The clouds over Olympus drifted in slow spirals, glowing with the soft gold of a world barely waking from myth. The mountain was still in its ancient form — not yet marble palaces or modern glamour — but a living peak shaped by belief, raw and shifting. Dreams caught in its crevices like dew.
Dream stood on one of the higher terraces, watching the mist drift around his feet. The air here tasted like stories waiting to be born.
He'd met Zeus, Poseidon, Hades — the thunder, the sea, the quiet cold beneath. He'd met Athena, whose mind moved like a blade of light. But one presence had remained distant, always just out of reach, like a star seen from the corner of the eye.
Not hidden.
Simply… waiting.
A soft voice broke the silence behind him.
"You've been avoiding me."
Dream turned.
Hera stood a few steps away, her white gown catching the dawn like woven starlight. Her hair fell in long dark waves, her expression calm, almost gentle. Nothing about her carried the sharp edges mortals feared in stories. She radiated majesty — but not cruelty.
He blinked. "I thought you were avoiding me."
"I don't avoid visitors," she said, stepping closer. "But I watch them first."
"And? What's your verdict?"
She smiled — small, sincere, nothing like the cold pride the myths would someday give her. "You're… quieter than I expected."
Dream huffed a soft laugh. "I get that a lot."
"You've spoken with my husband, with my brothers, with my children." Hera joined him at the terrace edge, hands folded neatly. "And yet you waited until now to speak with me."
Dream leaned on the stone railing, watching the clouds swirl below them. "I didn't want to intrude."
"You think I'm delicate?"
"No," he said, and meant it. "I think you're the only one up here who doesn't pretend to be something they're not."
Hera tilted her head. "Explain."
"Zeus hides his fear under thunder. Poseidon hides his loneliness under storms. Hades hides his grief behind duty."
Dream glanced at her.
"But you… You carry your truth openly. Even if no one notices."
Hera didn't react for several seconds.
Then her shoulders relaxed — barely, but enough that Dream felt the shift like a change in gravity.
"Most people misunderstand me," she admitted. "They see wrath where there is responsibility. Jealousy where there is protection. Pride where there is simply… the burden of being Queen."
Dream nodded slowly. "I get it."
"You?" She gave him a skeptical look.
He gave a small shrug. "People think I'm cold. Mysterious. Aloof."
He paused.
"In my old life, I was just a guy who liked books and bad movies."
Hera blinked. "Bad movies?"
"Oh yeah. Like, truly terrible. Ones where the hero jumps off a cliff and magically survives because the plot says so."
She looked at him like he'd started speaking in riddles. "Why would anyone enjoy that?"
"Because it's fun." He grinned. "And sometimes you need fun more than sense."
A soft laugh slipped past her lips. It surprised them both.
Dream watched her for a moment. Her edges were softer than legend would later sharpen them. Her power felt like warm twilight — quiet, steady, ancient.
"Why did you want to meet me?" he asked gently.
Hera rested her elbows on the railing, mirroring his posture. "Because you've been weaving through our stories for some time now. You save Medusa. You protect Atalanta. You move through the world with purpose, but without claiming a throne."
Her eyes, deep brown and steady, met his.
"I wanted to know why."
Dream considered the question.
"I don't like the way some tales end."
"That is not a reason," Hera said softly. "That is a sentiment."
"Okay." He exhaled. "Then here's the reason: I lived a human life before all of this. And some of these myths? They hurt. Not because they're tragic, but because they're cruel without meaning."
"And you think you can change that?"
"I can try."
Hera studied him, unreadable yet strangely open.
"You are unlike the other Elder Gods."
"Thank you. I think."
She turned back to the dawn. "You remind me of the mortals."
Dream smiled at that. "Best compliment I've gotten today."
Hera hesitated, then spoke more quietly. "Mortals are fragile. Flawed. But when they love, they do so without reserve. When they believe, they reshape the cosmos. When they suffer, they find poetry in the cracks."
Her voice softened further.
"Sometimes I envy them."
Dream's chest tightened with something warm and human. "You don't have to be alone, you know."
Hera froze.
"No one expects you to carry Olympus on your shoulders," he continued. "Not Zeus. Not the other gods. Not the world."
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Someone must."
"Only if you choose to."
Hera stared at the rising sun, her face unreadable. After a long silence, she said, "When I first felt your presence, I thought you were dangerous."
"I get that a lot too."
"But you're not," she murmured. "You're… comforting."
Dream raised a brow. "Really? Me?"
"Do not misunderstand — you still unsettle the Fates."
A tiny smile tugged at her lips.
"But you make the world softer. Even Olympus."
He didn't know what to say to that.
Hera stepped closer, her tone shifting — softer, yet tinged with something solemn.
"There will come a time, Dream, when gods will fall. When oaths will shatter. When prophecies will awaken."
Her gaze lingered on his face.
"When that time comes, remember this conversation."
Dream's stomach tightened. "What do you mean?"
Hera shook her head. "Not yet. But soon. Time is beginning to twist. Even I can feel it."
He swallowed. "Does it have to be grim?"
"No," she said. "Not if you are there."
Dream let that settle — heavy, unsettling, yet strangely hopeful.
A moment later, Hera extended her hand. Not queenly. Not commanding.
Simply offered.
Dream took it.
Her fingers were warm. Steady.
"I am glad we finally met," she said.
"Me too."
Hera squeezed his hand once, then released it. "Visit again. Olympus could use someone who listens."
Dream smiled faintly. "I can do that."
As he turned to leave, Hera called after him:
"And Dream?"
He looked back.
"Thank you," she said softly, "for saving the ones the world forgets."
He held her gaze, nodded once, and vanished into the morning mist — leaving behind a queen who, for the first time in a long time, felt a little less alone.