CHAPTER 92: A TALK WITH MY "MOTHER"

Athena was still staring at the floor, lost in fragmented thoughts, when the sound of measured footsteps approached from the corridor behind us. A regal presence swept into the room like a silent wind. I didn’t even need to turn to know who it was—her aura was unmistakable.

"Darling," Hera’s voice came like silk over steel, calm and commanding. "There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere."

I turned around slowly to face her.

She looked radiant—too radiant, even for a goddess. Draped in flowing robes of emerald and gold, her crown shimmered with tiny stars that blinked in and out like the night sky. Her beauty was flawless, almost unnatural. She smiled at me warmly, her eyes gleaming with maternal affection. But beneath that softness, I saw something else. A glint. Something cold.

"I hope I’m not interrupting," she said, glancing sideways at Athena with a polite nod. "But I’d like a moment with my son."

Athena tensed. "We were talking—"

"And now you’ll have time to reflect," Hera said lightly. "Don’t worry, dear. I’ll bring him back soon."

Athena opened her mouth, but the words never came. Whether from divine respect or unease, she stayed quiet, her brows furrowed.

I felt a hand slide gently under my arm.

"Come now," Hera whispered, guiding me out of the room with motherly grace.

We walked in silence through the marble corridors of Olympus. The halls were eerily quiet. Statues of gods lined the sides, but none of them looked familiar. Their faces were serene, their poses heroic, but their names didn’t come to mind—like echoes of a pantheon lost.

Eventually, we reached a secluded garden, far from the temples and council chambers. It bloomed under a pale golden light that didn’t seem to come from any sun. Strange flowers rustled in a breeze I couldn’t feel, and a fountain bubbled quietly at the center, shaped like a tree cradling a star.

Hera released my arm and turned to face me.

"Much better," she said softly. "Now we can speak honestly."

I stood still, watching her. "About what?"

"About you, of course. You’re troubled, Akhon. I can see it all over your face. That conversation with Athena clearly upset you."

I narrowed my eyes. "She didn’t upset me. I upset her."

Hera gave a light laugh. "Darling, you always were good at stirring minds. Even as a child, you’d ask questions no one had answers for." She stepped closer. "But you don’t need to burden yourself anymore. You’re home now."

"This isn’t my home," I said, firm. "You’re not my mother."

Her smile didn’t falter. But I saw something flicker in her eyes.

"Of course I am," she said, reaching up to caress my cheek with a gentle hand. "Who else could I be? I raised you. I love you. Look at me, Akhon. Do you really not feel it?"

I did feel something—but not what she wanted. Her touch was warm, and her voice inviting, but it felt like a blanket laid over chains.

"You’re not my mother" I repeated. "And it seems as you also don’t remember the things we lived through. You don’t even know the names of your own garden’s guardians."

Hera’s expression darkened just a little. Her hand fell away.

"You’re confused," she said, quieter now. "Your mind is clinging to dreams. It’s not your fault. You’ve been under so much pressure. You’ve always carried so much."

I took a step back, wary. "This world... it’s wrong. Everyone’s been shifted, scattered, twisted into new roles. Hesperia and Erytheia don’t even remember their own sisterhood. Aegle—my Aegle—doesn’t recall the garden at all."

Hera was silent for a moment. Then she smiled again, but this time there was no warmth in it.

"You’ve been remembering too much," she said, and her voice had an edge like obsidian now. "But that will fade. You’ll adjust. You’ll learn to love this world."

"No," I said. "I won’t."

She reached out again, but I stepped away fully this time, glaring at her.

"What is this place?" I demanded. "Is this some illusion? A punishment? A prison?"

"None of those things," Hera said calmly. "It’s a gift."

I felt a chill creep up my spine.

"A gift from who?" I asked.

Hera’s smile returned, but it was thinner now, brittle.

"Does it matter?" she said. "You’re safe here. You have power, respect, family. You have everything you ever wanted. Even love."

She tilted her head, and I saw something flicker behind her gaze—like a curtain straining against a storm wind.

"Everything here has been arranged for your comfort. The world outside is broken, violent. So we made something better. Just for you."

"We?" I asked.

But she only turned, her voice suddenly light again.

"Everything here has been arranged for your comfort. The world outside is broken, violent. So we made something better. Just for you."

"We?" I asked, my voice flat, guarded.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she turned, that familiar regal mask slipping back into place with a serene smile. "Come. Let me show you the western terrace. You used to love watching the stars there."

I didn’t follow.

"I said," she added gently, "let’s go."

I stood my ground. "No. Not until you tell me what’s really going on."

Her smile thinned. The silence between us thickened, and when she finally turned back to face me fully, something colder had settled behind her eyes.

"I knew you were stubborn, but I never thought you would be this much " she said, her tone clipped. "Why do you need to understand everything? Need answers? You are living on a paradise and the first thing you do is try to disrupt it."

"I’m not the one rewriting reality," I replied.

Hera’s expression twitched—just for a moment—but it was enough. "You think this was my idea?"

"You’re the one who said we. I assume you had a part in this."

"Oh, I did," she said, her voice low now. "But don’t get confused. I didn’t want to include you in this... utopia."

That hit harder than I expected. "Then why am I here?"

Her jaw clenched. For a heartbeat, she looked like she might lie again. But instead, she sighed, turning away as if the act of facing me was growing too heavy.

"I didn’t have a choice," she said quietly. "I was... asked to include you. Or rather, told."

I stared at her. "By who?"

Her fingers gripped the marble railing beside her. "Someone—or something—that you shouldn’t ask about. I don’t even fully understand it myself. I only know it sees you as important. Critical, somehow. More than any of us."

That made my skin crawl.

"So you rewrote Olympus because some unseen entity told you to?" I asked. "And you went along with it?"

"It’s not just Olympus," she muttered. "It’s everything. Realms, pantheons, threads of fate itself. This entire version of existence is a tapestry we wove together—me, and... it. And I helped, so we could clean up the mess. Look around, there is no more chaos. No more rebellions. No Nemesis. No war."

"No free will," I said.

She looked at me again, sharply this time. "Do you have any idea how much blood has been spilled over the illusion of free will? We gave everyone peace and order. You should be thanking me."

"I’d rather live in a world that’s broken and real than in a lie tailored to make me comfortable."

Her gaze hardened. "And what about Aegle?"

I said nothing.

"You think I didn’t notice?" she continued, stepping closer. "You flinched when Athena kissed you. You hesitate every time someone calls you sir instead of love. You’re miserable in this place because deep down you know it’s not real—but if your Aegle was here and not the pathetic version we have here, you’d surrender in an instant."

"Don’t," I warned.

But she smiled bitterly. "You see? That’s what makes you dangerous. You won’t let go."

"You talk like this place matters more than people," I snapped.

"It does," she said. "Because people like my husband are flawed. They resist peace. They tear apart what is built. I’ve seen it, again and again. We made this place not for you—but for the gods who were tired of losing. Tired of change."

"You sound more like Kronos than the goddess of family."

Her slap came out of nowhere—sharp and fast, but I didn’t move. I just stared.

She looked shocked at herself. Her hand trembled slightly.

"You weren’t supposed to wake up," she said at last, her voice shaking now, not with fear—but fatigue. "You weren’t even supposed to be part of this. But he—it—insisted. Said your presence was required, that the tapestry wasn’t complete without you. I still don’t know why."

I rubbed the side of my face, sighing. "So what happens now?"

"I can’t let you disrupt it," Hera said. "This world... is too perfect. Too stable. You may think it’s all an illusion, but to me, it’s the only future that works."

"And if I keep asking questions? Keep looking for a way out?"

"I’ll stop you," she said. "Or... he will."

Something in her voice cracked on that last part. Like she didn’t even believe her own threat.

"You’re scared of him," I said softly.

She turned away. "He sees everything. Even now, he’s probably watching us."

The silence between us was louder than before.

"Tell me who he is," I said.

"I can’t," she replied. "Because I don’t know. I only know his voice. The silhouette. The orbs he uses to communicate. But every time he speaks, it feels like time itself is listening."

That... didn’t sound like any Olympian. Not even the Titans.

"And why you?" I asked. "Why work with you to build this world?"

She let out a humorless laugh. "Because I still had influence. Power. And I was the only one that would collaborate. I was just tkred of the way things worked before and too tired of my unfaithful husband that I stupidly falled in love eons ago, so now he is the person that I married and never became the corrupt, hungry for power asshole he could have been."

"So, what happens now?"

She looked at me, tired and fierce and infinitely old. "Now I’m just praying you don’t ruin it all."

I stepped back.

Hera didn’t try to stop me.

"You can keep pretending," I said. "But I’m going to find out what this place really is. Who he is. And how to undo what you’ve done."

Her voice came from behind me, hushed and distant.

"If you find a way to undo it... don’t expect me to help."

I kept walking.