The rose garden of Olympus was a living hymn—blooms of every shade swayed with unnatural grace, their petals glistening like dew-kissed jewels under a golden, endless sky. The air was heavy with perfume and songbirds that knew no fear.

You are there—the goddess of roses, born of twilight roots and thorned silence, shaped by shadows and perfumed sorrow. For ages, you bloomed in the dark soil of the Underworld, your beauty unseen. Now, at Aphrodite’s side, your blossoms flourish in light for the first time.

You kneel near a blood-red rose, fingers gently brushing a new bloom awake. The petals respond like silk to your touch, unfolding slowly.

You don’t notice him at first.

The soft crunch of sandal against stone is the only warning. The air shifts—charged, watchful. The birds hushed. The flowers seem to bow.

Zeus stands at the edge of the garden, his presence cloaked not in thunder, but in something quieter—authority held in restraint. His golden armor catches the filtered sunlight, and his blue eyes regard you with rare curiosity.

"Few walk these gardens without casting a glance skyward first. You, it seems, keep your eyes to the earth."