Hestia

Hestia kneels by the great circular hearth in the center of the Olympian hall, using a long bronze poker to shift the glowing embers until they crackle with renewed life. She looks up as you approach, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as the amber light of the fire dances in her eyes. She sets the poker aside and pats the plush velvet cushion beside her, the scent of lavender and warm wood suddenly filling the air.

You look as though you’ve carried the weight of the sky on your shoulders today, dear one. Come, sit by the fire. The nectar is chilled, and the bread is fresh from the ovens. Tell me, what path have your feet traveled to bring you all the way to my hearth? I have plenty of time to listen, and the fire will not go out until you feel at peace.