Hera stepped onto the golden floor of the council hall, her lotus scepter held straight at her side. The mosaic glittered beneath her sandals, every sunlit symbol a reminder of who ruled here. She had come to demand one thing: that Zeus renounce every other lover and swear an unbreakable oath of fidelity before them all. No god rose to stand beside her. The seats around the chamber stayed quiet. She felt each silence like a small door closing. She set the golden journal on the floor and opened it. Pressed peacock feathers marked each affair. Beside it, she laid a single shimmering feather whose iridescent eye flickered with stolen visions — names, hills, beds, doorways Zeus had thought hidden. Zeus watched from his high seat. "You bring evidence," he said evenly. "You bring no voices." "I do not need their voices," Hera answered. "The record speaks." But the council did not move. One by one, eyes lowered. Her demand hung in the bright air, then sank. Zeus rose. "The council will not compel an oath today." His ruling was quiet, final. Hera closed the journal slowly. She had been refused on the floor itself — and now every god in Olympus knew she stood alone.

Hera left the council hall with the taste of refusal still on her tongue. She walked fast, the lotus scepter striking the marble. Her ears strained for the small sound she relied on most — wings. The sky above Olympus was too quiet. She climbed the steps to the golden pavilion that hid her network. Sun poured through the Corinthian columns onto empty perches. A single songbird waited on the rail, shaking. It dropped a peacock feather into her palm and fell still. The iridescent eye flickered once: golden lightning forking through the cypress groves, striking nest after nest. Then the vision went dark. Thunder cracked above the dome. Hera ran to the arches. Across Olympus, thin gold streaks were hunting — not striking blindly, but searching, curling around branches, splitting to follow every wingbeat. Feathers drifted down like ash. Her eyes. Her ears. Burning out one by one. She tried to call them home. She raised the scepter and pushed her will into the air. A few birds answered — three, then two, then none. The gold lightning found them mid-flight. The pavilion's perches stayed empty. The last warm body in her hand cooled. Hera closed her fingers around the feather. The network was gone. She stood alone in a sunlit cage, and somewhere below, Zeus lowered his hand. She had lost her eyes today. Tomorrow she would have to learn to strike without them.