I Am Zeus-Chapter 74: Leto

The clouds above the Hall of Assembly thinned as Zeus stood at the top of the marble stairs, cradling Athena in his arms.

Wind tugged at his cloak. The sky behind him burned with golden light, soft but fierce, like something divine was waiting just beneath it. The marble stretched out into a wide circle—a gathering place older than most of the gods themselves. Around the edges, the thrones of Olympus stood empty, waiting to be filled. 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

Zeus didn’t speak right away.

He looked down at Athena.

She was wrapped in a silver cloth Metis had woven herself. Her eyes hadn’t opened since the walk from the chamber, but her little fists were closed, as if she already knew the world wouldn’t be kind.

When the first gods arrived, they came in silence.

Poseidon. Demeter. Hestia. Leto. Themis. Mnemosyne.

They stood in a loose half-circle across the hall, watching Zeus. They knew something had shifted. It wasn’t just another declaration. This wasn’t war or peace. This was the kind of moment that changed both.

Zeus raised his voice—not loud, not proud. Just clear.

"She is born," he said. "Athena."

A few murmurs stirred the air, but no one interrupted.

"She is mine," Zeus continued. "And she is Olympus."

Poseidon narrowed his eyes. "Olympus? She’s barely breathing."

Zeus glanced at him, calm. "So were we once."

Demeter stepped forward, arms folded. "You’ve always been reckless. But this... what are you doing, Zeus?"

Zeus adjusted Athena in his arms. "Starting over."

The wind shifted.

Before anyone could respond, a different presence settled into the hall. Cold, sharp, quiet like winter.

Hera.

She walked in slow, steady steps, wearing a deep red robe that whispered against the floor. In her arms, she carried an infant swaddled in golden thread.

Ares.

She didn’t speak right away. Just walked toward Zeus without breaking her gaze. The tension wrapped the air like a storm holding its breath.

When she stopped a few steps away, she lifted Ares slightly. "He is mine," she said.

Zeus nodded. "And he’ll stay yours."

"But?"

"There’s no ’but,’" he said. "Just truth. They are born into the same world. They will not grow apart."

Hera’s grip on Ares tightened. "You think raising them close will stop what’s coming?"

"I think letting them grow up divided will guarantee it."

Hera glanced down at Athena—then back to Zeus. "She has Metis’s eyes."

"I know."

"I should hate her for it."

"Then do."

She didn’t answer. Just looked at Ares again. His little face was calm, eyes closed. Peaceful. Hera’s fingers touched his cheek gently.

"I brought him because I won’t let you steal him."

"I never planned to."

"You steal things in pieces, Zeus," she whispered. "Not all at once. Bit by bit, until people forget what was theirs to begin with."

"I’m not here to steal," he said.

"Then why now?"

Zeus looked around. The gods had gone quiet again. Watching. Weighing.

"Because Olympus is broken," he said. "We built something strong... but not something whole. I’ve seen the cracks. In the halls. In the hearts. And I won’t let my daughter inherit a place already falling."

He paused, letting the words settle.

"She is not a symbol," he said. "She is not a weapon. She is not a rival. She is a beginning. And if we are wise, she won’t be the only one."

Poseidon scoffed lightly. "What’s that mean? We start popping out godlings to fix the world?"

Zeus didn’t smile. "Maybe we should."

Themis stepped forward. Her voice was calm, like always. "Are you asking for unity? Or obedience?"

"Neither," Zeus said. "I’m asking for presence. To stop looking only at each other and start looking at what comes after us."

Hera said nothing.

She didn’t move.

But after a long pause, she took another step forward—and placed Ares into a golden crib prepared at the center of the hall.

Zeus followed.

He placed Athena beside him.

Two infants. One touched by thought, the other by war. Sleeping side by side, like the gods hadn’t just been tearing themselves apart.

Hera looked at Zeus. Her expression unreadable.

"If he hurts her," she said, "I’ll make him regret ever being born."

"If she hurts him," Zeus replied, "I’ll do the same."

The gods around the circle stayed quiet. Not in fear—but in something closer to awe. Not at Zeus. Not at Hera. But at the stillness.

The kind of stillness that comes before something begins.

Demeter stepped forward first. She walked slowly to the crib and knelt beside it. Her fingers brushed both their foreheads gently.

"For what it’s worth," she said, "they look like gods already."

Leto came next. Then Hestia. Even Poseidon stepped close and grunted something under his breath—something half-curse, half-prayer.

One by one, they came.

And the circle changed.

Not all at once. Not fully.

But enough.

When the last blessing had been spoken, Zeus turned to Hera again.

"You can stay," he said.

She didn’t answer.

But she didn’t leave either.

She walked to the throne beside her own and sat. Not in surrender. Not in support. Just in witness.

The sun lowered behind the marble columns.

The wind calmed.

And for the first time in a long time, the gods looked forward—not back.

Athena stirred in her sleep.

Ares shifted beside her.

Two beginnings.

And a war, still waiting in the bones of Olympus.

But not tonight.

Tonight, there was only silence.

And breath.

And the weight of what comes next.

Zeus turned to leave the Hall, but just at the steps, his shoulder brushed someone lightly.

"Ah—pardon me," the woman said, stepping back with a small bow. "I didn’t see you."

She had dark hair in a loose braid, soft eyes, and a voice like still water—gentle, but with something old buried underneath.

"I’m Leto," she added. "Daughter of Coeus and Phoebe."

Zeus froze for half a breath.

That name.

That face.

It came back to him like smoke from another life.

He remembered her.

She gave birth to Artemis and Apollo.

Where she stood alone against Hera’s wrath.

Where she carried the sun and moon inside her.

She didn’t know any of that now. She was just Leto. Young. Unshaped. Still walking toward her place in the world.

Zeus said nothing for a second, just stared at her.

Then, with a slow nod, he replied, "It’s fine."

He moved past her—but his eyes lingered.

Not out of desire.

Out of memory.

Out of something deeper.

The kind of knowing that never fades, no matter how many lives pass.