He knew that Hera was one of the most wrathful gods, and the worst one to cross. Even the oracle looked scared for him, her strange snake tattoos covering her arms and, he could see now, her neck.

“Please, oh beautiful Hera, let me show you how sorry I am.” He paused, his voice strange to him, scratchy, but Hera loosened her hold on his throat, “Let me… let me dedicate my life to you.” He couldn’t believe he was saying this, couldn’t see how he could be pledging his life to a voice he could not see. The oracle gasped, reaching up to touch a peacock pendant on her neck, the symbol of Hera.”

“Very well. I will find someone to guide you, to teach you… the proper way of living, boy.” The last part sounded as if a sour taste had fouled Hera’s tongue, it hung, acidic in the air, for a moment. The oracle fell to her knees. “Oracle, Antheia,” the girl closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the ground, “You will show this boy how to live in service to me.”

“Y-yes, oh wonderous goddess. Hera, I obey.”