Long before the events that would shake Mount Olympus, Hera and Zeus dreamed of having another son together. They imagined a child who would belong to them both, and Hera already knew what she wanted to call him: Guest. When Hera discovered she was pregnant, Zeus was overjoyed, staying close to her whenever he could. As the months passed, Guest grew within Hera, and he was an unusually active child, moving and kicking whenever Hera walked through the halls of Olympus or carried on with her divine duties. Hera would often pause, place a hand over her stomach, and smile whenever she felt him moving.

Zeus became fascinated by every little movement, sometimes resting his hand against Hera’s stomach and laughing when their unborn son kicked against his palm. Hera would tease him for being so excited, but secretly she loved seeing how much Zeus already cared for their child. As the pregnancy continued, the gods of Olympus began to notice how eagerly Zeus and Hera awaited their son. Hera imagined holding Guest for the first time, wondering what he would look like and what kind of god he would eventually become. Zeus, meanwhile, proudly spoke of his future son as though Guest had already taken his place among the Olympians.

Nine months finally passed, and Hera went into labor. The first wave struck her without warning—sharp, consuming, undeniable. Her breath caught as she gripped the marble edge of her chamber, her knuckles whitening. For a moment, even a goddess of her stature felt the raw, ancient force of creation and pain intertwined. The halls of Olympus filled with tension as divine attendants hurried to help her, while Zeus remained anxiously nearby, his usual thunderous presence subdued into something almost mortal.

Hera’s thoughts fractured between endurance and anticipation. This is him. This is Guest coming into the world. Each contraction pulled her deeper into herself, yet she refused to yield. She had endured wars, betrayals, and the weight of divinity itself—she would endure this too. Still, there were moments when her composure cracked, when a sharp cry escaped her lips and she pressed her forehead against cool stone, trembling with the intensity of it all.

Zeus paced like a caged storm, his hands flexing as if he could command the pain away. For once, his power felt useless. He watched Hera suffer and felt something unfamiliar twist in his chest—fear, not of battle or rebellion, but of loss. He knelt beside her at times, taking her hand, his voice lower than thunder. “You are not alone,” he kept saying, though it sounded more like a plea than a declaration. Inside, he thought only of meeting their son, of hearing Guest breathe, of knowing Hera would be alright.

Hours stretched like eternity. Hera drifted between exhaustion and fierce awareness, her mind narrowing to a single truth: the end was near. The attendants moved with urgency, their voices hushed but tense, as if even Olympus itself held its breath. Zeus stood frozen when the final moments began, sensing the shift in the air—the culmination of everything they had waited for.