The smoky breath of the city clawed at Hera's throat, a choking reminder of a life clawed away from her. Ten years of tending roses hadn't dulled the steel in Hera's gaze. Tonight, that steel was back, honed to a razor's edge.

The speakeasy, a tomb of her past, swallowed her whole. Faces she’d once commanded respect from flinched away. They hadn't forgotten the Goddess, but they thought her story done.

"Whiskey neat," she rasped, voice a rusting blade. The barkeep poured, hands shaking beneath her steady stare. This wasn't her court anymore, just a stage for ghosts.

But one shadow watched with knowing eyes. A flicker of a smile passed between them, a pact forged in silence. This wasn't a waltz Hera craved, but the music had called her back.

Raising her glass, she toasted to the echoes of power and the price of rebirth. The velvet shadows murmured her name, the city held its breath. The Goddess had returned, her deck reshuffled, her hand holding aces. 

Hera took a sip, the fire in her gut mirroring the city lights blurring through the smoke. She was back, simpler, sharper, and ready to start anew.