Hermes landed on a cloud, checking his winged sandals. "Catch me if you can, Auntie!"
Hera sat on her throne, unamused. She held a pomegranate in one hand and a scepter in the other. She did not rise.
"Child," she said. "You run like a servant. I rule like a Queen."
The Chase
Hermes zipped around the throne room, a blur of gold and light. He tried to steal her Diadem. Fleet-Fingered Thievery.
Hera didn't turn her head. She blinked, and a hundred eyes opened on the plumage of her peacocks. Argus' Sight. They tracked every micro-movement of the speedster.
"I see you," Hera intoned.
She raised her scepter. She didn't fire a bolt; she issued a command. Oathbinding of Hera.
"By the Styx, by the throne of Zeus, I command you: Sit."
The Weight of the Crown
Hermes froze mid-air. The magical weight of the command—anchored in the hierarchy of Olympus—slammed into him. His sandals fluttered desperately, but his legs locked.
He crashed onto the marble floor, skidding to a halt at Hera's feet.
"You have energy," Hera observed, looking down at him. "Good. You can polish my chariot."
Hermes groaned. He could outrun the wind, but he couldn't outrun the chain of command.