As the metal melts down to be cast again,
Hephaestus stumbles back to his room where he left his walking
stick and brace. He’ll need both to help prop himself up against
his workbench in the long hours ahead. As lame as his body is, his
sharp mind races unchecked, creating and discarding plans as he
makes his way down the tunnel. He could craft a chair perhaps,
similar to the one he trapped his mother in when she refused him a
seat on Olympus. But no—that would do him no good. He needs access
to Aean from all sides so he can take the godling any way he wants.
A chair is too prohibitive, as are clothes and any form of armor.
Chains perhaps, though they’re unwieldy, unimaginative. Something
else, then, but what?
He’s strapping his brace onto his bad leg
when he hears his name ca
