene knew then: this was not a warning. It was a judgment.
The lightning came not from Kaelos, but from Hera.
The ground split.
The air screamed.
Myrene threw herself forward, shielding her son as a bolt struck the earth behind her. The explosion sent them flying. Darkness consumed her.
When Kaelos awoke, he was alone.
The cottage was ash.
The villagers were gone.
And in the smoldering ruins, he found Myrene's pendant—shattered—next to a charred mark scorched into the earth.
She was gone.
And so was any warmth in the world.
The boy who once played with sparks now stood in silence.
And above, Olympus watched… unaware of the storm it had just unleashed.