The silence inside Hera's temple was deafening, broken only by the sound of her ragged breaths as she clutched her chest and curled against her silken sheets.
Her body trembled violently, not from weakness, but from the unbearable tearing sensation deep within her soul.
The divine authority she bore, the sacred weight of marriage, of fidelity, of bonds unbreakable, recoiled and lashed against her like a beast denied its rightful mate.
Her temple walls shivered with every pulse of her collapsing aura, the marble cracking, golden ornaments rattling and falling to the floor.
Her nails dug into her own flesh, drawing golden ichor, as if pain might somehow anchor her spinning heart.
She whispered in a hoarse voice, again and again, "No… he wouldn't… he wouldn't…" as if the repetition could undo reality.
Yet the truth pressed on her like a mountain. The whispers of the underworld were not false.
Hades had indeed spent the night in Aphrodite's arms.
