Hera and Aphrodite — A Decision Without Schemes
Hera had ruled Olympus for ages.
She had plotted, endured, endured again.
She had survived betrayal not by breaking—but by outlasting.
Yet now, standing on a balcony of Asgard beneath alien stars, she felt more nervous than she ever had before Zeus' throne.
Aphrodite leaned against the railing beside her, unusually quiet.
"This is ridiculous," Aphrodite muttered. "I've made mortals, gods, and concepts fall in love with a thought."
She clenched her fist.
"But when it comes to him… I don't want to touch anything."
Hera nodded slowly.
"For the first time," she said, "I don't want to win."
They looked toward the distant glow of the Ashborn Dimension—where a world tree shimmered faintly, and where Alexander's presence felt like a constant, gentle warmth.
"No manipulation," Hera continued.
"No tests.
No ultimatums."
Aphrodite smiled faintly.
"No seduction."
That made them both pause.
Then they laughed—soft, real laughter.
"So," Aphrodite said, exhaling, "we tell him plainly."
Hera closed her eyes.
"As women," she said. "Not goddesses. Not queens. Not love incarnate."
She opened her eyes, resolute.
"If he rejects us… then we accept it."
Aphrodite nodded.
"But if he accepts…"
Her lips curved slightly.
"…then we choose him the same way he chooses us."
No schemes.
No divine contracts.
No cosmic coercion.
Just truth.
For Hera, that was the bravest thing she had ever done.
For Aphrodite, it was the most honest.
Olympus — A Throne Without Weight
Zeus felt it.
Not sharply.
Not painfully.
Just… absence.
He sat reclined on his throne, wine in hand, laughter echoing through the hall as nymphs danced and gods feasted.
He laughed louder than usual.
Hera's throne beside him stood empty.
Once, that emptiness would have irritated him.
Once, it would have felt like defiance.
Now?
He barely noticed.
Strange, he thought distantly.
It feels… lighter.
He drank again.
No arguments.
No cold silence.
No judgment in the air.
Aphrodite was gone too.
Another pause.
He shrugged.
"Women," Zeus scoffed, waving a hand. "They come and go."
He leaned back, stretching comfortably.
For the first time in millennia, no one stopped him.
No one questioned him.
No one waited for him to change.
And so Zeus enjoyed himself.
Unaware that something irreplaceable had already left his domain—not in anger, not in defiance—
But in quiet certainty.
Somewhere deep within, a god who ruled storms felt the faintest tug of loss.
He ignored it.
After all, kings did not look back.
Asgard — A Calm Before Truth
Alexander laughed as Amora argued with Sif over sword technique while Loki tried—and failed—not to provoke Scáthach.
Life was loud.
Warm.
Full.
Yet for a brief moment, Alexander felt something shift.
Not danger.
Not fate.
Expectation.
Somewhere nearby, two ancient goddesses were gathering the courage to speak without crowns.
And Alexander Ashborn Odinson—Phoenix Monarch, Sovereign of Flame, Lazy King of His Own Peace—
Had no idea that the next confession he would hear would not shake the cosmos…
But would quietly change his heart.