CHAPTER 158: THE PROPHECY OF CHAOS

The Heraion was quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that brings peace, but the kind that tastes like chains.

Columns rose high around her, marble pale, carved with stories of a throne she no longer held. The air smelled faint of burnt incense, though no fire had burned there in years. Hera sat at the altar, her wrists bound by invisible cords. They weren’t chains of iron but oaths—the punishment Zeus had chosen. She could not step beyond the threshold of the temple that bore her name. Queen of Olympus once, now a prisoner of her own hall.

Her eyes were sharp still. Age had not softened them, nor exile dulled them. The weight of her pride pressed against the silence like a blade unsheathed.

The silence broke when another figure stepped inside.

The sound of her footsteps was soft, measured, yet Hera stiffened at once. She didn’t need to turn to know who dared cross into her prison.

Metis.

She walked with that same poise that had stolen Hera’s place. Her robe shimmered faint like woven dawn, her hair tied in a crown that mocked with its simplicity. Her eyes held calm, but not coldness—an endless well of patience, as if she lived always one step ahead of everyone.

Hera’s jaw tightened. "You."

Metis stopped before her, folding her hands. "Hera."

The name sounded too soft in her mouth. Hera’s lips curled. "Come to gloat again? To remind me what was mine?"

Metis shook her head slowly. "No. I came because there is something you must hear."

Hera laughed bitterly. "I care for nothing from your lips."

"You will care for this," Metis said. Her tone was calm, but her eyes pressed with weight.

–––

Hera leaned back against the altar, her chains humming faint with the movement. "Say it, then. Waste no more of my time."

Metis stepped closer. "I’ve seen threads of what is to come. A child not yet born. He will carry Zeus’s blood."

Hera’s eyes narrowed. "Another bastard? That’s hardly news."

Metis didn’t flinch. "Not like the others. This boy will be born of a woman whose bloodline traces back to one you wronged long ago." She paused, watching Hera’s reaction. "Kratos."

The name sliced the air.

Hera’s breath hitched, though her face remained hard. "Kratos is dead. By my hand. His line should have ended."

"It did not," Metis replied softly. "You struck him down, but his descendants endured. They carried his name in whispers, in blood, hidden among mortals. They never forgot. And when the mark appeared on one of their children, they remembered their oath."

"What mark?" Hera demanded, though her voice had dropped lower, wary.

"A shard of Chaos," Metis said. "Etched into his flesh before he could walk. Not born of accident. Born of curse, of fate. A fragment of the first void clings to him. They have raised him not as a son, but as a weapon. To them, he is vengeance given form. They will name him after the one you killed. They will call him Kratos."

–––

For the first time in years, Hera felt the chain around her wrist bite like iron. Her mind surged with memory—the day she struck Kratos down, the defiance in his eyes, the way his blood had spilled across Olympus’s steps. She had called it justice then. Punishment for defiance. Now the echo of that moment returned like a shadow at her throat.

She bared her teeth. "Let him come. Zeus will break him."

Metis’s gaze softened, though it carried no pity. "He will. But not without cost. I have seen it—father and son tearing the world apart. The boy wielding Chaos against the storm, Zeus forced to strike down his own blood. The earth itself shattering beneath them. The damage will scar more than gods. Mortals will bleed. Cities will fall."

Hera spat on the floor. "And this is meant to soften me? To make me weep for him? I despise Zeus’s bastards. Let them all die. Let the world burn if it must."

Metis tilted her head. "This is not only Zeus’s burden. You are the root of it. It was your hand that killed Kratos. Your wrath that seeded this vengeance. Without that act, there would be no boy to rise against Olympus."

Hera’s chains rattled as she surged against them, eyes blazing. "Do not put this at my feet! He was insolent. He defied me. I did what a queen must do."

"You were no queen," Metis said quietly.

The words struck sharper than any blade.

Hera’s face twisted, rage trembling through her. "You stole it! My throne, my crown, my place at his side—you took it from me! And now you come here, to preach? To tell me what I caused?"

Metis didn’t step back. Her calm held steady even before Hera’s fury. "I came because I still remember when you were more than rage. When you carried Olympus with your strength. But hatred blinded you. You let jealousy write your legacy. And now it may doom us all."

Hera’s chest heaved, her breath sharp, her pride clawing at her throat.

–––

For a long moment, silence pressed between them again. The chains hummed faint, the temple heavy with stillness.

Hera’s voice, when it came, was low and raw. "So what would you have me do? Beg forgiveness? Pray that this boy never rises? Curse Zeus again for his endless spawn?"

Metis shook her head. "I do not ask you to beg. I ask you to see. To understand. This is not about thrones, Hera. It is about what is coming. You can hate me until the end of days—I do not care. But remember this: when the boy comes, when the mark glows on his skin and Chaos breathes through him, it will not matter what you wanted. What you hated. It will matter only that you made it possible."

Hera looked away. Her eyes fixed on the carved walls, on the stories of her past glory etched in marble. A queen once. Bound now. Her pride screamed at her to spit in Metis’s face, to curse her name, to let the world burn if it meant Zeus suffered.

But beneath it, buried deep where even she hated to look, there was something colder. Something that whispered of what Metis had said. The thought of Zeus clashing against his own blood. The thought of Olympus cracking under it.

Her jaw tightened. "Leave me," she said.

Metis lingered a moment, her silver eyes steady. Then she turned, her steps fading across the temple floor.

Before she vanished through the doorway, she spoke once more, her voice carrying back like a shadow.

"They will call him Kratos. And when the day comes, Hera, remember—this began with you."

–––

Hera sat alone. The chains hummed against her wrists. Her breath trembled faint, though her eyes burned still.

She hated Metis. Hated her calm, her patience, her stolen crown. Hated her words most of all—because they lingered.

In the silence of the Heraion, Hera whispered to herself, the words sharp and bitter.

"Let him come. Let the boy rise. If he bears Chaos, then let him drown in it. Zeus will face him. And I will watch."

But her chest did not feel steady. For the first time in centuries, a shadow of doubt curled against her pride.

And the temple felt colder than before.