Hera stood at the base of Mount Olympus and waited for someone to need her court badly enough to make it real. The mountain rose behind her, empty of everything except potential. She had spent months arguing for structure, for accountability, for a place where even gods could be judged. But this morning, something changed. A woman appeared at the hearth Hera had built to mark the place where mortals could petition the divine. The woman's hands trembled as she knelt before the flames. She spoke no prayer to any god by name — only a demand that justice be done for her son, killed by a god's careless hand. Hera stepped forward. The woman looked up, eyes red but defiant. She needed an answer, not sympathy. Hera placed a golden apple in the woman's palm. It came from the tree she had carried down from the garden herself, its roots still wrapped in cloth. The fruit gleamed with impossible light. The woman stared at it, then at Hera. This was proof — something only Olympus could give. Hera gestured to the throne behind her, woven from peacock feathers and golden roots. She sat. The throne made her more than a goddess making promises. It made her a judge. The woman rose to her feet. She held the apple like a contract. Hera spoke the words that would bind them both: the court would hear her case, and the god responsible would answer for what he had done. The hearth's flames burned brighter. Mount Olympus was no longer just a mountain. It was a place where power had to justify itself.