I Am Zeus-Chapter 77: Hera’s Ambition

The underworld didn’t echo with screams like mortals imagined. It was quiet. Too quiet. Still. Heavy.

Like a grave that never forgot.

Hades sat on his throne of obsidian, elbow resting on the armrest, cheek propped against his knuckles. He didn’t blink much. Didn’t move either. His eyes—dull gold with a hint of something older—stared into the shifting black mist swirling in the pool before him. It wasn’t water. It wasn’t lava. It was memory. Things whispered in it.

The dead. The forgotten. The ones who saw things they weren’t supposed to.

His fingers tapped once against the stone.

Then stopped.

Again.

Then stopped.

The surface of the pool twitched. Not from him. From below.

Tartarus.

It was laughing.

Not loud. Not manic. Just... humming.

Happy.

Hades leaned back, shoulders pressing into the cold throne as he squinted slightly at the pool.

That was never a good sign.

The abyss never laughed unless something terrible was on the way.

He sat up straight, finally moving like something clicked into place in his head. His cloak—dark, stitched with threads of shadows—flowed like smoke as he stood. The black mist rippled slightly as he stepped off the dais, boots quiet against the marble. Cerberus growled softly from his corner, three heads twitching in sync, sniffing the air like they smelled something old crawling back up.

Hades stopped beside the pool. Eyes narrowed.

There it was again.

That pulse.

A soft beat from Tartarus... like a heart learning how to enjoy itself again.

"Someone’s been poking the old bastard," he muttered under his breath.

And then it hit him.

The scent.

Soft perfume.

Silk and milk.

Hera.

Of course.

He turned and walked to the side hall, fingers brushing the walls as he passed. They whispered back at him—souls embedded in the stone. Priests. Rulers. Madmen. Lovers. All of them dead now. All of them watching.

He didn’t rush.

No need.

The underworld didn’t move fast. Nothing here ever did.

But his mind was already piecing it together. That flicker. That ripple of divine energy that crawled up from the deep end of Tartarus three nights ago. He didn’t care much at first—thought it was the usual cursed groaning. But then... it lingered. Grew. Changed.

Felt like a root had been planted. Not a tree. A weapon.

He reached the overlook—an ancient ledge that stared down the long, impossible stretch of the pit. The black chasm of Tartarus stretched below like the throat of a dead god. Always hungry. Always awake.

And now?

Now it was purring.

Hades squinted at the faintest shimmer far, far down. Like someone walked through shadow and it welcomed them instead of chewing them apart. That never happened.

"Dammit, Hera," he exhaled.

He tilted his head slightly, as if listening.

The pit trembled softly. Just once.

Hades dragged a hand down his face.

"Hera always up to no good," he muttered. "Doesn’t even knock when she enters hell. Just walks in, makes a deal with the dark, and walks out like she owns the place."

He turned from the ledge, walking back through the corridor, muttering to himself.

"She must’ve left something behind. Some curse. Some spark."

He stopped in front of a wall carved with faded glyphs—older than Olympus, older than the Titans. His hand brushed over them, and the wall opened like paper.

Beyond it... his private chamber.

There was no bed. No candles. Just a small desk. Scrolls. And a single mirror.

It didn’t reflect what was in the room.

Only what wasn’t supposed to be.

Hades stood in front of it. His reflection flickered. Then showed him a woman stepping through a tunnel of roots and wet stone, a baby in her arms. Her face shadowed.

But he knew it.

Her gaze.

Her hand.

Her walk.

Hera.

She didn’t even look behind her.

Didn’t even hesitate.

She walked like she’d done it before.

And the baby... he wasn’t normal.

He was trembling when the mirror revealed the tendril of Tartarus touching the child’s chest.

Hades clicked his tongue.

"Fool."

He stepped back, jaw tight.

"That’s going to blow up in all our faces."

He didn’t sit back on the throne.

He just stood there, staring out into the underworld, cloak rustling faintly.

If Hera was planting seeds in Tartarus... that meant Olympus had a ticking curse in its heart.

He looked up.

He could still feel Zeus above, somewhere, shining like lightning across the clouds. Too distracted. Too caught up in being king.

He wouldn’t see it coming.

But Hades?

He always saw it first.

Because he lived in the place where all the bad ideas came to die.

And right now... one of them was still breathing.

Olympus

The skies above Olympus rolled gently, clouds stretching like soft veils across the mountaintop. No thunder. No sign of storm. Just that odd silence—the kind that hums right before something shifts.

Hera’s sandals touched marble, quiet as she stepped past the golden pillars of her private chamber. Her white robe clung to her like morning mist, arms wrapped tightly around the small bundle pressed to her chest.

Ares slept.

But not peacefully.

His breath hitched sometimes. Not from dreams. Not from fear.

Like his body was reacting to something invisible.

Something under his skin.

Hera didn’t speak.

She just walked across the chamber, slow and quiet, her back straight, gaze distant. She laid him gently in the golden crib nestled beside the far window. The sunlight kissed his cheek. He shifted, little fists twitching.

She stared down at him.

Her face didn’t move, but her thoughts were screaming.

He was perfect. He was strong. Stronger than any child born before. Stronger than he should be.

She didn’t need omens to know that. She felt it in her blood. The way his cry had shaken the pillars the moment he was born. The way the shadows recoiled when she passed with him through the deeper paths.

And she knew what that meant.

Olympus needed change.

It needed someone born not just of the throne—but someone who could take it if needed.

Zeus... he would never understand. Not truly.

He’d see her ambition as jealousy. Her fear as pride.

But she was done asking for permission.

Ares was hers. Her son. Her answer to Olympus. And no one would take that from her.

She leaned down and pressed her lips gently to his forehead. "You’ll thank me someday," she whispered. "You’ll rise higher than all of them. Even him."

She stood straight again, face still blank, but her fingers trembled once before she closed them into a fist.

Her eyes drifted out the window. Olympus sparkled in the distance. Marble and gold. Divine and untouchable.

But Hera didn’t see beauty.

She saw chains.

One day, she’d break them.

And her son would be the hammer.