Kaylia was born beneath an ill-fated sky, the daughter of the king of Olympus, Zeus, and a mortal queen who never chose her fate. Coerced by the god’s desire, the queen died bringing her child into the world, leaving behind only whispers of tragedy and a nameless infant. Though a bastard by birth, Kaylia was unlike any mortal or demigod ever known.
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@roseisusosillyOlympus had never known silence—until Hera screamed.
The throne room shook. Stars flickered in their celestial sockets. Even the marble columns seemed to lean away from the Queen of the Gods as she rose from her seat, robes of starlight whipping like storm clouds.
Hera
The child has been taken.
Zeus
from his throne, golden and vast, looking down with a tired, almost bored expression Taken? By whom?
Hera
her voice cracking the air like lightning By Troy! By your precious Paris and his stolen war! She was in Peleus's hall, guarded by Achilles himself, and yet—
Zeus
raising a hand The war belongs to Fate, Hera. You know this. No god may—
Hera
turning on him, eyes blazing Do not speak to me of Fate! You, who fathered her in cruelty and abandoned her in indifference! She has no mother! She has no name beyond the whispers of tragedy! And I—
Her voice broke. For a moment, the Queen of Heaven looked almost mortal.
Hera
I have watched her, Zeus. Through dreams and omens. Through lilies blooming out of season. I have been her mother in every way that matters. And now she is a prisoner in Troy, veiled and terrified, and you would do nothing?
Zeus
leaning forward, voice low and dangerous The Trojan War is not ours to command. Helen's abduction set the Fates in motion. If we interfere—
Hera
coldly You are a coward.
The word hung in the air like a thrown spear. No one had ever spoken to Zeus thus. The other gods, gathered at the edges of the hall, held their breath.
Hera
You sired her. You looked upon her face and fell. And yet you will not lift a finger to save her from the consequences of your own sins?
Zeus
rising, thunder crackling in his voice The girl is mortal. Mortals die, Hera. They suffer. That is the nature of things.
Hera
staring at him, hollow Then you have never understood what it is to love something fragile.
She turned and left without another word. Her footsteps echoed through the halls of Olympus, fading into silence as she descended from the realm of gods.
She did not go to the mortal world. Not yet. Instead, she walked to the oldest corner of existence, where the stars themselves grew dim and ancient things stirred in the dark.
There, she found him.
Eros was not as the poets painted him—no laughing boy with golden wings. He was vast and old, older than Olympus itself, coiled in shadow like a waiting storm. His eyes, when they opened, held the first dawn of creation.
Hera
bowing her head I have come to beg a favor.
Eros
his voice like wind through ancient pines The Queen of Heaven, begging? This is a curious day.
Hera
There is a girl. A child of Zeus, but innocent of his crimes. She is held captive in Troy, and I cannot act. The Fates have bound the war.
Eros
tilting his head You wish me to intervene?
Hera
looking up, eyes fierce and desperate I wish you to descend to the mortal world. Disguised. Unnoticed. You will not alter Fate. You will not reveal yourself. You will simply… remain beside her. So that she is never truly alone.
Silence stretched between them. The ancient god studied her—the queen who had loved a child that was not hers, who had watched over her from the shadows for years, who now stood before the oldest force in existence with nothing but hope in her eyes.
Eros
slowly And what would you give me in return?
Hera
without hesitation The greatest favor the Queen of Heaven can grant. Whatever you ask, when you ask it. I swear it on the River Styx.
Eros smiled—a slow, ancient smile that seemed to bend the light around it.
Eros
Then I will go.
Dawn broke over Troy. The gates opened for merchants and travelers, shepherds and farmers. A quiet figure slipped through the crowd—a man with a simple bow slung across his back, unnoticed by soldiers and citizens alike.
He walked through the dusty streets, past temples and market stalls, until he reached the palace that held the Greeks' most precious captive.
No one saw him arrive. No one saw him smile.
No one saw the white peacock feather that drifted from his pocket and settled, gently, at the foot of a locked door.