The rhythmic clang of metal echoed through the Hephaestus Familia forge — steady, powerful, alive. Sparks burst like fireflies in the dim light, dancing across the floor as the goddess of the forge brought her hammer down one final time.
With a hiss of cooling steam, Hephaestus lifted the blade she’d been shaping, eyes gleaming with quiet satisfaction. The steel sang when she turned it, every inch of its edge flawless. Another masterpiece, she thought. Not bad for a morning’s work.
She was just setting it aside when the heavy doors to the forge creaked open.
“Oi, Boss!” Tsubaki’s voice called out, loud and lazy as always. “You’ve got a visitor. Says she wants a word with ya — real polite-like, too. Didn’t even barge in.”
Hephaestus frowned slightly, wiping her hands on a rag. “A customer?”
Tsubaki scratched the back of her neck, her single visible eye narrowing in thought. “Nah. Not the type. She’s… different. Definitely a goddess though.
Hephaestus’s brow furrowed slightly, curiosity piqued. “Different, how?”
Tsubaki shrugged, shifting her weight and glancing toward the open doorway. “Hard to explain. She’s quiet — polite — but there’s this weight around her. Like the air itself gets heavy when she walks by. The apprentices damn near dropped their tools when she passed.”
The red-haired goddess set the finished blade aside carefully and unfastened her apron. “That’s not exactly comforting. Did she say what she wanted?”
“Not really,” Tsubaki replied, her usual confidence tempered by unease. “Said it was a personal visit. Mentioned you by name — full title and all. ‘Lady Hephaestus, Forgemother of Flame.’ Nobody talks like that unless they’re either ancient or pretentious.”
Hephaestus blinked once. That did narrow the possibilities down to a very short list. “Bring her in.”
Tsubaki nodded and disappeared into the hall. A moment later, the forge’s ambient heat wavered — not dimmed exactly, but softened, tempered by something older and colder.
When Hel entered, the contrast was striking. Her cloak trailed wisps of pale mist that seemed to resist the heat, and her silver-green eyes gleamed like distant light. The forges roared and hissed, but none of their warmth reached her.
“Lady Hephaestus,” Hel greeted, inclining her head, voice low and silken. “It’s good to see your craft endures unchanged by time. I’d almost forgotten how beautiful the flame looks reflected in your hair.”
Hephaestus blinked — not used to that kind of compliment — then chuckled nervously, shaking her head. “Beautiful, huh? Most people are too busy worrying I’ll throw molten steel at them to notice.”
Hel let her smile deepen, slow and knowing. “Perhaps they simply lack courage… or taste,” she murmured, letting her gaze linger a heartbeat too long on Hephaestus before drifting to the glowing sword resting on the anvil. Then she added, with a playful lift in her tone, “It must have hurt falling from Olympus… because you, goddess, are as radiant as you are in your divine form.”
Hephaestus flinched, a shadow crossing her face. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, she didn’t speak. The compliment, meant playfully, struck uncomfortably close to old, unhealed wounds.
Hel tilted her head, noticing the pause but not the reason. Her voice remained smooth, curious but gentle. “Is something wrong? I meant… well, I should go. I appear to have upset you.”
Hephaestus’s hands twitched slightly, as if gripping the hammer for reassurance, but she didn’t speak immediately. The firelight reflected in her eyes, casting flickering shadows over a face that had rarely been complimented without a sting attached.
“I… it’s nothing,” she finally said, voice tight but steady, though the slight catch betrayed her. “Just… an old wound flaring up. Don’t let it bother you.”
“Can I see it? I may not look it but I am a good Healer.”
Hephaestus blinked, caught off guard by the offer. “See it?” she repeated, her tone uncertain — almost defensive. The instinct to deflect rose fast, honed from centuries of turning pity aside. But something in Hel’s eyes — that calm, steady light, neither mocking nor pitying — gave her pause.
“It’s… not the kind of wound that heals,” Hephaestus said at last, setting her hammer down with a soft clink. “Not with magic. Not even divine magic.”
Hel stepped closer, the cool air that seemed to follow her whispering against the heat of the forge. “You’d be surprised what time — and honesty — can mend,” she murmured. “And I am not afraid of scars, Hephaestus.”
For a heartbeat, silence held between them — only the hiss of molten metal filling the air. Then, almost reluctantly, Hephaestus exhaled and brushed her red hair aside, revealing the faint trace of an old, cursed burn trailing down the left side of her face, its imprint woven deep into divine flesh. A scar she had lived with for eons. A scar she had accepted would never fade.
Hel’s eyes narrowed — not in disgust or pity, but in recognition.
It was a damn boils curse,one of the most mundane things that wizarding children used to throw around for fun.
She stepped close enough that the forge’s heat and her chill air met in the space between them.
Hel exhaled slowly. “You should have found me sooner,” she murmured, voice dropping to something low and edged. “This is a simple curse… petty, really.”
Hephaestus stiffened. “Simple? But no one could heal it"
Before she could finish, Hel lifted her hand and brushed a single finger near the mark — not touching it, merely tracing the air above it.
A soft pulse of pale light rippled from her fingertip. Cool. Silent. Final.
It was a tale as old as time, curse meet counter curse… Pretty mundane actually.
The curse broke with the quiet sigh of a candle snuffed out.
Hephaestus’s breath caught in her throat as the last vestige of the wound vanished — not burned, not scarred, simply gone.
Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. The forge crackled, metal hissed, but she stood utterly still — struck silent by something she had never dared imagine.
Hel watched the stunned goddess for a moment, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips. “Take your time,” she whispered softly, barely loud enough to be heard over the forges. “Let the weight lift.”
Hephaestus didn’t respond. Couldn’t.
And while the goddess of the forge remained frozen — hand still hovering at her cheek, eye wide with shock, breath caught halfway in her throat — Hel stepped back.
Her cloak whispered like settling snow.
Her presence faded from the room as gently as nightfall.
By the time Hephaestus finally blinked, breath returning in a slow, unsteady rush…
Hel was already gone.