Commission: Dealing with family bullshit as a divine smith with cheats in my second life (Pjo/Greek mythology self-insert into Hephaestus with the Ourobos CYOA and paths' power from Honkai Star Rails): Chapter 1: Mother dearest

All those philosophers, poets, and priests who waxed lyrical about death being the final rest were spewing straight bullshit.

Rest in peace, they said. Rest in peace. What a joke. What a cosmic, universal, multiversal fucking joke and the worst was that it was not even a good one because at least, I could have laughed or something, had it been funny.

Nah, instead, I had to deal with the Olympians and mortals who thought they were the shit when their asses were literally full of it or of haemorrhoids.

Yeah, I can see that disgust traced on your face. Imagine dealing with it for real. At least, they were not all too bad but still, sometimes like right now actually, I wish I could Samuel Colt myself.

To all those who had died, to all those who had found whatever lay beyond the veil, I envied them. I truly did. Because whatever oblivion or paradise or nothingness they'd found, it had to be better than this.

It seemed I was exempt from that mercy. Because why else would I have to deal, at the equivalent of six in the morning, if time even meant anything in a place like this, with the shrieks of annoyance number one, my mother in this fucked up second life, the goddess Hera?

Her voice cut through the air like a blade through silk, sharp and unavoidable.

"Hephaestus? Hephaestus?! Are you listening to me?"

The words hung there, isolated, as if she'd been talking for hours and only those particular syllables had managed to penetrate the wall of indifference I'd built around myself. Which, knowing her, she probably had been. Hera never did know when to stop talking.

I let out a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than my lungs, somewhere closer to whatever passed for a soul in this divine shell. "To my greatest misery, yes, I am doing such."

The platform beneath my feet hummed with barely contained energy. Around us, the forge breathed, massive gears turning in synchronized rhythm, metal singing against metal, heat radiating in waves that would have incinerated any mortal foolish enough to venture here. But we were not mortal.

We were so much more after all.

"I already told you my answer, Hera, and my answer is no."

Her eyes, those perfect, terrible eyes that had looked upon me at birth and found me wanting, flashed with something between rage and desperation. "Hera? You call me and treat me as such when I am your mother, when I am here to remind you of your duties to me, to Olympus, to your station!"

I couldn't help it. The sound that escaped me was halfway between a laugh and a snort, dismissive in a way that I knew would needle under her divine skin. "Station? I didn't realize we were telling jokes and jests. Here is another joke then, a pathetic and vain goddess coming back begging for the trash she threw, and her name is Hera."

The effect was immediate.

The platform shifted beneath us. Not a tremor, not a shake, a deliberate, mechanical separation. The single disc of burnished steel we'd been standing on split down the middle with a sound like thunder being born. My half remained stable. Hers began to fall.

Or rather, we began to fall together, the wind suddenly buffeting through both our hair with a force that would have torn lesser beings apart. But we weren't lesser beings. We were gods, for whatever that was worth. The wind couldn't touch us, couldn't move us, couldn't do anything but scream its frustration as we plummeted through the heart of my forge.

My hair whipped around my face, long, dark, red through with streaks of platinum and bronze that caught the light of the molten rivers flowing through channels in the walls around us. Hera's own red locks remained perfect, of course as if even gravity couldn't muss the Queen of Olympus.

"I have better things to do," I said, my voice carrying easily across the rushing air between us, "so tell me, tell me what you want so that you may stop darkening my forge, darkening my island."

She moved closer, floating through the air with that infuriating grace she'd always possessed, until her face was inches from mine. Until I could see every fleck of color in those eyes that had condemned me before I'd taken my first breath.

"You're mine, Hephaestus." Her voice was soft now, dangerous in its quietness. "You were born of my divine essence only. You are a part of me even if you don't acknowledge it, even if you don't want it, and that will never fucking change."

The words should have meant something. Should have struck some chord in whatever passed for my heart. Instead, I felt nothing but a vague distaste, like biting into fruit and finding it rotten at the core.

"In other words," I said, "you're still as narcissistic and deluded as ever."

The ground between us responded to my will before I even consciously thought the command. It simply separated. The singular pillar we'd been standing on became two, cleanly divided as if by an invisible blade. Around us, the forge began to shift.

Imagine a Rubik's cube the size of a mountain range. Now imagine that cube made of steel and fire, of mechanisms so complex that mortal minds would break trying to comprehend them. That was my forge. And it moved at my slightest whim.

Walls became floors. Ceilings became walls. The entire structure rotated and reconfigured itself in a dance of metal and flame.

And through it all, Hera and I kept our gazes locked on each other, her golden eyes meeting my mismatched ones without flinching.

The pillar I stood on began to rise, hydraulics hissing as they lifted me higher and higher. The one beneath Hera's feet descended with equal speed, carrying her down into the depths of the forge where the heat turned the air itself into something visible, something that rippled and warped.

"I am here," she called up to me, her voice carrying perfectly despite the distance growing between us, "because you were summoned."

Even though we were far away from each other now, hundreds of feet at least, I heard her without any problem. Sound worked differently here, in this place I'd built with my own hands and my own power.

Everything worked differently here and even had it not been the case, I still would have heard her.

We were connected in an intrinsic way no matter how any of the two of us hated it.

Around Hera, embers suddenly flared to life. They rose from channels in the descending pillar, fountains of liquid rock that bathed her in a red glow.

She looked like something from a mortal's nightmare or perhaps their most fervent prayer. A goddess wreathed in fire, beautiful and terrible and utterly untouchable.

I walked toward the edge of my pillar with deliberate slowness, each step measured, each movement a choice. When I reached the edge, I didn't hesitate. I took a step into the void.

For one moment, I fell.

The wind rushed up to meet me, screaming past my ears, and I felt that familiar sensation of weightlessness that always brought an elation like sort of satisfaction. Then another pillar slid into existence beneath my feet, emerging from the left side of the forge with perfect timing.

On this new platform sat a sword in its scabbard.

I walked toward it slowly, savoring the moment. The scabbard was black as night, inlaid with patterns that seemed to shift when you looked at them directly, gold and silver and diamond weaving together in designs that told stories of things only I knew, that maybe never would be in this second life of mine.

I reached down and grasped the handle, drawing the blade free with a sound like silk tearing.

The sword that emerged was magnificent.

It was a two-handed blade, longer than I was tall, with an edge that seemed to cut the air itself just by existing. The metal was a color that had no name, not quite silver, not quite white, something that existed in the space between light and absence.

Greek Runes ran along the fuller, glowing faintly with power that thrummed against my palm.

This was the kind of weapon myths would be born from.

The kind of blade that would make its wielder a king.

The kind of edge that would elevate a mortal to godhood, if they could hold it without being consumed.

Of course it was such. I had made it, after all.

I slid the blade back into its scabbard, feeling it settle with a satisfaction that ran bone-deep. Then I placed my hand on the handle and took a step off the pillar.

I fell again. But this time, the world fell with me.

The forge twisted, rotated, the entire structure turning on some axis that existed beyond simple three-dimensional space. Up became down. Down became sideways. Gravity lost all meaning as the mechanisms I'd built into the very foundations of this place activated.

I fell head-first now, my feet pointing toward what had been up but was now down, or perhaps sideways, or perhaps some other direction i didn’t care to ascertain at the moment.

The sword in my hand felt heavier, or perhaps lighter, weight itself seemed negotiable here.

And through it all, I kept falling until I arrived at Hera's level.

We fell together now, both of us in free-fall, but I was inverted, head pointing down, feet toward the sky that was no longer above. Our gazes locked again, golden eyes meeting mine across the space between us.

"From a queen to a messenger," I said, and let every ounce of mockery I could muster seep into my voice. "Such a fall. Please, continue doing so. Maybe if you fall hard enough, you'll be lucky enough to find creatures as despicable as you."

I could see it, the anger, the rage that she forced herself to repress. It showed in the way she gritted her teeth, in the way her hands shook at her sides, in the way her divine aura flared and flickered like a candle in a storm.

But she didn't explode. Didn't unleash the fury I knew was coiled inside her like a serpent ready to strike.

Which meant this had to be important. At least, important to her. Important enough that she was willing to swallow her pride and her rage and her overwhelming need to put me in what she considered my proper place.

It was a shame, really.

I liked rage baiting her.

I liked making her angry. Liked watching that perfect composure crack, liked seeing the goddess behind the mask lose control. It was the least I was owed when talking to the woman who had thrown me from Mount Olympus at birth because my foot was crooked and I wasn't back then pretty enough to be her son.

Around us, the forge responded to my thoughts.

Thousands of pillars suddenly rushed toward us from every direction, above, below, sideways, from angles that shouldn't exist. Each one was massive, wider than any building mortals had ever constructed. They rose from the depths of the forge like steel trees, their surfaces covered in gears and pipes and mechanisms that clicked and whirred and lived.

Some of them glowed with internal heat, metal so hot it had turned white. Others were dark as midnight, absorbing light rather than reflecting it. They came at us like a forest deciding to uproot itself and attack, an army of metal giants converging on two gods falling through space.

"Hephaestus, are you out of your goddamned mind?!" Hera's scream cut through the sound of rushing metal. "What are you doing?!"

I ignored her. With a lazy wave, almost dismissive in its casualness, I swung the sword in a wide circle.

For one moment, one perfect, crystalline moment, there was pure silence.

The next, there was only noise and light.

Every single pillar broke.

Not shattered. Not crumbled. Broke. Cleanly, perfectly, as if they'd been sliced by something sharper than reality itself.

The sound was indescribable, thousands of tons of steel all giving way at once, a symphony of destruction that would have deafened mortals and driven lesser gods mad.

From my perspective, the instant could almost be called slow.

Slow enough that I could see the shade of gold that had escaped from the sword in my grip. Slow enough to watch it cover the scabbard like liquid light, then grow, expand, becoming a tower of radiance that moved like a giant snake made of pure cutting force. It coiled and struck and bit, eating through steel as easily as air, delighting in the destruction wished by the will of its holder.

The snake of light was beautiful in a way that defied description. It moved with purpose and joy, with an almost childlike glee in its purpose. Where it passed, metal simply ceased to exist, not destroyed, not melted, just gone, as if the universe had decided that matter was optional in that particular space.

Steel rained down around us, literally rained, thousands upon thousands of pieces falling in a perfect circle that enclosed both Hera and me but touched neither.

They fell like a curtain of blades, like a waterfall of metal, creating a cage that we stood at the center of.

What had happened, happened not because I had swung fast. My swing had been lazy at best, barely more than a gesture. It hadn't happened because I had used any of my power, I'd drawn on nothing, spent nothing, exerted myself not at all.

It was simply because of one thing.

I directed my gaze toward the sword in its scabbard, feeling its weight in my hand, feeling the rightness of it.

It was only because of one thing, and that thing was simple: I had made it.

This was a weapon most would call legendary.

This was one I could only third rate at best and a failure at worst.

"See!" Hera's voice was softer now, almost pleading, and I hated that I could hear the genuine emotion in it but that was nothing new, hating everything coming from her.

"This is why you were summoned. Look at what you made, you made a sword so sharp, so powerful that even in its scabbard, even without baring its edge to the world, it could probably cut mountains in half, turn human cities into craters with one swing, give the like of a nymph, of a mortal too much power, much more power than common sense allows! The worst part is that it is only one of many! I know, we all know that, Hephaestus."

I let the words hang in the air for a moment, turning them over in my mind like one of my creations on a workbench.

"In other words," I said slowly, "you're scared. You all are, aren't you?"

Hera's face twisted, not with rage this time, but with something more complex. Something that might have been fear, might have been frustration, might have been something else entirely.

She snarled, the sound more animal than divine. "I would have never chosen to be here... talking to you if I didn't have to, if I didn't need to. But no matter how much I feel, I am still the goddess of family."

The words tasted like ash in the air between us. Family. As if she had any right to use that word.

As if she hadn't proven, that her version of family was conditional, based on appearance and power and whether you reflected well on her.

"My brother and husband," she continued, and I noticed how she emphasized both relationships, as if I could forget the incestuous tangle that was Olympus's ruling couple, "hates suffering possible threats to his power."

"I'm far from being the last deity powerful enough to be a threat," I pointed out, because it was true. The world was full of beings who could shake Olympus if they chose. Titans in and out their prisons, primordials in their sleep, countless other gods and spirits and monsters that Zeus should spend of his days worrying about instead of me.

"The other threats are handled in some way or another." Hera's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "You're not."

She let that sit for a moment before adding, almost as an afterthought: "The fact that you also remind Zeus of Prometheus doesn't help. He's still angry about the Titan taking from Olympus's flame, Hestia's flame, and sharing it with humanity."

I raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious now despite myself. "Do you really think I am that Lame?"

Hera scoffed, the sound dismissive and sharp. "Of course not. No one can be as pathetic and stupid as Prometheus. Like really, what was the point of his stupidity with humanity when in the end, he couldn't put his drachma where his mouth was? And now he's eagle food."

That was probably mean as fuck and proof that I was maybe more like her than I ever wanted but I found myself almost, almost, agreeing with her. "Right? The fire thing was fine. Bold, even. Admirable in its way. But the execution afterward?"

"Completely incompetent," Hera said, warming to the subject in a way that was almost disturbing. "You steal from Olympus, you make yourself an enemy of Zeus, and then what? You just... wait around to get caught?"

"No exit strategy," I agreed, shaking my head. "No contingency plan. Did he think Zeus would just let it slide? Did he think there wouldn't be consequences?"

"And the worst part," Hera continued, gesturing with one hand in a way that sent ripples through the falling metal around us, "is that he had time. He had time to disappear, to hide, to prepare. But he just went back to his routine like nothing had changed."

"Arrogance," I said. "He thought being a Titan who fought on your side in Titanomachia made him untouchable."

"Exactly! As if being older than us meant anything. Zeus killed our own father, overthrew the entire Titan order, but Prometheus thought he'd be the exception because he barely helped us?" Hera laughed, but it was a bitter sound. "At least Father tried to fight back. At least he had the sense to see the threat coming."

"Though not the sense to avoid eating his children in the first place," I pointed out.

"Well, no one's perfect." Hera waved a hand dismissively. "But at least he tried. Prometheus just... accepted his fate. Let them chain him to that rock. Let them send the eagle. Where was the legendary Titan cunning everyone talks about?"

"Apparently left behind along with his common sense." I shifted my grip on the sword, watching the light play along its scabbard. "You know what the really tragic part is? If he'd been smart about it, he could have done so much more for humanity. One grand gesture and then capture? What good did that do anyone?"

After all, would you tell me that the Titan of Forethought couldn't guess what would happen?

Bullshit. He knew and still did something stupidly Greek.

"None at all," Hera agreed. "Humanity got fire, yes, but they also got Zeus's eternal ire. Was it worth it? The mortals don't even remember what Prometheus sacrificed."

"They remember the fire," I said. "They remember the gift. But the suffering? The eagle eating his liver every day for eternity? That's just a footnote in their stories. A piece of drama to make the tale more exciting."

Hera's expression darkened. "And Zeus uses him as an example. Every god, every Titan, every being with even a drop of power knows what happens when you defy the King of Olympus. Prometheus made himself a cautionary tale."

"A completely avoidable cautionary tale," I emphasized. "That's what makes it so pathetic. He chose this. He could have been the hero who gave humanity fire and lived to give them more. Instead, he's the fool who gave them fire and then let himself become a warning to others."

"Even Atlas had a better plan," Hera said, and I could hear the genuine contempt in her voice. "At least he fought. At least he made Zeus work for it. But Prometheus? He might as well have put the chains on himself."

We fell silent for a moment, both contemplating the spectacular failure that was Prometheus's rebellion. Around us, the metal continued to rain, the sound a constant backdrop to our conversation.

"You know," I said finally, "part of me wonders if he wanted to be caught. If the suffering was the point."

"Martyrdom," Hera spat the word like a curse. "How very mortal of him."

"Exactly. Gods don't do martyrdom. We do victory or we do clever survival. We don't do noble sacrifice that accomplishes nothing but our own suffering."

"Which brings us back to you," Hera said, and I could see her attempting to steer the conversation back to its original purpose. "You're not Prometheus. You're not stupid enough to paint a target on your back and then wait for the arrow."

"How flattering," I said dryly. "Such high praise from mother dearest."

Hera took a step off her pillar, and the world shifted around us again. Our fall became an ascent, gravity reversing itself with a lurch that would have destroyed mortal bodies. But we were unchanging, our gazes still locked on each other as we rose through the heart of my forge.

"Countless beings would kill for a throne," she said, her voice carrying a note of genuine frustration now, "and you have to be begged to take it. Ridiculous."

"They're not me," I answered simply, "and I am not like them."

We stopped ascending, both of us suddenly floating, flying in the way that only immortals could. Above us, beyond the mechanisms and the metal and the heat of the forge, I could see the sky. And in that sky, one star burned brighter than all the others.

Hera followed my gaze upward, and her expression softened in a way I'd rarely seen. "You really made something beautiful," she said softly, almost to herself.

For a moment, an infinitesimal one, a fraction of a fraction of a second, the star revealed its true nature. It wasn't a star at all. It was an island floating in the sky, and on that island rose towers of white stone that pierced the clouds themselves. They were elegant and impossible, organic and geometric all at once, like someone had taken the concept of a city and purified it, refined it, made it into something that transcended the merely physical.

The towers glowed with their own internal light, soft and warm, like captured sunlight or crystallized moonbeams. Between them, I could see gardens hanging in the air, waterfalls flowing upward, bridges made of light connecting structures that had no business standing but stood anyway because I had willed them into existence.

It was beautiful. I had to admit that, even if only to myself. It was beautiful in a way that Olympus, for all its grandeur, could never be.

"You made something none of us could imagine could exist," Hera continued, and I could hear genuine awe in her voice now, unfiltered by her usual masks and pretenses. "Something the primordial Cyclops who forged my brothers’ symbols of power saw from afar and called beyond them. Something that makes Elysium and Olympus look pale. You made a miracle, and I don't want this miracle to be destroyed."

I let out a laugh that held no humor. "Please, excuse the false care. The only reason why you don't want to see it burn, like probably most, if not all, of the rest of the mortals and the immortals who looked at it and found only awe and envy in their hearts, is because you see me as a part of yourself. And thus, this is something of yours too."

She didn't deny it. That, at least, I appreciated about Hera. For all her faults, and they were numerous, she rarely bothered with outright lies when confronted directly.

"On top of that," I continued, gesturing toward the sky-island with the sword still in my hand, "what makes you think that Amphareus could ever fall? You said it yourself, Hera. I made things primordial existences like the original Cyclops, the children of the Sky and the Earth, could not understand. What makes you think that I can't do more?"

For a moment, I let the mask drop.

Not all the way. Never all the way. But enough. Enough that what lay beneath the god, my real nature, could show through.

The universe died around us.

I don't mean that metaphorically. I don't mean it poetically. I mean that literally, the universe ceased to exist. The forge, the sky, Amphareus above, the earth below, Olympus in the distance, all of it simply stopped. Not destroyed. Not erased. Just... un-become.

It was like watching a film run backward, but the film was reality itself. Stars un-formed, their light retreating back to sources that no longer existed. Planets dissolved into cosmic dust, then into nothing. The very fabric of space began to contract, pulling in on itself, shrinking down toward a single point of infinite density.

But that wasn't the end of it, far from it. It continued until i was watching concepts themselves die.

Death died. I felt it go, felt the idea of endings and cessation simply... vanish from existence. Fate unraveled, every thread that had ever been woven or would be woven simply ceasing to matter. Chaos, that primordial force that had existed before existence itself, flickered and went out like a candle in the wind.

Night ended. Not the night-time, not darkness, but Night herself, the primordial goddess, the mother of so many things, she simply wasn't anymore. And with her went her children, went everything she had ever touched or influenced or birthed.

Darkness followed. Then the Sky. Then the Earth. Gaia, Ouranos, all the primordials, all the Titans, all the gods, they were there, and then they weren't, and there was no transition between the two states.

I looked at Hera in my true form. Not this body I wore, not this shape I'd chosen to inhabit, but what I actually was. And under that gaze, under the weight of that reality, she fell to her knees.

Her face was a battlefield of emotions, fear, horror, despair, and wonder all fighting for dominance. She opened her mouth but no sound came out, because sound required a medium to travel through and there was no medium anymore. There was only the space where the universe used to be, and in that space, only two things existed: her and me.

When she finally managed to speak, her voice was barely a whisper, shaped more by divine will than by any physical process. "You destroyed everything else. I can feel it. People, gods, mortals, concepts like death, fate, Chaos, Night, Darkness, the Sky, the Earth, they are all gone."

In less than a blink, things went back to what they were. The universe rushed back into existence, filling the void, bringing with it all the noise and light and life and death that I'd temporarily excised. The forge reformed around us, the metal singing its familiar song, the heat returning to kiss our skin.

But we both knew what had really happened. We both understood, in that moment, what I truly was. What I could do if I chose.

Hera was still shaking, her divine composure completely shattered. "How?" The word was barely audible.

I looked at her, and when I spoke, my voice was gentle. Almost kind. Because she deserved an answer, at least. She deserved to understand why her worst fears about me were actually so much smaller than the reality.

"A primordial gave birth to the Titans who overthrew him," I said, as if reciting a lesson. "The same Titans gave birth to Gods who did the same for them, who were evolved, better versions of them."

I paused, letting the logic sink in, letting her follow the thread to its inevitable conclusion.

"Why would it be different now?"

Her response was immediate, instinctive, a yell that carried all the denial and desperation of someone confronting a truth they couldn't accept. "Because it's not the case! We checked! Triton, Kore, and Eileithya aren't like you! We would have known if they were!"

I sighed, the sound carrying more exhaustion than any immortal should feel. "I already told you. No one is like me."

I looked into the eyes of the still-terrified Hera, and I let my gaze go cold. Let her see the truth behind the words, the absolute certainty that came not from arrogance but from simple, undeniable fact.

"More than that, in the case of an attack against my city, against what had once been Lemnos, against Amphareus, even if I was not here, I don't fear the result."

Hera's eyes widened, and I could see her mind working, putting pieces together, arriving at conclusions that clearly disturbed her. "What did you do?"

As if summoned by her question, and perhaps they were, seven figures materialized around us. They appeared out of the air itself, stepping through spaces between spaces, wearing long coats of white that seemed to shine with their own internal radiance.

The coats were works of art in themselves. They combined elements that shouldn't work together but did, clean, modern lines mixed with flowing classical drapery. Geometric patterns that spoke of circuits and technology blended seamlessly with organic curves that echoed Greek aesthetics. They were garments that existed at the intersection of an older past and a far future, science and divinity, function and beauty.

Each figure wore a mask as well, smooth and featureless except for subtle differences in shape and style. They stood in a loose circle around us, silent and still, waiting.

I answered Hera without looking away from her face, wanting to see her reaction. "Congratulations. You're a grandmother, and you've got thousands of grandchildren."

The sound that escaped her was something between a chuckle and a sob, hysteria and despair mixed together in equal measure. "My visit was pointless, wasn't it? Thousands of beings with your ichor, your essence. No matter how diluted it may be... you're not the one in danger. We are."

"Don't feel too bad," I said, and I allowed myself a small smile. "Even if you were worthless at it, you still counted as a smidgeon of entertainment, I guess."

I finally turned my attention to the masked figures, addressing them without looking at any of them specifically. "What do you think I should do?"

One of the figures stepped forward slightly, and when they spoke, their voice was masculine, dignified, carrying the weight of absolute conviction. "Let us teach them that even so-called gods like them can die, Lord Phanes."

Another voice chimed in immediately, young and feminine and filled with barely contained excitement. "Yay! Let's mess some false gods up in the name of Lord Phanes!"

A third voice entered the conversation, exasperated and young, distinctly boyish in its tone. The figure sighed deeply before speaking. "They are not false gods."

"Of course they are, dummy!" the excited feminine voice shot back immediately. "They're not like Lord Phanes and they call themselves gods, so they're false gods!"

A fourth voice joined, teasing and light, definitely female. "It seems she's right and you're wrong~"

"I am not wrong!" the boyish voice protested, somehow managing to sound even more childish in his defense.

A fifth voice cut through the bickering, colder, more mature, unmistakably womanly and sharp with disapproval. "Have you all forgotten that Lord Phanes asked a question? You should all act properly in front of him, not, not the way you all did in such an undignified manner!"

A sixth voice responded, masculine and carrying an unmistakable mocking tone. "All of those words without you yourself answering. Couldn't be me."

The cold, mature woman's voice came back immediately, heated now. "Go to hell!"

"Why would I?" the mocking man responded, and I could hear the grin in his voice. "It would be so boring without being able to annoy you."

"So you know you're an annoyance, at least," she snapped back.

"I never said I knew I was an annoyance," he countered smoothly. "Like I said, it's just that my second reason to live after Lord Phanes is that I love to annoy you."

A seventh voice entered the fray, matronly and sweet, with the kind of warmth that spoke of comfort and home. "Oh, young love. It makes me think about olden days."

The cold, mature woman and the man who had been teasing her responded simultaneously, their voices overlapping in perfect, horrified harmony: "Ew!" and "Hell no!"

I found myself mentally deadpanning as the figures in white coats continued chatting amongst each other, apparently having completely forgotten my question. Something told me I would never get an answer the way things seemed to be going.

The voice of Hera brought me out of my thoughts, pulling my attention back to her. "Phanes? They don't call you Hephaestus?"

I turned to look at her fully, and I let some of the frustration I felt seep into my voice. "Well, given that you always thought of me first as that club-footed thing you threw out of Olympus, like seriously, I know you're a bad parent and all of that, but did you truly have to give me a name that can literally be translated as 'the lame one'? Or 'lame on both sides'? It's as if you wanted me to be like Prometheus."

Hera's response was immediate, almost reflexive. "No one can be as lame as Prometheus, especially something that comes from me."

"Something," I repeated, loading the word with sarcasm so heavy it could have crushed a mortal. "Real feel the love, Ma." I shook my head, then continued. "Anyway, like I was saying, you and those with whom you share this opinion may have thought of me as such, but for the people of the island that had been Lemnos and is now my Amphareus, I am the sun, the light that brought them to heights higher than the gods themselves. They call me Phanes, and not gonna lie, that name is way better than the one you gave me."

I paused, an idea forming in my mind. It was reckless, probably stupid, definitely going to cause problems down the line. But when had that ever stopped me?

"You know what?" I said slowly, a smile spreading across my face. "Why not?"

The response was instantaneous and unanimous. Hera and all seven figures in white coats spoke at once, their voices overlapping in shocked disbelief: "What?!"

I couldn't help the grin that spread across my face. "A throne is a throne, even if it's a shitty one. Still, I've got some conditions though. I want █████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████."

The words were there, hanging in the air between us, but something about them resisted being heard, being understood by anyone except Hera. They existed in a space that was private, exclusive, meant only for her ears.

Her face went through several expressions in rapid succession, shock, anger, disbelief, calculation, and finally something that might have been grudging respect.

"They won't accept it," she said finally, her voice flat. "Zeus won't accept it."

I shrugged, unconcerned. "Only if he knows."

Her eyes narrowed. "You expect me to lie to my husband? To the King of Olympus? To hide terms from the other gods?"

"I expect you to be smart," I countered. "I expect you to understand that what you don't tell Zeus can't make him refuse. I expect you to realize that this is probably the best offer you're going to get, and if you push me, I might decide that dealing with your little family drama isn't worth the hassle."

"You're asking me to betray my oaths," she said, but her voice lacked conviction.

"I'm asking you to be practical. Besides, when have oaths ever stopped any of you when it was convenient to break them?"

She glared at me, and for a moment, I thought she might actually attack. Her divine aura flared, power radiating from her in waves that made the air shimmer. Around us, the seven figures tensed, ready to intervene if necessary.

Then, slowly, the anger drained from her face, replaced by cold calculation. "You're manipulative."

"I learned from the best," I shot back. "After all, I watched from afar you and Zeus my entire life. If that's not a masterclass in manipulation, I don't know what is."

"You're cruel."

"And whose fault is that? Who threw me from Olympus? Who taught me that family means nothing, that power is everything, that love is conditional and based on appearance and all that jazz?"

"You're bitter."

"I prefer the words realistic and opportunistic but hey, see it the way you want. Don’t care enough to fight you on that.”

We stared at each other for a long moment, the tension between us thick enough to cut. Around us, the forge breathed, metal and fire and mechanisms all working in perfect harmony. Above us, Amphareus shone like a second sun, a testament to what I could create when given the freedom to do so.

Finally, Hera spoke again. "You're insufferable. You always have been. Even as a baby, you cried too much, demanded too much attention. You were never satisfied with what you were given."

"Hard to be satisfied with being thrown off a mountain," I pointed out. “Also, you're like really beginning to sound like a scratched record.”

“Scratched record? What it is?” she asked bewildered.

“Joe.”

“Who the hell is joe?”

“Your mama.”

“Go to Tartarus Hephaestus, suffer and throw yourself three times in Chaos.”

“Wow, I can really feel the love like always. Also done that, lowkey underwhelming but I guess it's how things are when you're me,” I told her.

She looked at me then and by that, I meant she was already doing so but now she did as if looking at a ghost.

She snorted, uglily at that. "You were supposed to die," she said, and there was something almost but not really like pain in her voice.

I guess it was probably the closest thing to regret she could muster.

"Do you understand that? You were supposed to fall and die and that would be the end of it. A tragedy, yes, but a quick one. Instead, you survived. You lived. And every day since then has been a reminder of my failure."

"Your failure to kill your own child," I said slowly. "Yes, I can see how that must be difficult for you."

"My failure to do what was necessary," she corrected. "My failure to protect Olympus, our family from what stain might become on our family. We are gods, we are supposed to be perfect. You were not but now I look at you. Look at what you've created. I was right to fear your existence but maybe for the wrong reason. Still, I was wrong to think I could eliminate that fear. I should have instead tried to make it into something else like I always did.”

I laughed, the sound harsh and jagged. "Is that supposed to make me feel something? Sympathy? Understanding? You tried to murder me and failed, and now you want me to acknowledge that your paranoia was justified?"

"I want you to understand that everything I did, I did for the good of Olympus, for the good of our family, for the good of the Earth, the heavens and their inhabitants."

"Please, excuse me the would-be sad backstory or reason you want me to swallow. Everything you did, you did for yourself," I corrected. "Don't dress it up in noble intentions. You were vain and selfish and couldn't stand having a child who wasn't perfect. That's the truth. Everything else is just justification after the fact."

She flinched, actually flinched, and I felt a savage satisfaction at having struck home. For just a moment, the mask slipped, and I saw the goddess beneath, not the Queen of Olympus, not the Mother of Gods, but just... Hera. Flawed and frightened and trying desperately to maintain control in a world she felt was spinning away from her.

"You're right," she said quietly, and the admission shocked me more than anything else she could have said. "You're right. I was vain. I was selfish. I looked at you, and all I could see was my own failure reflected back at me. You were supposed to be perfect, and you weren't, and I couldn't accept that."

She paused, seeming to gather herself. "But that doesn't change what you are now. That doesn't change the threat you represent. And it doesn't change the fact that Zeus will move against you if given the chance, and I... I don't want to see my family destroyed in one way or another, to see what this part of me built by itself. Not because I love you, I don't think I'm capable of that anymore. But because you're still mine, in some way. Still a piece of me, no matter how much we both might wish otherwise."

I stood there, the sword heavy in my hand, and tried to process what she'd just said. It wasn't an apology.

It wasn't reconciliation. It was just... honesty. Raw and uncomfortable and unexpectedly sour tasting like lemons.

"You're still a terrible mother," I said finally.

"I know."

"And I still don't care about you in the slightest."

"I know that too."

"But I'll take the throne. On my conditions. And you'll hide those conditions from Zeus and the rest of Olympus."

"And if they find out?"

"Then I'll deal with it. Just like I've dealt with everything else you've thrown at me."

Hera laughed then, and it was a genuine sound, not mocking or cruel but almost... fond? "You're truly the worst," she said, but there was something like a smile on her face. "It's a deal."

I answered with a cheeky smile of my own, feeling lighter than I had in centuries. "What can I say? I am my mother's son."

The words hung in the air between us, acknowledgment and insult and strange, twisted affection all wrapped up together.

Around us, the forge continued its eternal work, metal singing against metal, fire breathing life into creation.

Above us, Amphareus shone, a city of light and wonder that I had built with my own hands.

The seven figures in white coats were silent now, watching the exchange between Hera and me with what might have been approval. Or confusion.

It was hard to tell with the masks without using my divine powers.

Hera straightened, smoothing down her divine robes with practiced ease, the Queen of Olympus reasserting herself over the vulnerable goddess who had shown herself moments before. "I'll make the arrangements," she said formally. "You'll be summoned to Olympus within the week. Try to be... diplomatic."

"Diplomatic," I repeated, tasting the word. "Yes, I'll be sure to be on my best behavior. I'll even try not to insult anyone. Much."

She rolled her eyes, an incredibly human gesture that looked strange on such a divine face. "This is going to be a disaster."

"Probably," I agreed cheerfully. "But at least it'll be an entertaining one."

She shook her head, but I could see the smile trying to break through her stern expression. "You really are the worst."

"So you've said. Multiple times now, actually."

"Because it bears repeating."

"Or because you enjoy saying it."

"Maybe both."

We looked at each other for a long moment, and something passed between us.

Not forgiveness, we were both too far gone for that. Not love, that ship had sailed, sunk, and been forgotten by history.

But maybe... understanding.

Or at least, acknowledgment of what we were to each other: two beings bound by blood and history and mutual resentment.

"I'll see you at Olympus," Hera said finally, and then, without another word, she simply vanished. Not in a flash of light or a crack of thunder, just... gone, as if she'd never been there at all.

I stood there for a moment longer, the sword still in my hand, the seven figures still silent around me. Then I allowed myself one long, deep breath, not because I needed to breathe, but because the gesture was comforting in its humanity.

"Well," I said to no one in particular, "that was interesting."

One of the figures, the dignified masculine voice, spoke up. "Lord Phanes, are you certain this is wise?"

I turned to look at him, though I couldn't see his face behind the mask. "Wise? Probably not. Necessary? Maybe. Entertaining? Definitely."

"Those are not reassuring answers," the cold, mature woman's voice pointed out.

"Good thing I'm not trying to reassure you then," I replied. "I'm trying to be honest."

The matronly sweet voice chuckled softly. "He has a point, dears."

"He always has a point," the mocking man said. "The question is whether we should follow where that point leads."

I smiled, feeling genuinely affectionate toward these beings I'd changed, these children of my divine essence who were so much more than mere servants or tools. "You always have a choice," I told them. "That's the whole point of what I made you to be. So if you don't want to follow, don't. Stay here, in Amphareus, and continue the work. I'll handle Olympus on my own."

"And miss all the fun?" the excited young feminine voice piped up. "No way!"

"It won't be fun," the exasperated boyish voice said. "It'll be dangerous and potentially catastrophic."

"So... fun?" the teasing girl's voice suggested.

I laughed, the sound echoing through the forge, bouncing off metal and fire and mechanisms that turned with eternal precision. "You're all ridiculous."

"We learned from the best," the dignified masculine voice said, and I could hear the smile in his words.

"Flatterer."

"It's not flattery if it's true, Lord Phanes."

I shook my head, but I was smiling. Around me, my creations, my children in a way that was more real than any blood relationship could ever be. Above me, my city, my miracle, my testament to what could be created when power was matched with vision and will. And ahead of me, Olympus, that shining prison of divine ego and petty politics that I would now have to navigate.

It was going to be a mess. It was going to be complicated. It was probably going to end in fire and blood and regret and to be honest?

I couldn't wait.