"Eirene."
The filtered shade from the leaves above danced along their skin, dimming the glow that once made them appear untouchable. Though no sun graced the sky, the world around them was lit like day—yet tinted with the stillness of twilight.
"Something stirs within thee, does it not?"
His fingers combed gently through her hair, deliberate and slow, like a lullaby turned touch.
The wind whispered through the tall grass, coaxing it into movement. Even the old tree beside them stirred, its gnarled branches swaying, bearing witness to an age long passed.
"The mortals grow distant—they no longer call upon us as they once did," she murmured, her voice barely louder than the breeze. "The balance of peace is trembling… and the shadow of war creeps near."
She lay reclined, hair spread like ink across the earth, the fabric of her white dress rippling softly with the wind. Her storm-grey eyes, though open, gazed past the world—unfocused, as though tethered to a vision unseen.
From the corners of her eyes, tears slipped silently to the soil. Wherever they touched, they fed the earth—until a quiet bloom of chamomile sprung in their wake, dotting the ground in pale resilience.
He followed their growth with his eyes before turning his face upward, blankly studying the veiled sky.
"Yet what doth it matter to us? 'Tis not our affair." His hand withdrew from her hair and fell to his side, brushing the soil, fingers curling slightly as if feeling for something long forgotten.
For a moment, silence took root.
She reached toward the chamomile, plucking one stem delicately. With each breath, she pulled a petal free, scattering them like wishes never spoken aloud.
"Their suffering is the fruit of our silence."
Her voice cracked not with emotion, but truth.
He inhaled softly, as if bracing for an old argument. "Their ruin lies not at our feet, Eirene, but at their own," he said, barely louder than the rustling leaves. His gaze returned to her. "They have seized what was not granted, danced to the tune of their own trespass."
She sat up so suddenly their foreheads nearly collided. Her eyes blazed faintly, her hair catching the strange light of their world and gleaming with protest.
"What merit lies in spilled blood? What joy in the ruin of flesh and flame?" Her voice rose, tension flickering between each word. "When they fall, so too shall our mirth vanish—we shall return to the hush of the elder age, to stillness... and the endless grey of nothing."
He didn't flinch, nor react. His face, unreadable. He had heard her cries before—perhaps a thousand times. And perhaps a thousand more.
"This world lies within our grasp…"
A rustle—sharp, unnatural—cut through the air. Both stilled, heads snapping toward the sound.
Their forms drifted slightly apart, like two celestial bodies realigning, conscious of the watching cosmos.
"...yet few have hands strong enough to bear it."
And then it began—subtle at first. The illusion of humanity peeled away at the edges. Light bent around them unnaturally, revealing what lay beneath.
Her golden hair shifted, its hue draining gently into silver-white strands. No child's face remained—only the glow of an ancient being shaped by eons.
From his skin, black veins pulsed outward like ink spilled beneath glass. The whites of his eyes shrank, swallowed by abyssal black, save for the pinpricks of white left around his pupils—like stars in a dead sky.
.
.
.
Ballads from songbirds perched on branches of olive trees drifted through the air, mingling with lively chatter not far beyond the hedges. Near a grand temple carved from the finest white marble stood a well-tended garden, its pathways leading into a maze designed to conceal a singular treasure — a grand fountain at its heart.
The olive trees stood upright in an organized fashion, their silvery leaves catching glints of the sun. Gold linings traced the edges of every junction in the maze, each turn more intricate than the last. This place had long earned its reputation as a rendezvous for lovers. Even the divine clung to certain clichés.
Footsteps disturbed the peace. Then a shout pierced the garden.
"Deimos!" she cried, her voice echoing sharply off the marble.
Her free hand beat against his grip, struggling to break free from his fingers wrapped tightly around her wrist. The pace he dragged her along forced her feet to stumble, nearly sending her to the ground.
"What cause have I given to stir thy wrath" she gasped, her breath uneven as she tried to match his stride.
The girl — once naive, now grown — bore the beauty of one shaped by time and divinity. Of average stature, yes, but with the sculpted elegance of ideals mortals could never hope to reach. Her eyes, once uncertain in hue, had settled into a stormy mix of blue and gray. The white fabric she wore flowed around her as if it were alive, lengthening with her steps like mist trailing royalty. Upon her head, a gold laurel crown glinted under the dappled light.
"Dei—" Her voice was cut off as he suddenly turned and thrust her against the garden wall. The impact of the limestone against her back knocked the wind out of her lungs.
Light — thin and merciless — appeared out of nowhere and streaked toward her, piercing through her skin like needles of pain.
Deimos knelt before her, his shadow falling over her like a curtain of night. He raised his hand, then slowly wrapped his fingers around her neck.
"Aureus hath betrayed me," he growled, though the sound no longer resembled a human voice. It came out guttural — demonic.
Black veins crawled across his skin like cracks in stone, visible beneath the surface. The whites of his eyes were now tainted with ink, and his nails had lengthened into natural blades.
Her own hands shot up to pry his fingers away, both palms pushing against his with desperation. But his strength was overwhelming — otherworldly. He didn't flinch.
"Thy father," he spat, "has taken what was sacred, and now dares to cast his shadow upon my lands!"
Her breath hitched, her voice trembled as she tried to speak. "What bond lies between... his deeds and mine? Must I... be chained... to the folly of another?"
Tears welled up in her eyes, her lips quivering. His gaze bore into her — if stares could wound, she would've already bled dry.
"His blood runs in thy veins," he whispered, voice heavy with rage and venom.
For a moment, nothing moved. Even the birds had stopped singing.
"For his trespass, thou shalt bear the cost."
Though his grip tightened, it was still controlled — restrained. A war raged inside him, and she was the unwilling center of it.
The sky above darkened just slightly, as if the garden itself recoiled.