Date: Monday, February 13th, 1989
Time: 10:12 AM
Location: St. Gregory's Primary School – Little Whinging, Surrey, United Kingdom
The morning sky over Little Whinging was pale and unremarkable, the kind of ordinary grey that belonged to school bells and polished shoes rather than crowns or tridents. Helena stepped through the iron gates of St. Gregory's Primary School without escort fanfare, her coat simple, her hair tied back plainly, her posture composed but deliberately small, as though she could fold her presence into something quieter than it truly was. Though the winter air bit sharply at exposed skin for the other children gathering in the yard, Helena felt none of it, her godly blood rendering her immune to the sting of cold, yet she kept her hands tucked in her sleeves so as not to seem different.
Selene walked a short distance behind her, dressed plainly, eyes attentive but unthreatening, while Hermione remained nearer the entrance office under the guise of assisting with "curriculum exchange observation." No one announced Helena's identity; the visit had been arranged quietly with the headmistress under strict discretion, and only the visiting police liaison officer knew precisely who stood among the children that morning. Helena paused near the edge of the playground, her gaze drifting toward the upper windows of the building. "I remember this place," she murmured softly. Selene tilted her head slightly. "Does it hurt, sweetheart?" "It used to," Helena admitted. "Now it feels… smaller."
She remembered the day her accidental magic had turned a teacher's wig bright blue in a moment of frightened anger, and the afternoon she had found herself inexplicably perched upon the roof after fleeing Dudley's gang, her heart pounding as teachers shouted below. At the time, those moments had felt like punishment waiting to happen, like proof she was wrong simply for existing. Now they felt like echoes.
The school bell rang, and the children were ushered inside toward the assembly hall, where rows of chairs awaited and a local police constable stood near a projector screen preparing to speak on "community safety." Helena took a seat near the middle, blending among uniforms of navy and grey, her presence neither announced nor spotlighted.
She had wanted one day without title. Halfway through the constable's presentation, murmurs rippled along the back row, and Helena felt it before she saw them, the familiar tightening of old pattern recognition. Three boys lingered together, taller than most of their peers, their posture attempting dominance even in adolescence. Dudley Dursley was not there, his incarceration well known by now, yet what remained of his former circle had not dissolved entirely.
One of them recognized her first. "That's her," he whispered harshly. Helena turned slowly rather than flinching, meeting their gaze without anger. One boy sneered weakly. "Thought you'd never come back." "I am not here to fight," Helena replied calmly. Her tone carried neither superiority nor fear, only clarity. "You think you're better than us now," another muttered.
"No," Helena answered softly. "I think I am done carrying what you gave me." The words unsettled them more than confrontation would have. During the closing portion of the assembly, as questions were invited, one of the boys spoke out loudly, his composure cracking. "My dad says Dudley got stitched up because of her family," he blurted recklessly. "Says ours were helping with things too and now everyone's under watch because of her." The hall fell abruptly silent.
The police constable's expression changed instantly, his posture straightening as he registered the implications. He already knew Helena's identity; he had been briefed thoroughly before the visit. He did not look at her now, but at the boy. "What sort of things?" the officer asked evenly. The boy froze, realizing too late that he had crossed into dangerous ground, yet panic loosened his restraint. "Just… moving stuff. Money. People sometimes," he stammered. "Same as Dudley's lot."
Helena felt the shift ripple outward like a stone dropped into still water. She did not speak. She did not intervene. She did not command. She simply remained seated.
Within minutes, the school administration quietly escorted the boys from the hall under the officer's direction, and by afternoon, plainclothes investigators were already coordinating follow-up inquiries. What had been muttered in bravado had opened threads long suspected but not confirmed, and by evening warrants would be signed.
Helena rose slowly once the assembly concluded, breathing evenly. Selene approached her side. "You could have silenced them." "I did not need to," Helena answered. "You let the law work," Hermione said softly as she joined them. "Yes," Helena replied. "I am not noise anymore."
Outside, the February air had grown sharper, and children dispersed toward home, unaware that their school morning had shifted more than they understood. As Helena stepped toward the gate, one of the younger girls approached hesitantly.
"Are you the girl from the museum?" she whispered. Helena paused. "Yes," she answered quietly. The girl smiled shyly. "You didn't look scared then." "I was," Helena admitted. "I just chose what to do next." The girl nodded thoughtfully before running back toward her mother. Selene brushed her fingers lightly against Helena's sleeve. "You faced your past without striking it."
"I did not need to strike it," Helena said. "It no longer owns me."
As they left St. Gregory's, Helena did not look back at the roofline or the windows or the yard where she had once run in fear. She walked forward with measured calm, aware that justice had begun unfolding again not through divine force, but through careless truth spoken aloud. And that, too, was power.
Time: 4:42 PM
Location: Buckingham Palace Gardens, London, United Kingdom
The winter sun was lowering behind the palace rooftops, casting long golden streaks across the frost-kissed lawns, while the city beyond continued unaware that threads of criminal networks had quietly begun unraveling hours earlier. Helena walked slowly along the gravel path near the reflecting pond, her posture thoughtful rather than burdened, her hands folded behind her back in a gesture she had unconsciously borrowed from Elizabeth. The cold air brushed against her cheeks, yet she felt none of its sting, her godly blood insulating her as naturally as breath, though she still inhaled deeply simply because she enjoyed the ritual of it.
Selene and Hermione lingered nearby, giving her space while remaining within reach, a silent formation they had perfected without discussion. "I keep thinking about that boy," Helena said softly, watching the faint ripples in the pond. "I could have stopped him before he spoke." Hermione tilted her head. "You chose not to." "Yes," Helena answered quietly. "He built his own trap, and I did not need to push him."
A sudden breeze stirred the bare branches overhead, though no storm rolled in and no clouds shifted, and Helena felt the unmistakable flicker of divine presence before she heard the faintest amused chuckle behind her. "Well now," came a warm, playful voice. "That was textbook restraint." Helena turned slowly, her expression brightening instantly.
A man stood leaning casually against a marble statue as though he had been there all afternoon, dressed in a tailored coat that somehow managed to look both ancient and modern at once, winged symbols faintly embroidered at the cuffs. His eyes gleamed with quick intelligence and quiet pride, and the air around him carried a subtle hum like distant movement along unseen roads.
"Hermes," Helena breathed, her voice lifting. "My clever Daughter," he replied warmly, straightening and opening his arms just slightly. "You let the message travel itself." She stepped forward without hesitation and embraced him, her small frame fitting easily within his arms, though the moment carried no spectacle, only familial ease. "I wanted to pull the thread," Helena admitted softly against his coat. "I wanted to force it open."
"I know," Hermes said gently, brushing a strand of white hair from her face. "But you let him dig his own hole instead." Selene watched closely, recognizing the god at once though saying nothing, while Hermione's eyes widened with awe she did not attempt to hide. Hermes crouched slightly so he could meet Helena at eye level. "You understood something today," he said with a smile that was more father than trickster. "Truth travels faster when it believes it is running on its own legs." Helena's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "I did not silence him."
"No," Hermes replied, his eyes glinting. "And that is far more dangerous to your enemies than striking them." She exhaled slowly, feeling the quiet satisfaction settle deeper than any victorious confrontation could have. "I am learning," she said. "You are remembering," Hermes corrected gently. "There is a difference."
The breeze stilled for a moment, the garden settling into quiet as though listening. "I was noise once," Helena murmured, recalling her own words earlier that day. Hermes' expression softened. "You were a child trying to survive, Daughter. Noise is not weakness. It is signal." Selene stepped forward slightly. "You are proud of her."
Hermes glanced toward her, amusement returning. "I am very proud of her, vampire." Helena smiled faintly at the exchange, then looked back at her father. "Will they keep talking?" she asked. "The network." Hermes' expression shifted subtly, though not into alarm. "They always talk," he replied calmly. "Men who believe they are unseen speak too freely. Your choice today will echo further than you realize."
Helena nodded, accepting that without fear. "I did not want to win," she said quietly. "I wanted to be right." Hermes placed two fingers gently against her forehead in a gesture both affectionate and ceremonial. "And that," he said warmly, "is why you will never become what hunted you." The golden light of sunset flared briefly brighter around them, though no palace staff seemed to notice the subtle shift in hue.
"I cannot stay long," Hermes added lightly, straightening once more. "Roads never stop, and neither do messages." Helena reached for his hand before he could step away. "Papa-Wind," she said softly, her voice filled with affection. "Thank you." He smiled at the title. "You are welcome, Daughter."
With a soft shimmer like sunlight refracting on moving water, he stepped backward and dissolved into the air, leaving only a faint warmth and the lingering sense of motion in his wake. Helena stood quietly for a long moment afterward, feeling steadier rather than stirred. Selene approached her side. "He trusts you." "Yes," Helena said softly. "And I trust myself."
The winter light faded further as evening settled across London, and for the first time since leaving St. Gregory's, Helena allowed herself to feel not victorious, not triumphant, but aligned.She had not needed to strike. She had not needed to command.
She had let truth walk. And it had.
Date: Thursday, February 16th, 1989
Time: 7:18 PM
Location: Buckingham Palace – Helena's Private Room, London, United Kingdom
The evening had fallen heavy over London, the sky a deep indigo canvas broken by city lights and the steady hum of distant traffic, while inside Buckingham Palace Helena sat cross-legged on the carpet near the window of her private room, Hermione beside her with a book half-open in her lap and Selene leaning casually against the far wall. News bulletins had been murmuring from the television earlier, reporting fresh arrests in Surrey and coordinated raids spreading outward from Little Whinging into outer London, each name and address tracing back to the widening network once connected to Dudley and his associates. Helena had listened quietly, not with anger but with a steady, thoughtful gaze, aware that the consequences she had allowed to unfold were still traveling outward like ripples across water.
"I do not like that they are restless," Hermione murmured softly, glancing toward the window as if she could feel the tension in the air. "They are afraid," Helena replied calmly. "Fear makes men reckless." Selene's eyes narrowed slightly. "Reckless men die."
Helena's gaze drifted toward the hotel directly across from the palace grounds, its windows glowing softly in the dusk. "They will try something," she said quietly, her voice not fearful but certain.
At that same moment, across the street from the palace, inside a rented room within the hotel facing Helena's window, a stolen L42A1 bolt-action sniper rifle loaded with armor-piercing rounds rested beneath a partially lowered curtain, its barrel aligned carefully toward the illuminated frame of her room. In another window several floors up, partially concealed, a second rifle of the same make and ammunition waited aimed toward a different palace-facing angle, and on the roofline above, a third silhouette knelt in shadow.
Inside the palace, a faint flicker of instinct stirred through Helena's godly threads like the sudden tightening of a harp string. "Sweetheart," Selene said sharply, her body tensing.
The crack of a rifle split the air before anyone else could move, the palace window shattering inward in a violent burst of glass as a bullet struck the floor between Helena's legs, embedding into the hardwood with a splintering snap. Palace guards surged down the corridor instantly, boots pounding against polished floors, while Helena stood without panic, her silver eyes locking onto the rooftop silhouette she could see clearly through the broken frame.
"I see him," she said calmly.
Selene was already moving, one of her dual pistols drawn in a fluid motion that blurred faster than mortal sight, and a sharp report echoed as she fired once, placing a precise round into the sniper's shoulder that did not hold the rifle. The man's body jerked violently, his weapon slipping from his grasp as he cried out, and before he could recover a masked figure appeared behind him as though emerging from the night itself…Ghost…He moved without wasted motion, forcing the wounded sniper to the roof surface, wrenching his arms behind him and securing cuffs in seconds. As he rolled the man over, another stolen L42A1 lay nearby, also loaded with armor-piercing rounds.
Inside Helena's room, the guards burst through the door, weapons raised. "Your Royal Highness!" one shouted, eyes wide. "I am standing," Helena answered evenly. Another rifle crack split the night, this time from a different angle, and Helena's head turned instinctively toward Hermione just as she saw the flash from across the street. She did not think. She moved.
The bullet meant for Hermione struck Helena's shoulder as she stepped into its path, the armor-piercing round punching cleanly through muscle and exiting through the opposite side before embedding into the far wall with a heavy thud. Hermione screamed her name, dropping the book as blood bloomed crimson against Helena's white shirt. "Helena!" Hermione cried, catching her before she could fall.
Selene's eyes went completely cold, all softness evaporating into something ancient and lethal. She pivoted toward the third rooftop silhouette, her aim steady and merciless, and fired once. The round struck the sniper directly through the head, dropping him instantly from his kneeling position without a sound. The room fell into a ringing silence broken only by Hermione's frantic breathing and the shouts of guards coordinating response units below.
Helena swayed slightly but did not collapse, her breathing controlled even as blood ran down her arm. "I am all right," she insisted through clenched teeth. Hermione's hands trembled as she pressed against the wound. "You took it for me." "I chose it," Helena whispered. Selene stepped close, her voice low and intense. "They will not get another chance."
Down below, sirens began converging as additional units secured the hotel and surrounding rooftops, while Ghost's voice came through the palace security channel confirming two snipers apprehended and one deceased.
Helena's vision blurred slightly at the edges, though her divine resilience kept her upright longer than any child should have managed. "Call Uncle J," she murmured faintly. Hermione nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks as palace medics rushed into the room, carefully guiding Helena toward the bed while maintaining pressure on the wound.
The shattered window let cold February air sweep into the room, but Helena did not feel its bite, only the warmth of Hermione's hands and the iron scent of her own blood.
Far above, unseen, a flicker of storm-light trembled faintly across the clouds. And Olympus had heard.
Time: 9:42 PM
Location: Buckingham Palace – Private Medical Wing & Secure Interrogation Facility, London, United Kingdom
The palace had shifted into controlled lockdown within minutes of the shots, corridors sealed and perimeter doubled, while inside the private medical wing Helena sat upright against crisp white pillows as surgeons finished securing the through-and-through wound in her shoulder, her breathing steady despite the ache radiating through muscle and bone. Divine blood slowed the bleeding faster than any physician expected, and though she felt the sting of antiseptic and stitching, the cold of the February night seeping through shattered glass earlier had never touched her skin. Selene stood close to the bed with quiet intensity, Hermione seated on the other side with fingers laced carefully around Helena's uninjured hand, while the door opened with purposeful steps that Helena knew before she turned her head.
John Price entered still in tactical gear, jaw tight and eyes scanning the room before softening the moment he saw her conscious. "I am fine, Uncle J," Helena said before he could speak, her voice gentle but firm. "You call that fine?" he answered, stepping to the bedside, anger restrained beneath discipline. "You took a rifle round." "I chose where it landed," she replied softly. "Hermione would not have survived it." Hermione's grip tightened. "You should not have had to choose at all."
Price exhaled slowly, placing one gloved hand on the bed's edge as though grounding himself. "Ghost and the team are already pulling answers," he said, his tone shifting to operational clarity. "This was desperation."
In a secured facility beneath the palace grounds, Ghost stood across from the captured sniper whose shoulder had been bandaged tightly enough to prevent fatal blood loss but not enough to dull the pain. Soap leaned casually against the wall with folded arms, Gaz watching from the corner while Roach monitored recording equipment, the atmosphere clinical and controlled rather than theatrical.
"You had three rifles," Ghost said flatly, placing photographs on the table. "All stolen. All armor-piercing. That is not amateur work." The sniper's jaw trembled, fear replacing defiance. "It was meant to scare," he muttered hoarsely. "Delay operations. Buy time."
"Time for what?" Soap asked sharply. "For the network to regroup," the man snapped, then swallowed hard. "Orders were to draw attention. Show we could still reach her. Make arrests slow down. Give the London cells time to move assets back to France."
Gaz's eyes narrowed. "Assets meaning people?" The man hesitated only a second too long. Ghost leaned forward slightly. "Meaning trafficked women." The sniper looked away.
Back in the palace medical wing, Price received the secure transmission through an earpiece, listening in silence before nodding once. "It was a stall tactic," he said to Helena. "Dudley's extended network is collapsing. They were trying to slow the bleed long enough to relocate back to France." Helena's silver gaze sharpened despite the fatigue in her body. "But CERBERUS did not slow," she said quietly. "No," Price answered. "Retaliation accelerated."
Across London and into Europe, synchronized operations were already underway, safe houses raided before relocation could complete, financial accounts frozen, couriers intercepted at airports and ports. What the network intended as a display of power had instead exposed their final lines of coordination, giving CERBERUS the last threads needed to unravel everything.
Selene's voice was low but resolute. "They tried to make an example." "They made a mistake," Hermione replied softly. Helena rested back against the pillows, her shoulder bound but her mind alert, feeling the faint tremor of distant storm and sea and fire watching her.
"They wanted to show that I am reachable," she murmured. "They did not understand that I am not alone." Price met her eyes steadily. "It is finished," he said. "What is left of Dudley's network is being taken apart as we speak." Helena nodded slowly, then closed her eyes for a brief moment, not from weakness but from quiet understanding. "Then this is the last of it," she whispered. "Not because they fear me. Because they have nothing left."
Outside, London continued under heavy patrol, but for the first time since the arrests had begun, the momentum had clearly shifted. The attempt meant to intimidate had instead accelerated their own end.
And those who had aimed at the Daughter of the Gods had sealed their own collapse.
Date: Saturday, March 18th, 1989
Time: 4:40 PM
Location: Château de Lumière, Loire Valley, France
The late afternoon sun cast long ribbons of gold across the Loire Valley as Helena's motorcade approached the restored château that now served as the temporary heart of Veela cultural restoration, its stone façade softened by early spring ivy and guarded discreetly by GIGN units positioned beyond the visible perimeter. Helena stepped from the vehicle without flinching at the brisk wind that curled along the riverbank, her godly blood rendering temperature an afterthought rather than a discomfort, and as her boots touched French soil again she felt not tension but continuity. Fleur and Gabrielle moved to her sides instinctively, Selene just behind, Hermione observing the gathered banners bearing ancient Veela sigils woven in silver thread.
"I remember when this place felt like emergency tents and whispered fear," Gabrielle said softly, her hand brushing Helena's. "Now it feels like home again."
"It is home, sweetheart," Helena answered gently. "And we are here to seal that."
Within the grand courtyard, representatives from Veela covens across France, Italy, Greece, and Eastern Europe stood in ceremonial attire that blended ancient design with modern tailoring, their silver and pale-blue fabrics catching light in subtle shimmer without spectacle. The ninety women rescued from London now stood not as victims but as witnesses, their posture steadier than it had been months before, their families positioned just behind them in dignified support. At the far end of the courtyard stood the Veela High Matron of the Loire Coven, her presence composed and deliberate.
Helena walked forward alone for the final stretch, her bondmates pausing at a respectful distance as the courtyard quieted fully.
"I come not as conqueror," Helena spoke clearly in fluent French, her voice steady and unforced. "I come as daughter of the gods and as one who stood beside you when your voices were stolen. I do not claim you. I stand with you." A soft murmur rippled through the assembly before settling again. The High Matron stepped forward, meeting Helena's gaze without lowering her own. "We do not kneel today," she said evenly. "We acknowledge." "That is enough," Helena replied with quiet sincerity.
A ceremonial basin of still water was brought forward, its surface reflecting sky and stone alike, and Helena extended her hand above it without cutting or spilling blood, for this covenant would not be sealed through sacrifice but through consent. The Matron placed her own hand above Helena's, silver light threading briefly between their palms like woven moonlight, subtle yet unmistakable. Around them, Veela coven leaders stepped forward one by one, repeating the gesture until a quiet network of luminous threads connected across the courtyard, not binding but linking.
"We recognize you as Protector of the Veela Covenant," the Matron declared formally. "Not ruler. Not sovereign. Protector." "I accept the duty," Helena answered softly. "And I will never demand your obedience, only your trust." From behind her, Fleur's voice trembled slightly with emotion. "You gave us back our sisters, love." Gabrielle wiped at her eyes openly. "You gave us back ourselves."
Selene stepped closer, resting a steadying hand against Helena's shoulder. "You did not burn the world to do it." Helena allowed herself a faint smile. "I learned that strength does not require fire."
As the final covenant thread dissolved into air, the courtyard shifted into measured applause rather than cheering, a disciplined acknowledgment of alliance rather than a coronation. Flags bearing Veela symbols were lowered and replaced with a shared banner designed that morning, woven with threads from each coven represented, a visible sign of unity forged not in conquest but in restoration.
Far above the courtyard, unseen by mortal eyes, Aphrodite watched from a distance, her expression soft with pride rather than possessiveness, while Hera and Hestia observed the gathered families with quiet approval. Helena felt their awareness but did not flare with divine power in response, choosing instead to remain present among those whose lives she had helped restore.
As the ceremony concluded and the courtyard slowly relaxed into conversation, the High Matron leaned slightly closer. "You are young," she said gently. "Yet you carry yourself as if you have already ruled storms." "I do not wish to rule," Helena answered honestly. "I wish to build." The Matron inclined her head in acknowledgment.
And as the sun dipped lower over the Loire Valley, Helena stood not as survivor, not as weapon, and not merely as divine daughter, but as a bridge between myth and nation, between covenant and crown. The Veela Covenant Accord was sealed.
Time: 7:12 PM
Location: Banks of the Loire River, France
The evening settled slowly over the Loire Valley, the last stretch of sunlight laying bronze ribbons across the surface of the river as the château lights began to glow behind them like distant lanterns guarding warmth rather than authority. Helena walked without escort for once, her boots brushing over damp grass near the riverbank, Selene at her side in steady silence that felt neither protective nor tense but simply present. The air held the faint chill of early spring, though Helena did not feel it as discomfort, her godly blood rendering the cold irrelevant while the rhythm of the water grounded her in something mortal and calm.
For several moments neither spoke, allowing the hush of water and the rustle of reeds to fill the space between them, the ceremony's weight finally settling into something quieter and more personal. "I thought sealing the covenant would feel heavier," Selene admitted softly, her voice thoughtful rather than guarded. "Instead it feels… still."
"It is because we did not conquer," Helena answered gently, her gaze resting on the river's current. "We promised." Selene studied her for a moment, the fading light reflecting faintly in her eyes. "You keep choosing that path, love. You choose standing beside people instead of standing above them."
Helena's shoulders shifted slightly as she exhaled, the water mirroring the slow steadiness of her breath. "Sometimes I worry that if I stand too far apart, I will become untouchable," she confessed quietly. "Protector can turn into isolation without anyone noticing."
Selene's expression softened in rare vulnerability. "You are not alone in this, sweetheart," she said, her hand brushing Helena's. "You have us. You do not carry divinity by yourself." Helena glanced at her with faint amusement. "You say that as if I would allow you to leave." Selene's lips curved. "I would not dare."
They walked farther down the bank where the river widened and reflected the rising moon in fractured silver lines, and Helena paused there, feeling the subtle threads of sea, storm, hearth, wisdom, and moon within her chest all present yet calm. It was the first time she consciously recognized that those threads did not need to surge to prove strength, that they could remain quiet without disappearing.
"I think I understand something now," Helena murmured. "Being protector is not about standing in front of everyone. It is about knowing when to step forward and when to stay among them." Selene nodded slowly. "And knowing when to let others save you too." Helena gave her a small, sincere smile. "That is the part I am still learning."
The moonlight brightened slightly, silvering the river's surface as distant laughter drifted faintly from the château grounds where the Veela families continued their quiet celebration. Helena listened to it without tension, without scanning for threat, allowing herself to exist in a moment where no alarms were ringing and no rifle sights tracked her shadow.
"It feels strange," she admitted softly. "Peace feels unfamiliar." Selene turned fully toward her. "It feels unfamiliar because you earned it the hard way," she said, her voice firm but warm. "That does not mean you do not deserve it." Helena looked back toward the château, then toward the river again, her reflection faint but steady in the water's darkening mirror. "I do not want to become distant," she said after a pause. "I want to protect without disappearing into duty." Selene stepped closer, her hand settling over Helena's in quiet assurance. "Then we hold you here," she answered. "Not as symbol. Not as weapon. As yourself."
Helena allowed herself to lean slightly into that presence, the threads of divine lineage humming faintly but remaining contained, not suppressed but at peace. Above them, unseen but attentive, Hestia's warmth lingered gently in the air while Hera's quiet approval felt like rooted stability beneath Helena's feet.
For the first time in many months, Helena did not feel watched in the sense of scrutiny, but held in the sense of belonging. The river continued its slow, patient movement toward the sea. And Helena stood beside it not as storm, not as crown, but simply as a girl learning that strength and solitude did not have to be the same thing.
Date: Sunday, March 19th, 1989
Time: 9:26 AM
Location: Château de Lumière, Loire Valley, France
Morning light filtered through tall arched windows of the château's eastern gallery, casting pale gold across polished stone floors and the long oak table where Helena sat reviewing correspondence alongside Fleur and Gabrielle. The previous evening's quiet along the Loire still lingered within her, a steadiness that did not feel fragile but earned, and her bondmates sensed it in the subtle calm of her breathing and posture. Outside, GIGN patrols moved discreetly through vineyard paths, yet within the château there was no tension pressing against the walls.
It was Hermes who arrived first, though not visibly, as a soft ripple of displaced air carried the faint scent of mountain wind and distant thunder into the room before settling into stillness again. A scroll materialized upon the table in front of Helena without fire or explosion, its parchment thick and ancient, sealed in a band of gold that shimmered with restrained lightning rather than uncontrolled force. The room quieted immediately, not out of fear but recognition.
Selene's voice lowered instinctively. "That is not mortal wax, love."
Helena reached forward slowly, her fingertips brushing the golden seal without flinching at the faint current that pulsed beneath it. "No," she answered softly. "It is not."
The seal bore no royal crest of Britain or France, but instead a stylized thunderbolt encircled by olive branches, ancient yet unmistakable. As Helena broke the seal, the parchment unrolled itself with quiet authority rather than spectacle, script appearing in flowing ancient Greek before translating seamlessly into modern language as her eyes moved across it.
Her expression shifted from curiosity to something more layered, something that carried both anticipation and weight. Fleur leaned closer. "What does it say, sweetheart?" Helena read aloud, her voice steady but threaded with emotion she did not hide.
"Daughter of Olympus," she began, the formal cadence unmistakable. "You are summoned to appear before your godly family assembled, that we may see you not as distant report but as living presence. We would look upon you as one looks upon kin, not rumor." Gabrielle's breath caught faintly.
Helena continued, her tone softening slightly. "Aphrodite and Hecate have petitioned that we acknowledge the strength of your soul-bond threads, that we speak openly of the forty-four yet to be revealed and those already woven. You are called not for judgment, but for gathering."
Selene's hand rested lightly against Helena's shoulder. "They are asking to see you as family." Helena nodded slowly, eyes lowering to the final lines of the scroll. "At the summit of Olympus," she read, "located at the six-hundredth floor of the Empire State Building, New York City, United States. You will not come as supplicant, but as Daughter."
The parchment shimmered faintly before settling into stillness. For several seconds no one spoke, the weight of it not oppressive but undeniable. "I have met them in pieces," Helena said quietly, more to herself than to anyone else. "Mama Fire. Mama Wisdom. Papa Sea. Mama Dova. Papa Sun. But not… all together."
Hermione folded her hands thoughtfully. "It will not be small, Helena." "It was never meant to be," Selene replied gently.
Helena rose from her chair, scroll still in hand, sunlight catching faint threads of gold that shimmered within her hair though others would have seen only the ordinary morning glow. She did not feel cold despite the open window allowing river air inside, nor did she feel overheated by the faint electrical charge that still clung to the parchment; her divine blood kept both extremes balanced, like tide and shore in quiet agreement.
"They wish to see me whole," she murmured. Fleur smiled softly. "Then we go with you, love." Helena shook her head gently. "This one… I must step into first." Selene studied her carefully. "You will not walk alone even if we are not at your side." Helena met her gaze with gratitude. "I know."
She looked down at the scroll once more, fingertips brushing the thunderbolt seal that had reformed itself now that the message had been read. "I think," she said quietly, "that this is not only about my well-being. It is about recognition." Hermione tilted her head slightly. "Recognition of what?" Helena's eyes lifted toward the open sky beyond the window. "That I am no longer hidden."
Above the Loire Valley, clouds shifted subtly as if acknowledging the moment, not in storm but in quiet alignment. Within her chest, Helena felt the steady threads of Zeus's storm, Poseidon's tide, Hades's depth, Ares's discipline, Hephaestus's forge, Hermes's movement, Apollo's light, Dionysus's vitality, Hera's sovereignty, Hestia's hearth, Demeter's growth, Aphrodite's love, Artemis's clarity, Athena's wisdom, Persephone's duality, Hecate's magic, and Rhea's foundation all resting in equilibrium rather than clashing.
For the first time, she understood that she would not be visiting Olympus as a child seeking acknowledgment. She would be arriving as Daughter who had already proven herself. And Olympus was ready to look back.