The scent of warm honeyed bread and spiced tea filled the stone kitchen hall, golden sunlight spilling across the polished floors of the sanctuary. Birds chirped somewhere in the trees outside, but inside, it was... tense.
Well, not for Kyle. He was seated at the head of the table, sipping his tea with a deliberately neutral expression and watching the most delicate cold war in Teyvat unfold in real time.
To his left, Egeria sat upright and composed, her hair tied up in its usual neat fashion, her porcelain-like features betraying only the faintest crack of discomfort—eyes flickering occasionally toward the woman sitting directly across from her.
And that woman—Buer—was ignoring her with the precision of a professional sulker.
The Archon of Wisdom, the once-goddess of the rainforest and knowledge incarnate, was currently buttering her toast with the same gentle grace she used to guide civilizations. But each movement screamed of passive aggression.
She passed the jam to Kyle. She passed the water to Kyle. She smiled at Kyle.
To Egeria? Nothing. Not a glance. Not even a crumb.
Egeria poured tea with the grace of a mountain spring—fluid, practiced, controlled. But Kyle didn't miss the slight hitch in her breath or the way her hand lingered a second longer than usual on the cup she slid in Buer's direction.
A cup that Buer pointedly did not take.
Egeria blinked. "You… like that blend, don't you? From the amber root I picked yesterday."
Silence.
Buer took a long, theatrical sip from her water cup instead, pinky extended like a noble snubbing a peasant.
Kyle suppressed a cough. Here we go.
Egeria tried again. "The honey's from the southern grove. The bees started swarming earlier than expected this season."
Still nothing.
Buer calmly sliced into a plum, meticulously removing the pit and setting it aside like it had personally offended her. Her expression never changed, but the tension in the room was palpable—like the lake outside had frozen solid and slunk indoors.
Kyle chewed faster. Abort, abort.
Egeria's voice dropped a little lower, softer. "You've been unusually quiet this morning."
Still. Not. A word.
Then, with all the drama of a seasoned actress, Buer turned slightly toward Kyle, never once acknowledging the other woman at the table.
"Kyle, darling," she said sweetly, placing a gentle hand on his arm, "could you pass me the bread?"
He blinked. The bread was right in front of her.
"…It's literally next to your elbow."
"I know," she said with a sugar-laced smile, "but I prefer it when you give it to me."
Egeria's eye twitched.
Kyle, caught somewhere between amusement and horror, handed her the bread. "Here. Your royal loaf."
Buer gave him a gracious nod. "Thank you, love. At least you still have manners."
The dig was so subtle Kyle almost missed it.
Egeria didn't.
There was a soft clink as she set down her cup a little too firmly. "I know you're angry, Buer. But must we pretend I've become invisible?"
"I'm not angry," Buer said airily, taking a bite of bread. "I'm simply… conserving energy. Wouldn't want to waste words where they aren't needed."
"Ouch," Kyle muttered under his breath, reaching for more tea.
Egeria's posture, usually flawless, slumped just a little. Her next words were quieter. "I didn't want to hurt him. You know that."
Buer didn't answer.
But her slicing of the next plum got noticeably more aggressive.
Kyle watched the blade slide through the fruit and decided maybe it was best to redirect. "Soo… anyone read anything interesting lately? Ancient prophecies? Stupid Akademiya papers about Buer's hat?"
Buer's lips twitched—just slightly.
Egeria gave him a look like thank you, though her gaze quickly flicked back to Buer with the weight of unspoken apology.
Buer, however, busied herself by tearing the bread into needlessly small pieces.
Kyle inwardly sighed. Breakfast diplomacy: failed.
Still… he saw it. In the way Egeria's hands lingered on the handle of the teapot. In the rare quietness of Buer's amusement. The rift between them wasn't permanent. It was hurt, not hatred. A cold front, not a storm.
But for now?
He took another bite of bread and braced himself.
It was going to be a long morning.
The kitchen had long since quieted.
The plates were cleared. The tea cooled.
And Buer, after finishing her fifth piece of deliberately-sliced fruit, had wandered off with a soft "I think I'll take a walk… alone" and a lingering glance that managed to be both pointed and nonchalant.
Now Kyle stood on the wooden terrace just outside the sanctuary's stone hall, hands tucked into his sleeves as the mountain wind danced past. The scent of dew and honey lingered in the air, mingling with the distant calls of birds.
Footsteps behind him—measured, deliberate.
He didn't have to turn to know it was her.
Egeria stopped just short of joining him at the railing. Her presence, as always, felt like gravity: silent but impossible to ignore.
"You've grown taller," she murmured at last.
Kyle blinked. "…Since this morning?"
A soft hum escaped her—half-amused, half something else. "No. Since before. When you first came to...my world."
He turned slowly to look at her. She wasn't facing him yet, her gaze set toward the distant lake below, pale hands clasped neatly in front of her. The morning light caught in her silver hair, and for a moment, she looked less like an ancient guardian and more like someone simply… uncertain.
"Stronger, too," she added, voice quieter now. "More difficult to frighten. Or… impress."
Kyle gave a slow, noncommittal shrug. "You kind of put me through a lot."
"I did." Her eyes closed for a moment. "More than you deserved."
He waited.
Egeria shifted slightly, finally facing him—not fully, but enough for her expression to become readable. And that was rare. He'd grown used to her calm mask, the regal bearing that rarely cracked.
But now?
She looked tired. Not physically, but in the soul-deep way a person looks when they've been holding something in too long.
"When I gave you that choice," she said, "I wasn't trying to trap you. I wasn't playing a game. I thought… if I gave you a clean exit, you'd take it. That it would spare you pain."
Kyle studied her carefully. The wind tugged at the edges of her robe, setting the delicate fabric fluttering like petals caught in a slow-motion breeze. But she didn't flinch, didn't hide. Not from him—not anymore.
"You were wrong," he said gently, not accusing. Just… steady.
Egeria's fingers tightened where they laced in front of her, the barest hitch in her breath betraying that his words had struck true.
"I know," she whispered. "I misjudged you. I've done that before—believed I was shielding someone, when all I truly did was rob them of the chance to choose for themselves."
Her voice carried the weight of centuries, the quiet self-reproach of one who had lived too long and seen too many regrets calcify into memories. She turned her face slightly toward him now, though her eyes stayed lowered, fixed on the terrace floorboards between them.
"You're not like the others, Kyle. Not just because of where you come from, or how you fought your way into this world. It's your heart. You keep offering it even after it's been wounded. And I…" She hesitated. "I was afraid I wouldn't be able to protect it. Not from this place. Not from myself."
He stepped closer, the wooden boards creaking underfoot, and leaned gently on the railing beside her. Close enough to feel her presence like the heat of a banked fire. But he didn't touch her. Not yet.
"I never asked you to protect me," he said quietly. "Just to trust me. Even if I get hurt… I want it to be on my terms. Because I chose to stay. Because I chose you."
At that, her eyes finally met his—slowly, searchingly. As if she was trying to determine whether he meant it or if she'd simply imagined the depth in his voice. But there was no guile in Kyle's face. Only quiet resolve, and a strange, aching softness she hadn't let herself hope for.
She looked away again, but this time not out of evasion. Just… overwhelmed. "I don't know how to be gentle with the people I love," she admitted, the words barely audible above the wind. "I've always been too much or not enough. I thought it was mercy to push you away before it could hurt more."
She hadn't meant to say it.
Not like that.
The words slipped past her defenses like a blade dulled by time—I don't know how to be gentle with the people I love—and now they lingered in the space between them, raw and trembling.
The wind curled around her as if to shield her from what she'd revealed, tugging at the sleeves of her robe, teasing strands of hair loose from their proper place. But nothing could cover the look on Kyle's face.
He didn't flinch. He didn't look confused or wounded or uncertain.
He looked like he understood.
And somehow, that was worse.
Because she had spent centuries being unknowable. Inviolable. A being born in times long forgotten.
But now, here, beside him…
She felt fragile.
This feeling fragile was the reason she rejected his feelings, rejected his advances. It went completely against how she had lived her whole life.
But Egeria wasn't a fool, she had realized she has been fighting a loosing battle, that one day her effing adorable of a disciple would cross the line and she...she won't be able to hold back anymore.
He made her knees weak.
She hated that.
No—she didn't hate him, she never had. But the powerlessness he made her feel—the softness he awakened inside her with something as simple as a look, a word, the way he stood beside her in silence and never asked her to be anyone but herself—that terrified her more than any war or divine calamity ever could.
So she had done what she always did when she feared something would break her: she tried to control it.
She rationed the touches. The glances. The tenderness.
She let herself indulge only in the rarest of moments—a hand brushing his when passing a teacup, a fleeting smile when no one was watching, the quiet confession of a memory she had never spoken aloud before.
Little things.
Moments she allowed herself because she believed—hoped, even—that if she surrendered in fragments, the dam within her would hold. That if she cracked the gates slowly, she could manage the flood of feeling instead of being swept away by it.
But she was losing.
And she knew it.
Every day he remained in her sanctuary, every quiet morning like this one, every shared silence that lingered too long, chipped away at her resolve. His presence was like water on stone—gentle, constant, and inevitable.
And the worst part?
She was starting to want it to break.
She was tired of being the deity who loved from a distance. Tired of protecting him with cruelty and cold logic. Tired of telling herself that what they had was nothing more than coincidence and kindness.
Her fingers clenched slowly at her sides, then relaxed. Her gaze drifted downward—to the floor, to her own trembling hands. She was still avoiding looking at him directly. It was easier that way.
But even without seeing him, she felt him.
Close.
Warm.
Present.
Like a hearth fire in a home she didn't realize she'd built around him.
"You keep offering your heart like it won't break," she murmured, voice barely audible. "And I… I keep telling myself I'm sparing you pain by not accepting it."
Kyle didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
She could feel his attention on her like the sun through glass—steady, illuminating every shadow she tried to keep hidden.
Egeria had never been one for sudden gestures.
She moved like moonlight—measured, graceful, always composed. Even in battle, even in sorrow. A woman of ancient origin and boundless power, who wore restraint like silk across her skin.
But in that moment—something cracked.
Something gentle and quiet and tired inside her broke through the centuries of restraint.
"I'm sorry, I was wrong," she whispered, and before she could stop herself, she stepped into him—closed the space between them in a single breath and folded herself into his arms.
She hugged him.
No divine pretense, no stiff formality. Just her, arms wrapping around him like she'd wanted to do for years, like she'd imagined doing on so many lonely nights after he'd fallen asleep near the fire. Her body pressed against his, warm and trembling, her face buried against the firm line of his chest.
And Kyle…
Kyle didn't hesitate.
His arms came around her in an instant, steady and sure, as if he had always been waiting for this. As if he had been ready, and knew exactly how much care to offer a goddess who had never known how to fall apart in someone else's arms.
She exhaled—slow, shaky.
She knew for certainty that she never wanted him to leave for he was her sanctuary now.