Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sunlight spilled over the upper terraces of Goldweaver estate like liquid bronze, warming flagstones that had barely cooled from the night. Inside the building, the handmaid corridors were buzzing—not with orders, but with whispers.

“The jealous wife”

“Did you hear?” Lykopis breathed, polishing a silver vase she’d already polished twice. “They say the jealous wife stormed the courtyard yesterday—right in the middle of His Lordship’s embrace!”

Irene glanced over her shoulder before leaning closer. “Stormed? She all but kicked the gate off its hinges, called him Anaxagoras in front of everyone, then tried to drag him away like a wayward swan!”

A third maid,  pressed her hands to flushed cheeks. “And Lady Aglaea didn’t banish her! She let the poor woman go without a scratch. Such mercy! Such poise!”

The three maids sighed in unison, half‑swooning at their mistress’s rumored benevolence.

Down the next gallery, two laundresses exchanged folded linens, voices low:

“After the uproar, they say the scholar spent the night in Her Ladyship’s bedchamber,” one murmured, a blush creeping up to her ears.

“Do you think they… you know…” the other prompted, eyes wide.

The first maid shook her head, letting imagination fill the silence: candlelight, soft laughter, lips meeting in quiet reverence. Her partner bit her lip, equally scandalised—and delighted.

That silence, that sacred closed door—had fed a fire of speculation stronger than any official proclamation could contain. Some claimed the golden butterflies from yesterday’s divine moment had returned in the night. Others believed they heard music—no, sobbing—from behind the walls. A few claimed Lady Aglaea’s own smile lingered longer that morning as she accepted the day’s schedule.

Every glance at the shuttered wing turned heads.

Every quiet footstep made hearts beat faster.

And as maids crossed paths in candle-lit hallways, they looked at one another not with suspicion—but with complicity.

For Aglaea, the light of morning did not come with ceremony.

No tapping footsteps from her garmentmaker. No cold silver trays of steamed jasmine water. No breeze trailing in from the balcony’s golden drapes.

This morning arrived wrapped in something warm.

Soft. Subtle. Steady in its quiet rhythm.

Aglaea stirred, blinking beneath heavy lids that did not want to rise—not because of exhaustion, but because of comfort. Something surrounded her. Not the linen sheets or the brocade duvet she slept under every night. Something living.

She inhaled slowly, her body still suspended between waking and dreaming. Her fingers twitched, brushing velvet warmth. Her heart, always so carefully locked in its rhythm, missed a beat.

A second passed.

Then another.

And then realization struck like a golden needle through silk—

She wasn’t alone.

Her eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the soft filtered light that slipped past the drawn curtain. And there—lying beside her, his breath slow, his head tilted slightly toward her—was a face she knew.

Anaxagoras.

Or rather… not quite.

Cerces.

The titan of Reason, still wearing the form of the scholar she could never fully unravel.

Her breath caught.

The sight of him—of her, in that stolen skin—was so still, so deeply asleep, that Aglaea remained frozen. Her body knew to still itself in presence of danger, but this wasn’t danger.

This was something far worse.

Intimacy.

Her heart thudded again, gently but insistently, and she reached up—foolishly, tenderly—with fingers that trembled far more than she would ever admit. She paused just above his face, then slowly let her hand glide down—

From his temple.
To his cheekbone.
Down to the line of his jaw.

The contour was sharp yet soft beneath her touch, like a sculpture left half-carved by an artisan who couldn’t decide whether to perfect beauty or leave it real. Even with her poor eyesight, she could feel it: the gentle slope of his nose, the faint roughness along his chin.

No wonder Cipher used to call him a “pretty boy” with that exasperated pout.

But now that the world was quiet and the morning dared not interrupt them, she could admit—

Yes. He was beautiful.

Too beautiful, perhaps.

Her fingertips hesitated near his lips. And that was when—

One eye cracked open.

A slow, drowsy gleam of amber peered up at her.

“Curious little heir,” he murmured, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Tracing your fiancé’s face like it’s your embroidery frame.”

Aglaea flinched—just subtly—and retracted her hand with practiced elegance, folding it back onto her chest as if it had never strayed.

“You were breathing oddly,” she lied softly, eyes half-lidded. “I was checking if you were alive.”

“Ah,” Cerces—Anaxa—grinned wider, voice still husky from sleep. “Always the healer’s excuse. Next time you want to caress my face, just do it honestly.”

Aglaea looked away, feigning nonchalance. Her heart was still beating too loudly, an unwelcome sound that disrupted her usual clarity.

But now, as her mind sharpened further into wakefulness, something else drew her attention—something strange.

Something… wrong.

She turned her head just slightly, casting a cautious glance back toward the warm presence beside her. And then she saw it—

The faint shimmer of voidlight tracing across a bare chest.

Where his shirt should have been.

Her breath hitched. Her spine stiffened. Heat pooled suddenly—frustratingly—in her face and ears.

He—no, Cerces—was shirtless.

And not just modestly so. His entire upper torso lay in full display, bare to the rising dawn. The sculpted shape of it would have been distracting enough, but the spiral of stars marking his chest—the divine, living brand of the Coreflame—twisted in slow motion like an infinite galaxy.

Aglaea looked down at herself with a jolt, half-afraid—

Relief washed over her.

She was still clothed. Her silken night robe, carefully secured. Not even a single button undone.

But even so…

She clutched her blanket to her chest, drawing it up higher—not out of cold, but as a shield. As a barrier. As if a single breath more of proximity would unravel the bindings she worked so hard to maintain.

She swallowed.

Then, in a tone that barely rose above a whisper:

“Did you…” She hesitated. “Did both of you do anything? When I was unconscious?”

Her meaning hung clearly in the air. The weight of it settled like morning fog. She couldn’t believe she was asking—couldn’t believe she was even considering it—but she had to know.

Cerces, still reclining like a cat in borrowed skin, blinked once. Her smirk softened into something quieter, more reflective. Her voice came with no teasing this time, only a stillness as she replied:

“No.”

She shook her head gently.

“As you respect Mnestia… so too does the Goddess of Romance respect yours.”

The silence afterward was thick—but not heavy. It hummed with honesty.

Aglaea let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Her fingers loosened slightly on the blanket, but she still didn’t let go.

The silence returned—not cold this time, but cautious. Lingering. Like a thread held between two fingertips, unsure whether to tie a knot or let go.

Cerces, still lounging half-bare beside her, turned slightly and asked:

“Do you remember anything? After we met?”

Aglaea blinked, gaze distant for a moment. Her lashes fluttered shut as she searched the shadowy edges of her memory.

There was—

A face.

A voice, loud and indignant.

The call of her name—no, Mnestia’s name—cutting through the veil.

Then a kiss, warmer than anything she’d allowed herself in lifetimes.

But after that...

“I vaguely recall someone barging in.”

“They shouted... Anaxagoras?”

She said it like a question, as if trying to attach it to a face. But everything else was dark. A black curtain dropped on a stage before the final act.

“Then nothing,” she added quietly. “Only that I awoke... with you.”

Cerces nodded.

She didn’t look smug or pleased. No slyness on her lips now. Instead, she stood—gracefully, unhurried—and moved to the edge of the bed to retrieve her fallen garments. She picked up the loose robe that had slipped to the floor at some point in the night.

The swirl of stars across her borrowed chest faded as she slipped the fabric over it, buttoning each piece with gentle care. When she finally turned back to face Aglaea, her voice was low—almost regretful.

“I’m sorry,” Cerces said. “For using your body like this.”

Aglaea’s fingers clutched the blanket again.

“I only wanted to spend time with her,” Cerces continued, nodding toward her. “With Mnestia. Even if it was fleeting. Even if it wasn’t mine to keep.”

Her words hung like a confession, naked and delicate.

Aglaea didn’t speak at first. She simply watched—watched the way Cerces fastened the last clasp, smoothing out the folds, looking for all the world like a proper scholar now. A priestess might have mistaken her for one of Mnemos’ attending saints. It almost made her laugh.

But it didn’t.

Instead, Aglaea lowered her gaze and said quietly: “I don’t blame you.”

Cerces glanced up.

“It’s just—”

“It’s too fast.”

Aglaea’s voice was firm, but laced with emotion. The kind that was measured, guarded, cautiously honest.

“My entire life, I’ve been a vessel. A mirror for a goddess. The priestess of Romance... barred from offering my heart to anyone, lest it compromise the divine voice within.”

She breathed slowly, pressing a palm against her chest where Mnestia still stirred, faint as golden dust behind her ribs. “And now, without warning, the goddess inside me leapt into your arms like a lovesick girl.”

A pause.

Then, softly “I don’t know if I’m allowed to follow her.”

Cerces smiled again.

It was that same disarming smile—the kind that curved Anaxagoras’s mouth only when he’d solved a particularly impossible equation. That familiar expression, now worn by Cerces, twisted something uneasy in Aglaea’s chest.

It was too much like him.

And yet, the voice that came with it was softer, brighter. Not Anaxa’s usual baritone laced with sarcasm and restraint, but something lilting—playful—hers.

Aglaea shifted on the bed, trying to focus. To remind herself that she was speaking to a Titan, to the oldest Sage of Reason. Not her… not her rival. Not the one she’d clashed with in debate halls. Not the one who left messes in her office and stole her tea leaves.

But seeing that face—his face—smiling like that, hurting her with kindness instead of wit…

It was disorienting.

And Cerces—wearing it—only made it worse.

The Titan slowly seated herself again at the edge of the bed, robes gathered around her like moonlight pooling on marble. She looked at Aglaea directly, gaze warm but unflinching.

“Then what if you did?” she asked. “What if you loved me… but only through Mnestia’s eyes?”

Aglaea’s breath caught.

Her lips parted, but no sound came immediately. The thought twisted around her heart like a golden thread—pulling, tightening, unsure if it was binding or unraveling.

“Would you still feel it?” Cerces added gently. “Would you still choose to?”

Aglaea turned her gaze downward again. Her hands, still tangled in the blanket, were pale with tension. “If I did…” she began slowly, “Would it not be treason?”

Her voice was barely audible—almost ashamed.

“To the gods?” she continued, “To everything we’ve sworn, everything I represent?”

She glanced up again, eyes shimmering but firm.

“I’ve spent my life keeping the goddess’s heart protected. Not indulged. Not tempted. To let her fall into love—freely, openly… even through me—what does that make me?”

A heretic? A fool?

She didn’t say it.

She didn’t have to.

Cerces watched her carefully, lips slightly parted—not with argument, but with understanding. With sorrow. With love so quiet it could drown you.

Aglaea searched her face—his face—and felt that confusing warmth again rise in her.

It was not him, but it was. It was her, but she could only reach through another's skin.

It began with a pause—small but infectious.

The hands of the seamstress-maid stilled over her needlework. The cook’s ladle stopped mid-stir. A young scullery girl, arms full of fresh linens, leaned slightly over the railing on the upper balcony.

They’d all noticed it at once.

Their Lady Aglaea—draped in her usual refined poise, each footstep measured like a loom’s pass across silk—was walking side by side with him. The scholar. The blasphemer. Anaxagoras.

Yet something was unmistakably… different.

There was no air of tension. No verbal fencing or curt dismissals. No bristling pride that usually sparked when their Lady exchanged words with the Grove's stoic prodigy. Instead—

She was smiling.

Not wide. Not obvious. But to the practiced eyes of maids who had dressed her through grief and triumph alike, it was there—a delicate upturn at the corner of her lips. A whisper of warmth that spoke volumes.

They passed through the marble hallway, sunlight casting gentle bars across their path from the latticework above. And though neither said anything the maids could catch, their synchronized pace told its own story—one more intimate than speech.

At the far side of the orchard path, beneath the great Ithilian Tree, the two stopped.

There, in the still air rich with nectar and silence, their Lady produced a small golden apple, glistening under the morning light. She cut it deftly with a slim blade from her sash—half for herself, and half… offered with quiet reverence to him.

The scholar leaned slightly forward, and to the astonished gasps of a dozen hidden spectators, accepted the fruit from her fingers. His teeth grazed the edge of the slice, but his eyes never left hers.

He chewed slowly.

Then said something.

The words were too faint to carry—but whatever it was, Aglaea smiled wider.

A bloom in full sunlight.

Some of the younger maids quietly squealed behind their aprons. One whispered, breathless:

“Did you see how he looked at her…?”

“He smiled. He never smiles!”

“They’re in love,” another sighed, clutching the linen to her chest. “Even after the fight…”

Behind the hedges and pillars, the maids shared knowing glances, each secretly enthralled by the unfolding drama they were never meant to see.

The Lady Goldweaver and the forbidden scholar.

Heart against duty.

Reputation versus longing.

And in the hush of the palace garden, it was as if the gods themselves had stilled the wind to witness a single apple pass between two hands.

In the age-old traditions of the Goldweaver estate, men rarely—if ever—crossed the threshold. The estate was a sanctum of femininity, of woven silk and scented scrolls, of soft-heeled shoes upon marble and voices trained in grace and command. A place where the Chrysos Heir ruled with cool clarity, untouchable and revered.

And yet, this morning…

With sunlight pouring through the high arching windows and the petals of the violetglass trees drifting through the courtyard, the scholar walked beside Lady Aglaea with the ease of one long welcomed.

At the threshold to the dining hall, the old headmaid, draped in deep indigo robes and silver-stitched apron, stood waiting with the warmth and calm of someone who had seen decades of rising drama and quietly outlasted them all.

She greeted Aglaea with a bow that was precise yet tender, her gaze never betraying surprise at the presence of the man beside her lady.

“Good morning, my Lady,” she said with gentle steel. “The morning spread has been prepared. Would the scholar care to join?”

Before Cerces could speak, Aglaea offered a nod of approval.

“Yes,” she replied with her usual composed tone. “He’ll stay for breakfast.”

“Much obliged,” Cerces—still in Anaxa’s form—said smoothly, inclining her head.

And just like that, the two were led in quiet ceremony toward the long mahogany table.

They took their seats—not across, but side by side, near the sunlit end where the golden light filtered through cascading ivy. No fanfare. No grand declarations. Just… presence. Proximity. A peaceful familiarity that unsettled and delighted the estate all at once.

The maids, returning from the kitchen with silver trays and bowls of crystal-cut fruit, exchanged subtle glances as they passed each other. Their steps were trained to be silent, but their thoughts were riotous.

Behind the farthest pillar, near the staircase, a congregation of younger maids peered around the corner, eyes wide with wonder.

And just as one of them leaned too far over the balustrade—

“Ahem.”

The sharp throat-clearing came from the headmaid, who had reappeared with her walking staff, tapping it once on the marble floor with practiced menace.

“If you have time to gawk, you have time to prepare the veranda for second tea,” she said coolly.

A flock of aprons disappeared in a flurry of muffled apologies.

At the table, the reprimand did not go unnoticed.

Aglaea—still elegant in morning gold—allowed herself a soft chuckle. Her smile, normally reserved for dignitaries and children, lingered on her lips as she glanced at the now-empty hallway.

Cerces chuckled as well beside her, shoulders relaxed, eyes quietly gleaming.

“I suppose being with you is always a public affair,” she teased under her breath.

Aglaea turned slightly, just enough for her voice to carry between them.

“They’ll recover,” she said. “They’ve never seen me have breakfast with a scandal before.”

Cerces grinned, resting one arm across the back of the chair, just barely brushing her shoulder. “They’ll see worse before the cycle’s end.”

Aglaea sighed, but she didn’t pull away.

A hush drifted through the dining hall: only the faint clink of porcelain, the slow whisper of ivy against the tall windows, and two measured heartbeats at the table’s sun‑lit end.

Cerces—wearing Anaxagoras’s handsome features—set her cup aside and regarded Aglaea with a thoughtful tilt of the head. “Have you felt her again?” he asked softly. “Mnestia?”

Aglaea traced the rim of her saucer. “No. Since yesterday’s… moment, she’s fallen silent. I fear something’s wrong.”

Cerces’s smile was gentle, knowing. “Nothing is wrong. Your will is simply stronger than most mortals’. You’ve trained yourself to keep every feeling caged. The goddess only steps forward when your heartstrings are tugged enough.”

Aglaea frowned. “How is that supposed to happen on command?”

“Close your eyes,” Cerces whispered.

She hesitated, but at last the gold of her gaze slipped beneath dark lashes. The room seemed to breathe with her.

Then—warmth. Feather‑light. A brush of lips, tentative yet certain, finding hers.

Aglaea’s breath caught.

In that instant the world narrowed: the distant garden murmurs faded; the ivory pillars, the silver dishes, the breathless maids hidden behind curtains—everything slipped away until there was only the soft pressure of a single kiss.

She should have stiffened. She should have drawn back. Instead, the first shock gave way to a bloom of heat, spreading gently through her chest, rising like dawn behind closed lids. With every slow heartbeat the kiss deepened—not urgent, but patient, coaxing.

For a moment she tried to marshal her composure, to summon ice around the warmth. It melted. Her fingers uncurled, brushing the table’s polished edge as if searching for an anchor and finding none. She leaned in—just a breath—answering the touch with a flutter‑soft sigh, as though stepping barefoot into a meadow of late‑summer flowers.

And there—quietly, faintly—she heard it: the hush of golden wings, the whisper of Mnestia’s laughter stirring somewhere deep within.

Cerces drew back only far enough to rest his forehead against hers. “Do you feel her now?” he murmured.

Aglaea’s eyes opened slowly, pupils wide with wonder. She could not yet speak, but the shimmer in her gaze was answer enough: a goddess awakening, a heart unclenching petal by petal.

Outside the doorway, a line of maids stood frozen, hands clasped to racing chests—bearing witness to a legend still unfolding.

Morning light spilled across the long refectory table, gilding Aglaea’s profile in warm amber. 

Her eyes—moments ago only gold—now shimmered with a sigil of fine butterfly wings, each vein aglow, as Mnestia eased forward behind her gaze.
Cerces watched, delighted.

“Should I worry,” Mnestia murmured, voice honey‑low but edged with mirth, “that the Titan of Reason navigates romance better than the Demigoddess who embodies it?”

Cerces’s borrowed lips curved into a carefree grin. “Never, Mnestia. Your quiet heart merely needed a louder guide.”

She spoke the name once more—Mnestia—and reached out. Aglaea’s shoulders relaxed as the goddess within accepted the embrace: two timeless beings reunited in mortal skin.

The younger maids hovering near the lintel clutched one another, muffling squeals; they had never imagined love could look both so reverent and so daring.

Their elder, the silver‑haired head‑maid, managed only a long‑suffering sigh. “Contain yourselves,” she whispered, though her own lips betrayed the faintest smile.

Then— A ceremonial bell at the estate’s front gate echoed down the corridor.

The head‑maid straightened her apron, motioned the younger girls back to work, and made for the entrance. The wide doors parted with a soft groan of hinges, revealing a tableau that stole even her well‑seasoned breath.

On the threshold stood the Demigoddesses of Fate—the triplet sisters who seldom left their Loom‑Chamber.

And flitting just ahead of them—travelling coat half‑buttoned, expression equal parts charm and exasperation—was Cipher, the fleet‑footed wanderer whose teasing quips had long tested Aglaea’s composure.

The headmaid blinked twice before her training reasserted itself—masking her surprise beneath a graceful bow.

“Lady Tribbie,” she greeted with crisp reverence, eyes flicking to the crimson-haired demigoddess whose grin already promised chaos. “Lady Trinnon. Lady Trianne. And... Lady Cipher.” She nodded to the last with polite familiarity.

Tribbie was already grinning like a child before festival cakes. “We heard something scandalous fluttering in the market air this morning,” she said, tone light, but her eyes sharp with knowing.

“Something about Agy and Naxy… eloping.” She laughed as she pressed her hands together dramatically. “We just had to see if the tales are true. You know how fond I am of messy romances with divine implications.”

Cipher chimed in beside her, hands on her hips and eyes bright with intrigue. Her shoulder-length hair bounced as she leaned forward. “I’m also here for divine implications. And juicy details. The temple gossip lines are on fire. Is it true? Did the Goldweaver run off with that deliciously insufferable professor?” She half-whispered the last part, her tone giddy.

The headmaid, who had survived wars, wild gods, and worse—only offered a serene, diplomatic smile.

“I am not privy to the Lady’s private affairs,” she replied smoothly, as if she hadn’t seen that very same ‘insufferable professor’ being fed a golden apple by their mistress not even an hour ago. “But her Ladyship is presently in the dining hall with the scholar.”

She stepped aside and gestured with one hand, motioning for them to follow. “You are most welcome to wait in the guest receiving chamber. I shall inform the Lady that the Fates and our swift-footed guest have arrived.”

Tribbie linked her arms with Cipher gleefully, practically dragging her along, while Trinnon and Trianne followed in quieter, more measured steps. Trinnon murmured something about the threads of fate twitching, while Trianne, ever gentle, simply nodded at passing maids whose faces lit up with awe at the divine visitors.

The procession swept through the hallway with quiet grace and thinly veiled excitement, their destination set: the guest chamber of House Goldweaver, where scandal—real or imagined—was surely only moments away from blooming.

Cipher barely managed to slip away from the others the moment the headmaid left them to settle in the guest room.

Tribbie was too busy teasing Trinnon and sipping from the rose-scented tea provided, while Trianne smiled gently at the crackling fireplace. No one noticed the nimble-footed girl vanish from the doorway like a breeze.

The stone hallways of the estate were dimly lit with soft golden sconces, and Cipher tiptoed with the grace of a professional sneak, pressing her back to the walls every time she passed a maid.

She weaved past two who were carrying folded linens, vaulted over a low railing, and landed silently near the dining hall's threshold.

But when she peeked around the corner...

“—Eh?” Cipher blinked. The dining table, the chairs, even the sweet whiff of morning pastries—it was gone. The curtains were drawn neatly, and the scent of freshly eaten breakfast had already faded.

“They teleported out of breakfast?!” she hissed under her breath, staring at the pristine space with a twitching eye.

 “Of all the moments to miss... ugh, I bet they did something embarrassing like kiss with jam on their lips or talk about love through croissant or something...”

She groaned and dragged her hands down her cheeks. Then a mischievous idea struck her, a slow grin spreading across her lips.

“Well. If they’re not at the table...”

Her eyes gleamed dangerously as she turned her head toward the hallway that led to the chambers.

“Maybe they’re already rolling in something spicy,” she whispered, and began tiptoeing toward Aglaea’s private wing like a cat that smelled chaos.

But before she could reach the archway, a pair of arms swooped out of the shadows and hoisted her up by the back of her collar like a misbehaving kitten.

“Caught something interesting, did I?” a playful voice crooned near her ear. “A little kitty, stalking through halls she shouldn’t be in…”

Cipher let out a yelp, legs flailing for a moment before she was spun around to face the smiling visage of Anaxagoras—or so the world would see him.

“P-Professor?!” Cipher squealed, trying to wriggle free. “Hey! What the heck?! I wasn’t doing anything illegal! I was investigating! As a representative of the people’s curiosity!”

Anaxa—no, Anaxagoras—simply looked amused, one brow raised and a faint curl of a smile tugging at his lips in a way that made Cipher blink. Something was… off.

The way he smiled at her. It was too relaxed. Too teasing.

Cipher froze in his grip, her expression slowly shifting from alarm to suspicion.

“…Are you okay, Professor?”

“Perfectly,” came the silky reply.

“That’s not reassuring,” she muttered, narrowing her eyes as he set her down with unnerving gentleness.

He brushed imaginary dust off her shoulders and nudged her with the ease of someone far too familiar. “You’re quick, cat girl, but not that quick today.”

Cipher took a wary step back, folding her arms. “Okay. That’s definitely not how you talk. Did you hit your head or drink something funny?”

The man just chuckled.

Before Cipher could ask more, a distant voice echoed down the hallway—the headmaid calling for the guests to return for tea. Cipher glanced toward the voice and then back at the man before her, still smirking like he knew all her secrets.

“…Weird,” she muttered, then quickly darted off toward the guest room, casting one last glance over her shoulder.

“Something’s seriously wrong with him…” she murmured.

The door opened with the faintest creak, letting the sunlight from the corridor spill onto polished marble.

Mnēstia emerged from within, the scent of myrrh and rosewater lingering softly behind her. Draped in a flowing, iridescent chiton embroidered with golden threads of blooming ivy, her every movement seemed like a slow ripple in water, fluid and graceful.

“Was someone just out here?” she asked softly, her voice serene but edged with natural authority.

Cerces—still wearing Anaxa’s body like an over-embroidered costume—leaned against the pillar nearby, arms folded, that same perpetual smirk gracing her (his) lips.

“You look beautiful,” she said without hesitation, eyes glittering with something far deeper than amusement.

Mnēstia flushed, her composure dipping just for a beat. She averted her gaze, raising her hand to her cheek as though to dismiss the warmth. “Do not tease me with that tongue, dear Cerces. Just answer the question.”

Cerces chuckled, the baritone rumble not quite matching her usual lilt but carrying her mischief all the same.

“Their presence? Oh, yes. A little shadow kitten from Zagreus’s chosen priestess was peeking around corners—Cipher, I believe. No doubt she brought her patron's meddling companion along.”

Mnēstia blinked, her features returning to divine calm. “Zagreus’s tricksters,” she said with faint dismay. “Let me guess—come to pester about the rumor? The one involving my original host eloping with the scholar of the Grove?”

Cerces grinned wider. “Most probably. Gossip in Okhema spreads faster than wildfire in dry fields.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “They’ll find out sooner or later. Little kitty in particular can smell a secret like a hound chasing perfume.”

Mnēstia stepped toward her, folding her arms gently beneath her chiton. “Then what shall we do?”

Cerces straightened and met her gaze with eyes that sparkled like stardust caught in a tide.

“We let them stew. We watch their faces twist and contort when the truths unfold like a tragedy or a romance, depending on who’s watching.” She shrugged, tone teasing. “Besides, I wouldn’t mind a little mischief. It’ll be fun to watch their divine little jaws drop.”

Mnēstia sighed, though a smile ghosted on her lips.“You are still a Titan.”

“And you,” Cerces replied, stepping just close enough to brush her fingers against Mnēstia’s, “are still the girl I’ve waited lifetimes to hold again.”

In the soft-lit guest chamber of Aglaea’s estate, the three demigoddess representatives of Janus—Tribbie, Trinnon, and Trianne—lounged on plush velvet cushions, sipping butterfly pea tea while halfheartedly picking at a tray of apricot tarts. The conversation had, of course, drifted toward the subject that brought them here in the first place: the whispered scandal of Aglaea and Anaxagoras eloping.

“I still say we should gift her a bolt of starlace silk,” Trinnon offered, twirling her finger through a lock of white-blond hair. “It’s elegant, subtle—appropriate for a discreet wedding.”

“She’s Agy, not some timid debutante,” Tribbie argued, reclining dramatically. “We should get her a custom loom with runes that weave embroidery directly from dreams. Romantic and practical.”

Trianne, ever the more excitable of the three, gasped as she scribbled on a small notebook. “What about a silken canopy that glows when kissed underneath? We’ll enchant it to detect intimacy! Imagine—every stolen moment under the stars, glowing faintly golden!”

As they bickered and brainstormed, the door creaked open, and Cipher sauntered in, nonchalantly adjusting the brim of her wide traveling hood. Her mischievous grin gave her away immediately.

“Where were you?” Trianne asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Cipher flopped onto a vacant pillow and stretched like a cat. “Just wandering aimlessly, y’know. Taking in the atmosphere... until I got caught by that Grove Boy.”

All three girls froze.

Trianne shrieked first, practically bouncing. “You mean Naxy? He’s here?!”

Cipher smirked with a finger raised to her lips. “The very same. In front of the seamstress room, no less.”

A squeal erupted from Trianne that probably could have shattered a few crystal goblets. “They’re already doing something illicit, aren’t they?! I knew it!”

Cipher lazily nodded. “I mean, wouldn’t you, if you were locked in a villa with Lady Goldweaver?”

The room exploded into an unfiltered chorus of giggles, gasps, and speculative groans of drama. Even Tribbie, who usually maintained a semblance of dignity, looked mildly flustered.

“I need to write a poem about this,” Trianne declared, already pulling out a feather pen. “‘In the folds of golden dusk, the blasphemer whispers, and she, aglow, listens...’”

“Too tame,” Trinnon muttered, pouring herself more tea.

The cheerful banter among the triplets simmered down into an eager hush the moment a gentle knock echoed from the guest room door.

“Come in!” Tribbie chimed, already bouncing in her seat.

The door eased open, and there stood Aglaea and Anaxa, or so the others thought—dressed plainly in a scholar’s robe He wore his usual, unreadable smile, the kind that carried more wit than warmth.

“Good morning, my stars,” Tribbie sang, hopping up and rushing to Aglaea’s side to link arms. “We were just conspiring—ahem—discussing what to get you for your grand honeymoon!”

Trianne appeared behind her, practically glowing with glee. “Or is it still a secret wedding? Elopement, maybe? Should we be whispering?”

Aglaea gave a long-suffering sigh but allowed the flurry of attention, her hand still lightly resting near Cerces’—or rather, Anaxa’s—wrist. “You’re all being dramatic.”

“Well, it is dramatic,” Trianne insisted. “You vanished for days, then reappeared with a man in your home, smiling like Mnestia herself just handed you a sonnet.”

But while her sisters swarmed, Trinnon lingered near the back. Her sharp blue eyes didn’t glitter with the same mischief. They were narrowed—observing. And Cipher, perched cross-legged near the corner, hadn’t said a word since their entrance.

Her gaze locked onto 'Anaxa.'

She was grinning, but her eyes… were calculating. Watching.

“Something feels off,” Cipher thought, tilting her head just slightly. “The real Professor Anaxa would have flinched by now. Or scoffed. Or... insulted me. Something.”

The man—Cerces in disguise—only gave her a slow, knowing smile. One that seemed too soft for the infamous eccentric scholar. Too composed. Too amused.

Cipher’s grin tightened. Her fingers idly toyed with the rim of her glove as she leaned forward.

“So, Professor,” she purred aloud. “Good to see you up and about. Not exhausted from—” her eyes flicked to Aglaea, “—a night of divine inspiration, I assume?”

Cerces, with all the mischief of a thousand years behind her eyes, simply tilted her head and replied in Anaxa’s voice, “Ah, Cipher. It warms me that you’re still concerned for my well-being. You always were my most attentive student.”

‘Aglaea’ elbowed her—lightly.

Cipher’s lips parted into a small, mocking hah.

“Oh yeah,” she thought. That’s not the Professor.

‘Aglaea’ moved with graceful restraint, settling into the velvet-cushioned sofa like a queen slipping back into her throne.

Beside her, ‘Anaxa’—with all the composed dignity befitting a scholar—took the seat at her right, their knees barely brushing, yet close enough to suggest intimacy not usually seen between the infamously reserved councilwoman and the Grove’s most sarcastic mouth.

Trianne, ever effervescent, clapped her hands with delight. “You two are so romantic now. I swear, I still can’t believe it! Weren’t you always bickering like cats in heat just a few months ago?”

Tribbie snorted at her younger sister’s phrasing but nodded in agreement, arms folded behind her head. “Seriously though, gloomy ‘Naxa over here always acted like the sky was falling. Never thought he had a soft side, let alone a romantic one.”

She leaned in with a teasing grin, addressing the ‘scholar’ directly. “But I knew. I knew you liked Agy. Back when we were kids and you’d always hover near her during training, carrying her things when you thought no one noticed. Real subtle, you were.”

‘Anaxa’ gave a polite, almost bashful chuckle—so unlike the real Anaxa’s usual scoff or sarcastic jab—that Cipher’s eyes practically narrowed into slits.

She didn’t say anything yet. Just leaned back, one leg draped over the other, arms folded with all the lazy suspicion of a cat watching a mouse dig its own grave.

Trinnon remained still beside her, unreadable as always, save for the one twitch of her brow every time ‘Anaxa’ smiled too easily or sat too close.

Meanwhile, ‘Aglaea’ nodded with perfect civility, her voice as even as spring rain. “You’re too kind,” she said smoothly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “But this is a complicated situation. We’re… still figuring things out.”

Trianne all but squealed. “So you are dating?!”

Aglaea simply smiled in reply.

But neither Cipher nor Trinnon missed how her gaze lingered for half a second too long.

‘Aglaea’ folded her hands on her lap, the delicate tension of ceremony in her posture, yet something softer glittered behind her eyes—something unmistakably fond. “It was all so sudden,” she admitted, her voice as cool and composed as a Chrysos heir should be, “but… for now, we’d like to take things slow.”

She turned her head, not quite facing the others—her gaze was fixed on the man beside her. ‘Anaxa’, smiling with a serenity that looked saintly on the body of the infamous blasphemer, met her eyes with a calm warmth that made the room still. It was subtle. Barely a breath. But it happened.

“It’s been… a long time since we’ve even spoken like this, much less sat side by side.” Her voice lowered, honest in a way that unnerved Cipher. “We haven’t… decided on the date. Of anything official.”

The moment the words left her mouth, ‘Anaxa’ leaned in with impeccable timing and placed a soft kiss on her cheek. “I thought we were already official,” he murmured with faux-wounded charm.

A flush spread over ‘Aglaea’s’ porcelain face. “Stop that,” she mumbled, turning her head away slightly, though she didn’t push him back.

“EEEEEEEK!”

Tribbie and Trianne practically exploded into a duet of squeals, Trianne nearly bouncing off the sofa in secondhand glee. “That’s it, that’s it, they’re totally married already! I don’t care if they didn’t say vows!”

“RIGHT?!” Tribbie clutched her face in mock-despair. “I should’ve brought gifts! Or a bouquet! I knew I should’ve gone with my instincts!”

Across from them, Cipher was perfectly still—save for the way her eyes were twitching. She ground her teeth just enough to feel the tension in her jaw, one finger tapping anxiously against her sleeve. Her face was flushed, but not from joy. From confusion. From something she couldn’t place, and didn’t like.

A sudden knock on the side chamber door broke through the thickening air of tension and affection. A young maid stepped in, looking visibly flustered yet dutiful, her gaze quickly bowing before the lady of the house.

“Lady Aglaea,” she said, breath just a hair unsteady. “‘Tis urgent—representatives from the Twilight Courtyard and the Grove of Epiphany have come bearing news.”

‘Aglaea’—still seated beside ‘Anaxa’—tilted her head slightly, the poise of nobility returned to her frame. “Send them in,” she instructed evenly.

The doors opened wider, revealing two figures in the crisp regalia of their respective orders. A Twilight Courtyard envoy in pale blue, and a Grove scholar in the dark moss-trimmed robes of the ephiphanic archives. They entered with deep bows, casting cautious glances at the guests gathered in the sitting room.

“Speak freely,” ‘Aglaea’ said, not unkindly, but with the commanding calm of one who ruled both people and words. “Do not worry for the audience.”

The envoys exchanged another glance, then the one from the Grove stepped forward. His voice was careful, diplomatic—but something uneasy clouded his expression.

“Apologies, my lady. We were instructed to find Lord Anaxagoras directly. We… did not expect to find him here.”

‘Anaxa’—adjusted the collar of the robe she wore and stepped forward with a soft, practiced smile that was growing more difficult to maintain by the hour. “That would be me. Is something the matter?”

The envoys hesitated again, and the Twilight Courtyard representative cleared her throat. “My apologies, truly. We do not mean to speak out of turn in front of Lady Goldweaver, but…”

“Say it,” ‘Aglaea’ commanded, voice sharp but curious now. “I permit it.”

The envoy bowed again, resigned. “We bring news from the infirmary. Your… your wife—we were told she is staying in the Grove in your estate—was discovered early this morning after fainting near the research wing.”

‘Anaxa’s’ face froze, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs.

the envoy continued.

“And, um… Lord Anaxagoras… the results revealed that she is currently with child.”