Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hello, My name is Calypso.

Once, I was called Cerces—Titan of Reason, keeper of logic’s eternal flame, the unbending spine behind creation's law. I did not rule with a crown, nor command with voice; I simply was, alongside my counterparts: Kephale, who shaped form, and Mnestia, who preserved memory. Together, we were the unseen structure beneath gods and mortals alike.

And then... things changed.

Mnestia fell first, drawn down not by force, but by curiosity—by feeling. A flaw I warned her about. A softness she insisted on exploring. Then I, too, was drawn into the spiral—dragged down, not by divine decree or celestial war, but by something far more absurd:

A play.

A divine theater, penned by none other than a human—a mortal, no less—who fancied himself a scholar of the cosmos. An alchemist, if you asked his peers. A lunatic, if you asked me then.

His name was Anaxagoras, scion of the Chrysos Heirs. A man with more ambition than sense. The type who smiles while breaking every law of metaphysics, then writes a footnote to apologize. I loathed him.

I loathed him... right up until he cast me.

Yes, cast me. As if I were some stage actress in his godborn tragedy. He wrote the lines, bent the stage, and—through a ritual both brilliant and insultingly crude—swapped his soul into my divine body.

And now, the curtain has fallen. The play has ended.

I am no longer Cerces. That name belonged to a pillar.

Now, I am Calypso—named, not defined. I walk in my own body again, shaped from the homunculus shell once made to host my coreflame. I breathe air I never knew. I eat, I laugh, I scold, I weep. I am mother, wife, and newly born woman.

And he—Anaxagoras—my husband, gods help me, still dares to smile like he’s cleverer than fate.

Mnestia? She lives now too, somewhere deep inside Aglaea, the second wife. The Goldweaver. And we three—goddess, queen, and fool—have bound ourselves together through a web no Titan could ever have predicted.

A year after the theatrical disasters, divine rewrites, and one spectacular failure to become a god, our husband’s plan crumbled like wet parchment.

In its place? Something far stranger. Something far more permanent.

Me. Calypso. Reborn in flesh of my own choosing—imperfect, breathing, mortal in all the ways that matter.

And with that breath, in the ninth month after the curtain fell, I brought forth something I had never imagined I could create.

A child.

Not an idea. Not a symbol. A daughter.

Her name is Caliophe—the Little flower branch. She came into this world with a round, pink face, curly tufts of bronze-beige hair like mine, and eyes far too smug for an infant. Anaxa’s eyes, may the stars take pity on us all.

And I... I was overwhelmed.

The moment I held her, something ancient in me shattered—something Titan and cold and very sure of itself. I had governed logic. Now I was governed by the soft, squishy tyranny of a baby barely the size of a cabbage.

The fatigue was unlike anything I had known. My arms ached. My mind blurred. My robes were always stained. My time was no longer mine. And yet—

It was sublime.

Because Caliophe wasn’t just a child. She was mine. The first thing I had give birth with this mortal body.

And perhaps that was why Mnestia, still curled in the quiet corners of Aglaea’s soul, seemed so giddy whenever she looked at Caliophe. She saw something familiar. A miniature version of me, before the cold, before the crown.

Though of course, she never missed an opportunity to torment Anaxa with it.

“Oh look,” she would hum through Aglaea’s dry voice, “she has your nose. What a tragic fate for an otherwise perfect being.”

Speaking of which… there was also another.

Another woman who now called the same man husband. Another wielder of power, grace, and patience long since fraying.

The Lady Goldweaver. Aglaea.

Priestess of Mnestia. Seamstress of the divine. Scourge of bureaucracy and softness alike.

She, too, had once stood above the world, not as a Titan, but as something more terrifying: a mortal woman with a plan.

 And now—after a year of shouting, cold glares, and suspiciously long "tea breaks" with Mnestia humming sweet nothings in her ear—she was showing signs of her first pregnancy.

I admit, I had once believed our husband’s ahem... DICK... was more ceremonial than functional. A limp wand with too much theory and not enough spark.

But perhaps luck smiled on him. Or perhaps Aglaea was simply exceptionally fertile when furious. Either way, the result was now visibly rounding beneath her belt sash.

She stood across the room now, hunched over her desk, sharp-eyed and fuming, a stack of design drafts and business reports crumpling beneath her increasingly erratic pen strokes. She looked ready to burn her own logo off the letterhead.

I watched with mild amusement, swaying Caliophe in my arms.

Any moment now, I thought. Her mood swing will strike, and Anaxa—who was blissfully reading parenting books in the next room—would be her next canvas for wrath.

And when that happened? Oh yes.

I would be delighted.

Tormenting our husband had become my second favorite pastime, right after spending each morning with Caliophe.

Sometimes I did both at once.

Ah, motherhood.

After a year of punishment—which he earned, mind you, through one hubristic plan after another—Anaxa had finally been granted permission to conduct research again.

With conditions.

He was now allowed access to certain books, certain scrolls, and certain tools—all of which must remain within a ten-meter leash of the Goldweaver estate. The leash in question being metaphorical and, more importantly, literal.

Yes. He still wears that ankle monitor.

And yes—he is still accompanied at all times by three of Aglaea’s finest garmentmakers, who double as assistants, guards, and occasionally babysitters. I believe one of them knits passive-aggressively when he’s thinking too hard. Another takes notes every time he sighs in frustration.

This includes, of course, the bath. And the restroom.

No privacy whatsoever.

The  irony.

The man who once tried to escape me by growing a homunculus in secret is now a leashed husband, a watched scholar, and a tired father of two soon enough.

And I must say—he carries it with all the dignity of a goose waddling through his own spilled ink.

I’m thinking of writing a novel about all this, one day. Maybe a little illustrated memoir.

“Divine Domesticity: Or How to Raise a God and Tame a Rat.”

Yes, I’ll include everything. Even my diary about Caliophe’s growth.

My little bunny.

She’s already reaching out to light. Already watching reflections. Already making noises that rattle clouds.

As if on cue—because the fates do love a well-timed bit of theater—Aglaea set down her quill with a dramatic sigh, rubbed her tired eyes, and slowly stood. A little wobble. A breath. The deliberate calm of a woman trying very hard not to incinerate her own office.

She didn’t say a word.

She simply turned and walked—no, marched—toward the next room, where our dear husband was supposedly researching “newborn bonding techniques.”

I shifted Caliophe over my shoulder, gently patting her back as I listened, utterly at peace.

Three seconds later, the walls trembled ever so slightly.

“ANAXAGORAS.”

Ah. There it is.

Her voice, sharp as a blade, echoed through the estate.

“These books were alphabetized by author for a reason! Were you just raised in a crater?!”

“And why is there parchment on the floor?! Have you been annotating again?!”

“You know the rules—NO INK UNATTENDED!”

I could hear him already scrambling. His voice came soft and overly soothing, like someone trying to pet a thundercloud:

“My dearest Aglaea, I assure you, it’s only a minor misplacement—these are the texts you approved, I haven’t gone beyond the index—see? ‘Bonding with Infants and Other Volatile Entities’—chapter four has illustrations, and—”

“That is a cursed index!”

Oh dear.

Cursed? Was there such a thing as forbidden parenting texts?

I was reasonably sure the collection we gave him was nothing but pastel-covered manuals on burping techniques and emotional affirmation. Unless of course he’d smuggled in something more… experimental.

Still, it didn’t matter. He yielded immediately.

That was the rhythm of their dynamic, after all: he pokes, she seethes, he apologizes, she flares higher. It was a duet of tension and unspoken affection, somewhere between opera and war crime.

I watched my baby’s eyelids flutter, her belly full and warm, her tiny fingers twitching near her face.

“You don’t even care that I’m pregnant, do you!?”

Aglaea’s voice cracked.

Ah.

And there it was—the spiral. The turn.

I frowned for a moment, gently rocking Caliophe in my arms.

Was I this bad in my first month?

No…Surely not.

Watching the whole scene unfold from my cozy chaise, with Caliophe asleep and full of milk, was truly one of life’s finer pleasures.

She let out a soft burp, and I gave her a gentle little tap of approval on the back.

“That’s my good little tree branch,” I whispered, smiling.

It was during these quiet moments, with her safely in dreamland, that I indulged in my other pastime:

Cheerleading Aglaea.

Silently, of course. Sometimes through Mnestia, when she’s bored enough to meddle.

“Oh come on, get him! You’re right, he does look smug!”

“That’s your husband, not a fellow researcher—throw the inkpot if you need to.”

And oh, how it escalated.

Aglaea, bless her divine bones, has grown more… how should I say this… sadistic over the past year. Her lectures turned into interrogations, her critiques tactical takedowns. And once, just once, she actually used a ruler like a weapon and smacked Anaxa’s hand when he reached for a book on reflexology.

It was a slow bloom, but now that I think about it…

She might actually be more sadistic than me.

A tiny shiver of pride ran down my spine. Or perhaps it was concern. Unlikely.

Then again—maybe the real twist was…

Anaxa is the original masochist.

Why else would he try to run from us and end up with two hormonal, volatile wives and no door he could safely lock?

The irony never got old.

He spends his days with three garmentmakers shadowing his every move like geese in uniform. He can’t bathe without being watched. He tried to birth a homunculus to avoid intimacy, and now he’s a dad with a belly-kicking wife and a newborn daughter who already sneezes like him.

Every time he tried to retreat to some dusty corner of thought, we dragged him back into mortal chaos.

And it was fun.

As I was lost in thought—gently patting little Caliophe—the storm passed, as expected. A silence settled, the kind that always follows a particularly passionate debate in this household.

I didn’t even need to listen to know what had happened.

Anaxa had most likely done what he’s learned to do best when words fail: touch. Either a kiss, a lingering hug from behind, or something else… physical. He only figured it out months after being integrated into the Goldweaver estate—that Aglaea’s rage could sometimes be soothed with warmth, not wit.

And right on cue, he emerged.

Dragging his feet ever so slightly, our good little husband stepped into the room with the expression of a man who had just negotiated peace with a dragon.

His hair was a little tousled, the collar of his robe tugged askew, his hands still warm from battle. He didn’t even glance my way, not yet—just approached the table like a loyal servant and began tidying up Aglaea’s scattered design papers.

My amusement swelled. Such a diligent creature. Exhausted from one conflict and already preparing for the next. If he weren’t such an insufferable rat once upon a time, I might have cried from how endearing he’s become.

Just a couple moments later, he finally settled on the couch with the weight of the day pressing into his shoulders. His gaze found me, quiet and expectant. Then he asked, with that soft tone he only uses when trying not to wake a certain someone,

“Is Caliophe asleep?”

I gave her a gentle rock for good measure and then handed her over without a word. She gave a tiny sleepy noise in protest, but then nestled into his arms like a puzzle piece finding home.

It still amused me—how awkward he was at first. The first time I gave her to him, he held her like one might hold a cursed artifact. Like her soft little limbs were woven from paper and spells. He didn’t even know how to support her head until I fixed his hands myself.

But once he got the hang of it? Mm. The sight was unexpectedly endearing.

A bit disgusting as well.

I caught myself smiling and felt my stomach twist in revulsion.

Was I a bad person?

No. Of course not.

It’s just… that face he makes. That proud little smug on his lips, like he’d just built a temple with his bare hands instead of learning to burp a baby. It always looks like he’s scheming something. Plotting.

No good can come from a smile like that.

Still, he cradled Caliophe so gently now. Whispered little words to her, nonsense syllables, and quiet hums. He had come far for a man who once tried to clone himself to escape fatherhood.

Maybe I should reward him.

Or maybe… tease him a little more.

So with that thought, I rose and drifted behind him, my steps quiet on the carpeted floor. Then, with all the gentleness of a fox approaching a henhouse, I placed my hands on his shoulders… and squeezed.

As expected, he jumped like I’d poked him with a branding iron.

“Ah—!”

Caliophe stirred in his arms, her tiny fists flinching as she let out a confused little squeak.

Oops. Mama forgot. My bad.

But to his credit, with the smooth instinct of someone who’s done this a million times, he began to rock her gently, rhythmically, humming under his breath. Within seconds, she drifted back into sleep, snuggling against his chest with a soft sigh.

He didn’t say anything, but the glare he gave me said enough.

Naturally, I grinned.

“Sorry~,” I whispered with absolutely no sincerity as I leaned in and nuzzled his neck. “Just wanted to check if your muscles were still made of marble or tofu.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t stop me either.

He glanced at me, tilting his head slightly—an unspoken question in his eyes.

"She already had her milk," I whispered, brushing Caliophe’s soft hair with a fingertip.

He nodded, then looked at the bottle warmer on the counter, hesitating for a moment.

“You want some too?” I teased, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded again, wordlessly, as if to say “Why not? I'm already trapped in this mad house.”

So, I walked over to the freezer, retrieved a small bottle, shook it with care, and handed it to him with a smile just a bit too sweet.

“Here you go, dear.”

“Thanks,” he said quietly, and took a sip—calm, unsuspecting.

Then, he froze.

His brows drew together.

He looked at the bottle.

Then at me.

“…Is it just me, or is this… different?” he asked.

I tried very hard not to grin. “Oh, that? That’s my breast milk.”

The result was glorious.

He choked so hard he practically sputtered the milk in a fine mist. At the same time, and to his credit, he skillfully hoisted Caliophe up and away from the splash zone like a seasoned dancer spinning a prop.

“You what?!” he coughed, turning red, trying to regain composure as he wiped his lips.

I collapsed into the couch laughing, holding my stomach.

“Oh gods above—are you insane?!” he hissed.

I wheezed as I tried to explain, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. “That was a kids milk, you fool—it’s sweeter. Aglaea’s the one who went grocery shopping last time, remember? She had one of her... hunger pangs and grabbed all the sugary brands.”

He stared at the bottle in horror, then at the freezer like it had personally betrayed him.

“Mmh,” he muttered darkly, getting to his feet with that patented scowl of quiet suffering. “You’re all crazy.”

“Love you too,” I cooed, grinning as he walked away.

He cradled Caliophe protectively—like she was the only sane being left in the entire Goldweaver Estate—and shuffled out toward the balcony. Sunlight poured in from the wide panes, illuminating his silhouette like a tired old man who had seen too much.

He gently rocked her, letting the soft light warm her cheeks as he muttered something under his breath. Maybe a lullaby. Or a curse.

I stretched like a lazy cat, sighing at the ceiling.

The house was quiet again.

A rare peace, yes.

But also...

Boring.

My eyes drifted toward the drawer where I kept the “special” utensils. The ones labeled “For Husband’s Meals Only.”

Or maybe I could go nudge Aglaea. She hasn’t teased him today and I’m certain she’s just pretending to nap.

Hmm.

So many options.

What should I do next for my entertainment?

Chapter Text

Being a mother.

Ah yes... what an unfamiliar word—like a fleeting dream I never dared to chase.

As the sovereign of the Chrysos Heirs, chosen to inherit the Coreflame of Romance and safeguard the holy city for over a century, I—Aglaea—have stood as a paragon of order, sacrifice, and unwavering resolve. I have endured wars, sculpted empires, and outlasted gods. And yet, that word... never entered my vocabulary. Not truly.

Not since I was a foolish girl once, scaling treetops to glimpse the distant world below, daring to believe in a future beyond duty.

But now—thanks but no thanks—to the once-Great Performer, the eccentric scholar Anaxagoras, that fate has been stitched into my life without my consent. Like a rip in divine tapestry, he appeared. And the moment I allowed myself to entertain even a sliver of affection, the spiral began.

The Heir to Reason.

The Foolish. My husband.

How absurd.

Yes, I thought that once the mantle of motherhood arrived, I would wear it with the grace of a swan—seasoned by centuries, wise beyond all mortal measure. Surely I would glide through it all with composure befitting a divine seamstress.

I was wrong.

When our first marriage became official, I expected the world to shift—some divine sign, a heralding storm, or at least something worthy of the ceremony we endured.

We tried, of course. A few times, even. He was like a starved beast at first—pathetically desperate, as if the mere sight of my skin cracked open years of self-restraint. I almost pitied him.

Almost.

I’ll admit, I anticipated results right away. After all, he looked like a man who hadn’t touched a woman since the day I left him. The way he pounced, the way his eyes—those maddening eyes—burned only for me. How foolish of me to forget that desire does not guarantee conception. Nor does love guarantee competence.

...Still, the experience was exhilarating.

To mingle again, lip to lip... body to body...

To feel that wild, forbidden fire rekindle in our veins.

And then, I chuckle.

Because I remember.

That time Cerces—or Calypso now—decided to inhabit his body.

A cruel trick of fate. A divine joke I can still taste on my tongue.

She could pilot stars, weave reason into life, and unravel paradoxes with a whisper—but she could not, no matter how much she tried, awaken his arousal.

And so the title of “Limp Noodle” was born. It stuck for a while.

Among the girls in our little circle, it still makes an appearance from time to time.

But Despite everything...

Despite his idiocy, his unpredictability, and the sheer embarrassment of being the mother of his child...

I stayed.

I was confused at the beginning. Deeply so.

Even I, the so-called Paragon of Romance, couldn’t decipher the silence of my own body.
I visited my private physician—discreetly, of course. Told them it was a routine checkup. A lie as paper-thin as my patience.

"Is it because I’ve never used it... to copulate?" The thought twisted like thorns inside me.

Could it be… that my body, untouched for centuries, had sealed itself shut like a forgotten temple?

Sterile.

What a vile word.

A cruel curse for someone like me—chosen by fate, beloved by the people, bound to a man who had already proven fertile elsewhere.

The horror crept in slowly. Like frost under skin. I kept it buried, locked beneath layers of silence. Not even Anaxa knew.

Meanwhile, Calypso’s pregnancy bloomed like spring incarnate.

Her belly swelled with promise, pride, and all the attention I once considered mine by right.
She glowed with smug delight, parading her absurd cravings and swollen ankles as if they were trophies.

And I—

I was babeless.

Mocked by my own silence. Devoured by shame.

Even stepping outside the estate became a feat.

To meet the gazes of my Chrysos Heirs… to endure their subtle glances, their pitying questions cloaked in flattery...

No.

I would rather stay hidden. Dignified in absence.

Because if I showed even a crack, even a flicker of uncertainty—then they would know.

It was the eight month of Reaping when I finally swallowed my pride—a bitter fruit, thorned and heavy on the tongue.

I needed answers. Not from alchemists, not from books, not from my own tired, sterile thoughts. But from someone I could trust.

And so I went to the Twilight Courtyard.

Hyacinthia.

A gentle soul, careful and quiet—the kind who would never betray me, even if I screamed into her ear.I found her tending to a cluster of palewing lilies, her back bent like a question I hadn’t dared to ask until now.

When I told her, voice low and sharp like an arrow notched against decorum, she blinked. Hesitated. Then whispered the truth that shattered me:

Anaxagoras—my husband—had come to her. Not for potions.

But for contraceptives.

Because his hands—so cursed by his own unholy fire—could no longer be trusted to mix herbs, he had asked her to do it.

Behind my back. Behind my pain.

While I was dreaming of holding a child in my arms, he was ensuring it would never happen.

I don’t remember walking.I don’t remember the gates.

I remember the color red. Not blood. Just red. A roaring, pulsing haze that drowned reason.

I stormed into the estate, tore through the front hall, and found him in the study.

He barely had time to look up.

My hands found his throat with a grace that surprised even me.
One twist. A push. And I had him pinned to the marble wall, his singular eye bulging in alarm as air abandoned him.

And when it rolled upward, when his legs twitched like a stunned insect—I let go.

Just enough to let him fall, gasping.

Then I pulled him back up.

And did it again.

Because how dare he?

How dare he steal that from me? That hope. That chance. That future I never even let myself want until he made me believe it was possible.

I don’t know when the rage melted into something else.

Maybe it was when I noticed the trail of blood running from his nose. Or when his one good eye had turned the color of bruised dusk. Or perhaps when I realized my own knuckles were raw and red—not from regret, but from trying to make him understand.

And yet...he held me.

Even now.

His arms—bruised and shaking—wrapped around me as though I were something precious. Fragile. Sacred. As though I hadn’t just tried to throttle the breath out of him.

His voice came low, soft against my ear, a whisper tangled in warmth and guilt. “I didn’t want to burden you...You already carry the weight of a city. A child too? I—I couldn’t. I couldn’t do that to you.”

For a moment, silence hung between us. A lullaby wrapped in thorns.

His words were sweet. Too sweet.

And suddenly, I imagined it. That stupid little smirk.

The one he always wore when he thought he’d outmaneuvered me with kindness. It flickered in my mind’s eye—smug, bashful, Anaxagoras.

My knee answered on reflex.

Thud.

A satisfying, pained wheeze escaped him as he crumpled, hands instinctively cupping his ruined pride. I grabbed his collar, dragging him close.

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” I growled, voice low as winter frost. “I’m not a delicate poem you hide from the storm—I am the storm. Do not dare shield me from my own life.”

And then I pushed him down. And we did it again.

That night. On the cold floor, with twilight bleeding through the windows.

It was wilder than usual. Messy. Unforgiving. Starved.

I just hoped—prayed—that none of my handmaids had come back early from their errands.
Though knowing them, they probably heard everything.

Still.

I didn’t care.

For once, I let myself want.

Sometime after that night… we started doing it more than usual.

It always began the same. With me storming in, fists clenched, ready to strangle the life out of him for some new offense—real or imagined.

And it always ended the same.

Breathless. Sweaty. Sprawled in a mess of tangled limbs and bruised pride.

Once, Calypso had the gall to comment, her arms full of swaddling cloth and that ever-knowing smirk on her lips.

“You know, darling, he always looks like he just crawled out of a street brawl. You sure you're not retraining him instead of loving him?”

I didn’t respond. I just sipped my wine and stared into the distance like a noble widow in mourning.

But inside?

That little seed of thought dug deep. Was I… a sadist? And my husband… a shameless masochist?

It wasn’t even shame that followed—just a thrilling chill crawling down my spine, settling warmly in my bones.

I remember catching sight of my reflection after one of our “evenings.” Lips bitten red, neck flushed, a faint smile tugging at the corners.

I looked alive.

Like the foolish girl I once was, climbing treetops to glimpse the world beyond.

And maybe—just maybe—this was what the world gave me in return. Not a fairytale. But a broken scholar with too much heart, too many bandages, and an annoyingly lovable habit of letting me win.

And I?

I kept breaking him.

Only to kiss him better afterward.

And just like that, the natural law of the cosmos—no matter how late or cruel—finally took its course.

Between the flurry of our… rituals, the bruises disguised as love marks, and my consistent delivery of death threats whispered like pillow talk, the first sign came when I lurched toward the sink mid-meal, barely registering the stew before it made its swift return.

It was violent. Undignified.

My hands gripped the marble. My stomach revolted.

And yet—There he was. Anaxagoras. Stooping beside me without a word, gently gathering my hair behind my ears, one hand rhythmically rubbing small, steady circles along my back.

The absurdity struck me too late.

Of course, he’d be calm. The man has faced collapsing laboratories, magical explosions, and even Calypso’s terrible cooking. My retching was practically serene by comparison.

“Congrats!” A chipper voice sang behind us.

I didn’t even have the strength to look. Calypso.

She waltzed into the kitchen like a gleeful court jester, cradling her own enormous belly, radiating smugness. “Guess the Coreflame finally heard you two screaming at each other enough to bless you,” she laughed.

I wanted to throw the kitchen knife at her. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream.

Instead, I trembled.

Later that day, I went to my physician. My trusted one. The only one I could bear to let near without putting on a show of steel and certainty.

Her words came soft, almost reverent. “You’re with child, Lady Aglaea. The heartbeat is strong.”

I stared blankly for a long moment. No laughter. No tears. Just stillness.

I was pregnant.

After all this time, after the failed hopes, the buried shame, the chaos and collisions…

I was finally—

No.

We were finally expecting.

And in that instant, I felt something loosen in me. Something old and guarded that had clung to the past.

I wasn’t just Aglaea the Paragon, or Aglaea the Sadist Queen, or Aglaea, Tyrant Wife of the Mad Scholar.

I was…

going to be a mother.

Even now, the word tastes strange in my mouth.

When I told him—when I finally uttered the words aloud with a tight chest and averted gaze—Anaxagoras, in all his usual smugness, simply blinked.

There was no shocked gasp. No exaggerated reaction like I half-feared and half-expected.

Just that insufferable, knowing tilt of his head.

A scholar’s response.

For a moment, I swore he was about to say something like,"Oh? I already calculated the odds and saw the signs—"

And if he had, I would’ve punched him square in the face. Repeatedly. Until his one good eye turned as black as my temper.

But he didn’t.

Instead…he smiled.

Not the usual sly smirk he wore when outwitting his opponents, nor the cryptic grin after pulling one of his reckless plans together.

This was… softer. Nostalgic.

The kind of smile I hadn't seen since we were children, back when we’d steal fruit from the Grove orchards and pelt each other in the golden twilight.

Back when our biggest worries were memorizing root formulas and not burning down a classroom with unstable potions.

Back when I hadn't built walls, and he hadn't started hiding behind riddles.

“I love you,” he said.

Just like that.

No preamble. No flourish. It was…foreign.

Like hearing a spell in an unknown tongue. Like trying to translate starlight into words.

But real.

His hand found mine, and when he kissed me— It wasn’t even about us trying anymore.

It was simply us.

His lips were warm and slow, lingering like a vow we never spoke when we wed.
I didn’t pull away.

For once, I didn’t overthink.

I just kissed him back.

No threats. No bruises.

Just breath shared between us in the silence of a new beginning.

Chapter Text

I once believed in the law of equal measure— that something must be taken to gain something in return.

Never did I believe in it more than I do now.

Where my sanity is slowly being siphoned, day after day. Where my body is worn thin from the weight of juggling not alchemy, not gods, but two women who now bear the title—my wives.

My wives...

Heh.

That word once belonged to a dream.

A foolish, soft dream whispered in the grove, where Aglaea and I used to speak of stars and names and futures that could never be.

Back then, we were just two students under the heavens. Nothing divine. Nothing cursed.

My teacher, Empedocles, once told me beneath the dim lights of the observatory—that the path to truth was a lonely one.

A narrow bridge of reason that no lover could follow. That to chase enlightenment, I would have to abandon comfort. Emotion. Companionship.

I chose that path.

Because I craved the truth more than anything.

And yet… as the truth lies before me, unmoving and silent, I tried— I tried to look back.

But there was no one left standing behind me.

Until—I felt their hands once more.

Warm. Clumsy. Frighteningly human.

My students. Aglaea.

Even the Titan of Reason herself—the one I once fled from, who now shares my bed and steals my pillow.

I had thought—no, prepared—that once this was over, once the child I named Caliophe became the Deliverer, I would be the one to stand in judgment.

Alone. Responsible. A scapegoat for everyone else’s sins.

And yet by some absurd twist of fate—although I am not forgiven, I still walk among them.

Not as a sage. Not as a judge.

But as a father—to the very one I once despised. And, if I dare admit it… the one I now love.

I—probably have become too emotional. It’s laughable, really. It must be her fault. That perverted Titan of Reason, who now calls herself a mother and makes me carry the laundry while lecturing me on quantum lullabies.

When I relinquished my rights—my title, my self— to the punishment of my peers, I had prepared for anything.

But fatherhood? To two women who, on any given day, might cook me alive with either their temper or their mischief?

Please.

It’s been a long time since I felt love. And now, somehow, I am officially married to the very women who once threatened to have my head.

It was…a jarring experience, to say the least. In the first month alone, I was placed under domestic sanctions. All of my laboratories were banned. Every chemical-related item I owned was either sealed, incinerated, or launched into the river.

Aglaea did it herself— with the same ruthless precision she uses when writing court sentences or tying up her hair.

Even my journals—my books—were forbidden.

Imagine, me, Anaxagoras, scholar of the Grove, reduced to peeling pomegranates and getting yelled at for leaving the kettle too hot.

For thirty days, I was detained—yes, detained—within the golden prison that is the Goldweaver estate.

No experiments.No theorems. Just… endless paperwork, calming teas, and learning what kind of milk doesn’t make Calypso sick.

Now Calypso to my surprise—adapted to married life far easier than any god should. Frankly, it was suspicious.

She was housed beside the estate, in a smaller wing that somehow—whether by divine architecture or a very cruel joke— connected directly to the main bedroom.

Both of them.

I could not sleep at all.

Every night, I lay motionless, sandwiched between a cold-rational queen and an emotional demigod with the self-restraint of a ferret on sugar. Their conversation, bizarrely civil, usually began like this:

“If we’re going to live together, we should at least try to get along.”

“Agreed. Like a playgroup for highly weaponized women.”

Meanwhile, I just stared at the ceiling, wondering if I could sneak into the cellar undetected.

Cerces—no, Calypso—during her first month of pregnancy was…

A nightmare.

Just as Aglaea had been.

Though instead of physical beatings, Calypso brought emotional tsunamis.

She cried because the pomegranate juice was “too red.” She laughed at a broken plate, then cried because she laughed.

One time, she told me I had “the emotional range of a limestone” and then kissed me so hard I forgot what day it was.

Aglaea, meanwhile, scolded me for letting Calypso nap too long—as if I had any power in the matter.

By week three, I developed a new skill: apologizing for things I didn’t understand.

“Sorry the cat looked at you funny.”

“Sorry the moon is crooked tonight.”

Every day was a diplomatic mission. Between hormones, house rules, and pillow politics, I considered building a second observatory in the garden just to sleep in.

But when Calypso clutched her stomach and smiled softly, and Aglaea touched her hand in a rare moment of sisterly affection… I realized: This madness, somehow…was ours.

The first trimester… was fine, relatively speaking.

Calypso’s pregnancy showed the usual signs: hormonal mood swings, erratic cravings, occasional declarations that the moon was judging her.

I tried—truly—to be the best possible husband.

I sat by her side when she needed company, rubbed her back when her feet hurt, even listened to her read poems about the "miracle of life"—which, in her words, was “like forging a star inside your spleen.”

But then…

There was The Bath Incident.

She said she wanted me to take a bath with her—so she wouldn’t drown.

I, naturally, declined.

Because there were four healers, two lifeguard spells, and a rubber duck in the tub already.

She cried. Loudly. Accused me of not loving the baby.

“It’s only a bath, woman!”

And then Aglaea—who was already tense because her own pregnancy hadn’t even begun thanks to meticulous contraceptive scheduling—slammed her quill down and glared at me like I had insulted the entire pantheon.

“Be a man,” she said, “and suck it up.”

Fine.

So there I was, soaking in a tub of rose-scented oils with a hormonal demigod clinging to my arm like a drowning kitten, while my first wife studied financial legislation in the other room and muttered about "insufferable men."

They say alchemists must suffer for the truth. Nobody told me that truth was wet, bubbly, and half-sobbing because the bath salts were “too lavender.”

That was just the first 3 months.

And let’s not forget Mnestia.

Oh yes, the spectral embodiment of divine trauma, walking around the estate like a silent threat dressed in velvet.

To her, Cerces—no, Calypso—getting too cozy with me was some kind of cosmic betrayal. Every time Calypso curled beside me, demanding affection like a purring demigod (while Aglaea furiously annotated tax codes in the adjacent room), Mnestia would appear.

Not overtly. Never in the open.

But in the flicker of candlelight. In the cold breeze that only touched my side of the bed. In the whisper that slithered across my ear:

“I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

Charming.

Other times, she’d just slap me across the face. Swift. Precise. Then vanish before Aglaea could even sit up.

And of course, every time I dared wake Aglaea for support, for proof I was not losing my mind,
I’d get nothing. Just her groggy, confused face.

Mnestia was clever like that. She made sure to always act when I was the only one awake—the only witness to her nocturnal vengeance.

I once set up a mirror spell to catch her in the act. She smiled at the mirror. Then cracked it. And spelled “Nice try.” in the shards.

At this point, I'm not sure if I’m sharing a bed with my wives, a god, or a vengeful myth wrapped in scented robes.

That was two nightmares—no, divine punishments—for the price of one, plaguing the first three months of my alleged honeymoon phase.

All while I was robbed—robbed, I say—of even a single opportunity to conduct an experiment.

Aglaea’s garmentmakers watched me like I was a prisoner of war under house arrest. Constant surveillance. No parole. They even followed me to the restroom unless “the master” was present. Apparently, a moment of privacy required permission from Her Highness.

And then came the second trimester.

Where everything began to feel real.

The baby wasn’t just an abstract horror anymore— it was now a growing weight that Calypso carried, and used as a blunt emotional weapon against me.

One day she’d call me “an unfeeling alchemical gargoyle,” and the next she'd burst into tears, accusing me of being a “father who has never once cared if she drowned in the bath.”

When I tried to ignore her, she'd up the stakes.She once gathered the servants in the front hall,
made eye contact with each of them, and said in a shaking voice:

“He hit me with a look.”

Then fainted into a chaise longue like some deranged opera lead.

One time, when I didn’t immediately give her a foot rub, she declared loudly to a passing gardener:

“I married a wife-beater.”

Cue shocked gasps and judgmental squints. Do you know how hard it is to explain divine pregnancy drama to a mortal gardener?

At this point, I wasn't sure if I was the father, or the scapegoat for every cosmic injustice that’s ever happened in this timeline.

But none of it—none of it—could prepare me for what came next.

One day, Aglaea returned home. Expression unreadable. Steps silent. She approached me like a judge from ancient tragedy: calm, deliberate, and fatal.

And then she punched me.

No questions. No warnings. Just—

"You devil!"

I barely sputtered out a “what did I do this time?” before I was hurled to the ground and repeatedly struck with the fury of a thousand betrayed goddesses.

Apparently— the idea that I had even thought about using contraceptive measures with her…was treason of the highest emotional order.

So I did what any cornered man with a shred of self-preservation would do:

I apologized.

And was promptly beaten again for thinking that would be enough.

But then it got worse.

Because something about my pathetic groveling—my black eye, maybe—seemed to turn her on.

What followed was not lovemaking. It was divine mating season in hell.

Anywhere. Anytime.

I’m not exaggerating when I say I lost the ability to walk straight for an entire week. I had to make up a lie to the Hyacine, saying I fell down the stairs.

She nodded in solemn pity.

The head maid—bless her ancient wisdom—caught sight of me limping past the corridor one morning, my shirt buttoned the wrong way, hair clearly disheveled by the forces of war.

She pulled me aside and said:

“Sir… you must control yourself. There are children in this estate.”

As if I wanted this.

I had become a man enslaved to the political libido of a woman who once ran a war and now treated me like a personal concubine-slash-test subject.

I could no longer tell the difference between fear and arousal. Between marriage and punishment.

All I knew was that I had to wake up early, put on my trousers backwards in panic, and avoid any door where either wife might be waiting for me, naked and angry.

There was a strange moment of peace, as rare as a lunar eclipse while being strangled by two goddesses.

I found them—Aglaea and Calypso—seated in the lounge. Drinking rose tea like proper ladies. Laughing softly. Discussing baby clothes.

But to my ears, it sounded like:

“Should we use silk or chains when swaddling him?”

“Let’s go with silk, but add emotional manipulation embroidery.”

Even when they're calm, they plot.

The only noticeable shift was Aglaea. She had mellowed out… ever so slightly. Not that she became “normal,” no, she just wasn’t tackling me into walls like she used to.

Maybe it was the relief. Maybe it was the pregnancy hormones finally working in my favor. Either way—our nights had become less combative and more… tolerable.

But that’s when the real panic set in.

Two wives. Two babies (probably).

And myself.

I’d faced mad alchemists, corrupt councils, soulbound demons, and even Cerces naked in my bed. But this? This was my greatest experiment yet— parenting without a lab manual.

So I did what no man should ever do unless he has nothing left to lose:

I begged.

“Please… both of you… I just need… something. A guide. A book. A scroll. Anything that teaches me how not to drop an infant or be smothered in my sleep.”

There was a long pause. I braced myself for impact.

Instead… Aglaea smiled.

A strange, chilling kind of smile, like she had waited for this moment.

“Of course, my dear,” she said, as if that was her plan all along.

She snapped her fingers, and her garmentmaker—yes, the one that’s usually one step away from sewing tracking runes into my undergarments—appeared silently and nodded.

And within the hour, I was presented a stack of books so thick it could block divine lightning.

Finally, the day I dreaded came as I stood there, in the warm-lit corridor of the nursery, facing what may well be the most terrifying equation I’ve ever solved.

Childbirth.

Calypso had gone into labor.

I was ordered—dragged, if you ask the bruises—to accompany her. Aglaea’s private physicians flanked us like pallbearers. Hyacine was there too, chirpy and unbothered, likely thinking this was all just a miracle of life moment. It was not.

The moment we entered the delivery room, the screams began. My ears are still ringing.

“YOU! THIS IS YOUR FAULT! I SHOULD’VE MADE YOU STERILE!”

She grabbed my hand like she meant to share the pain. And she did. Every tendon in my fingers snapped.

I believe I passed out momentarily, only to be revived by her headbutting me out of spite.

But Then something changed.

The air thickened. The screaming paused.

A cry. A soft, new, mortal cry.

a baby.

The baby I or.. we created—through blood, flame, and experimental hubris.Born not out of manipulation or legacy. But because somewhere in this mess, Calypso… Cerces… wanted something alive.

The physicians whispered their relief. Hyacine wiped tears from her eyes. Calypso lay exhausted, pale and quiet.

And I…

I looked down and saw the tiny thing wrapped in soft cloth. Not wings. Not fire. Not formulas. Just—“She looks like you, when you’re not being annoying,” Calypso muttered.

I didn’t argue.

Per Calypso’s request, the child was named Caliophe, and she has since become a part of my life.

No experiment could’ve prepared me for the way she gripped my pinky—one of the few fingers still intact—and blinked at me with those enormous, curious eyes.

Just… my daughter.

Chapter Text

First thing first—

Let it be known throughout the cosmos, across the shimmering plains of Aeons and the whispering hearts of mortals below, that I—Mnestia, the original, unparalleled, eternally luminous Goddess of Romance—extend my deepest, most resplendent congratulations.

To whom, you ask?

Why, none other than my own heir.

My pride.

Lady Aglaea.

Bearer of my Coreflame—how poetic that she who once sacrificed her fragile humanity for cold duty is now wrapped once again in the silks of destiny. And oh, how destiny knows how to pamper her favorites. For despite her sharp tongue and eyes colder than the peaks of mountain, she has been chosen—chosen!—to share breath, bed, and bond with Cerces.

My dear Cerces.

But for now, I shall be magnanimous. I shall bask in the radiance of her ascension. After all, Lady Aglaea has earned her place—a true leader among the Flamechasers, she has risen above mortal want and divine burden alike, and fate itself has handed me a golden invitation to stir the threads once more. Through her, I—Mnestia—have returned to the stage, draped in silk and pride.

…And unfortunately, it also means I must tolerate a certain scholar who smells like burnt magnesium and questionable decisions.

But again, we’ll get there.

Let us first admire how utterly glorious my legacy has become. Lady Aglaea, with her steely resolve and enviable cheekbones, has fulfilled what many others could only dream of.

She has taken the Coreflame and forged a future—and, might I add, she’s doing it while keeping Cerces and that grease-stained alchemist in check. If that’s not godly, I don’t know what is.

… the first month following Lady Aglaea’s divine verdict upon the rat—I mean, the so-called “Scholar”—was, in no uncertain terms, exhilarating.

Not in centuries have I tasted such rich, divine satisfaction as when I gazed upon the anguished, sleep-deprived face of that smug mortal. Each wince, each sigh, each defeated droop of his ridiculous shoulders fed my soul like vintage nectar.

Lady Aglaea—my Lady—showed not only the severity befitting a ruler of her caliber, but also the unshakable beauty of her heart.

Despite the treachery and alchemical foolishness that led to her condition, she still gave that man a chance—yes, a chance!—to atone. And by the stars, she reprimanded him with elegance, poise, and escalating physicality.

I remember with such joy as she smacked sense into him, over and over again, each lecture punctuated with either a slap of truth or the well-placed throw of a book. The man could barely respond, poor thing. He simply lowered his head, a beaten whelp, nodding feebly under the weight of her righteous fury.

And when the time came for Lady Aglaea to rest her noble frame—growing new life does demand recovery—I, Mnestia, stepped in to serve her divine will.

I haunted him.

I whispered romance curses into his dreams.

I knocked on walls, levitated chairs, and hummed dissonant lullabies until even the rats packed up and left.

He complained, naturally. Something about not being able to “sleep” or “breathe” or “feel joy.” But when he groaned to Aglaea about my nocturnal campaign, she simply shrugged, yawned, and told him: “Then maybe you should’ve thought about that before getting me pregnant, you irresponsible goat.”

Ah… how divine.

Each day he emerged from his quarters more slumped, more soulless, more like a pillowcase filled with guilt and defeat. And each day, I giggled like a starlit maiden behind my sleeve.

Truly, this was my paradise. A paradise of justice, sleeplessness, and watching the downfall of a man who had dared—dared!—to lay his ink-stained hands upon both my heir and my beloved Cerces’s legacy.

At first…I was mesmerized.

Not by his looks, heavens no. The man constantly smells like chalk dust and regret. But there was something—a glint—in that fool Anaxagoras’s eyes when he dared to stand before destiny, tossing ink and logic at the faces of gods.

He danced.

He schemed.

He pulled me and my darling Cerces into an impromptu cosmic drama involving switching souls, falsifying the divine laws of nature, and crafting a homunculus body out of pure hubris and chewing gum.

I almost respected him.

Foolishness, when executed with flair, does occasionally brush shoulders with bravery.

But then—THEN—came the downfall.

Not his.

Mine.

Because Cerces—MY Cerces, now going by Calypso in that absurdly adorable form—started smiling at him. Laughing with him. Touching his shoulder.

Relying on him.

I was horrified.

It was as if I had watched the moon fall in love with a puddle of melted candle wax.

I mean, what in the nine stanzas of celestial romance is happening? This man-child—this disheveled wreck who can barely comb his own hair without assistance—is now waltzing around playing father to a child forged from divine lineage and academic sin, and somehow, SOMEHOW—

Cerces is impressed?!

Every moment I see her nod politely at his babbling… Every time she hums while rocking their child—MY grand-heir—beside him…

My immortal spine shudders.

Tell me, is this what divine punishment feels like?

To watch the woman I serenaded in stardust fall for a man who once tried to name a baby after a chemical compound?

Sometimes—when we are alone, when the moonlight filters gently through the Grove and my Lady is too busy sipping tea while pretending not to notice me sighing dramatically—I take my chance.

I lower my head (gracefully, with poise befitting a goddess) and I ask kindly, as any reasonable, well-mannered divine spirit would:

“Cerces, my dearest… why?”

Why does she—a Titan, a song of reason spun from celestial equations and eternal stardust—entertain the presence of that ink-stained mortal alchemist?

Why does she not smite him on sight when he tries to flirt using metaphors that involve thermodynamics?

I do not—absolutely do not—ask her if she’s really, truly considering that man-child as a life partner.

Because I am proud. And elegant.

And possibly a coward.

Cerces always smiles at me when I ask. A soft, enigmatic smile that makes the stars tilt a little closer.

She tells me:

“Over the long time I’ve lived, Mnestia… I never fully understood what it means to be just an ordinary human. So, this time—I want to taste this life to the fullest.”

To this day, I cannot parse what that means.

Taste life?

You can’t taste life. Life is not a wine. It is not a fruit salad. It is not even a properly baked custard tart.

What does it mean to throw away celestial equilibrium, to embrace the unpredictable, the foolish, the fragile?

She says this while leaning fondly against a man who has named their child Calliophe—a name only slightly less ridiculous than his original suggestion, which I believe involved quantum phase anomalies.

I—I do not understand.

I, Mnestia, Goddess of Romance, Divine Arbiter of Love’s Pathways, who once composed a thousand poems to serenade her under ten suns—I am confused.

And so I admit—grudgingly, with the dignity of ten thousand hymns—that I have come to feel something I never thought a goddess like me would.

Emptiness.

Not grief. Not jealousy. Not even wrathful rejection.

But that hollow, shivering not-knowing.

That maddening void in the center of my divine self, when I gaze upon her—my Cerces, my brilliant, beloved enigma—and I realize I do not understand her anymore.

She is no longer just the Titan whose laughter once echoed across Reason’s spires. She is Cerces, now called Calypso, basked in mortal warmth, draped in mortal choice.

A beauty veiled in mystery… so deep, so endlessly layered, that I feel I must gather all the love in the world, pluck every whispered desire from every heart that beats, just to glimpse her truth.

And yet…

Even when I try to show her—clearly, vividly, with the most graceful theatrical gestures—how pathetic that alchemist man-child is…Even when I parade his flaws like a grand opera—

Look at him! Bowing his head again!

Oh? Trying to soothe her with clever tongue and ink-stained hands? Whispering flowery metaphors he barely understands himself?

Disgraceful.

I performed a full reenactment of his most groveling moments using a puppet made of silk and irony.

Cerces laughed. She laughed, I tell you!

She said it was “charming.”

Charming.

The same woman who once rewrote an entire planet’s orbit to spite a philosophy she disliked… now calls that mortal “charming” because he looked confused while apologizing with metaphor-laced tea.

Is this what it means to fall in love with the human world?

To choose tenderness over comprehension?

To embrace confusion rather than conquer it?

I… I don’t know.

And that—that not-knowing—may be the first time I have ever truly feared anything.

And so… in my divine wisdom and endless romantic vigilance, I have decided—nay, I have decreed—that I shall observe this mortal farce through the Gazing Mirror that is my beloved Lady Aglaea.

Ah yes, my precious Heir, radiant and austere, she reflects all that I could not say with words. Her silence, her steps, her subtle glances—they are my lens into the mystery that dares to blossom between her and that man.

Today, they walked through the Garden of Life—a place my Lady chose herself, no doubt seeking a more elegant backdrop to express divine superiority over lesser men. She walked with the gait of a queen and the presence of a deity returned from exile.

And him?

He trudged. Like a librarian with shin splints.

Lady Aglaea, in her boundless patience and grace, declared that she desired a change of scenery. Admirable. Dignified.

He merely nodded.

Nodded!

As if that were enough to match her poetic intention!

Then they encountered the Darling Teachers, the Triplets of Fate—those bizarre and energetic muses who somehow still exist on the border of cosmic comedy and tragic beauty.

My Lady, goddess-blessed and flawless, greeted them with a voice like sonnets in bloom.
And he—the man-child alchemist—just nodded again.

Just like that.

That was his greeting.

A nod. A shallow dip of the head, the kind one gives a passing dog or a half-remembered soup vendor.

What arrogance.

What gall, what hubris, what uncooked sense of decorum! To be in the presence of fated teachers and divine flame, and offer nothing but a neck twitch?

I watched as my Lady merely sighed, subtly, in that special way that tells me she’s suppressing the urge to smite. And yet—yet!—she allowed him to remain at her side. She let it pass, and continued walking with him as though it were acceptable!

Why?

What forbidden alchemy is this?

What crime against Romance allows such a man to stand shoulder to shoulder with divinity and not be instantly reduced to dust?

Even now, I feel myself twitching with indignation. My divine fingers curl into fists of petal and fire.

…There are many things I pride myself in knowing—stars, fate, hearts, and hymns. But nothing—nothing—prepared me for the moment I witnessed today.

It began simply. The darling triplets—those Fate-dancing muses—cheered and chirped and weaved blessings like sparrows on spring wind. They laughed and congratulated my Lady.

For what?

For the child that now blooms within her.

Yes. Pregnancy.

A divine miracle, they say. A sacred continuation of will, legacy, and flame.

And I—I, Mnestia, the Ever-Proud, the Eternal Admirer—felt… nothing. Not rage. Not jealousy. Not even disdain.

Only indifference.

An emotion so alien to me that it chilled my soul more than any storm of hate. I watched my Lady receive their praises, and yet my eyes were not on the three. They were on her.

And that is when I saw it.

Her smile.

It was unlike any smile she has ever worn before—not the smirk she offers to fools, not the wry curl she grants to rivals.

This was soft. Real. It melted every line of her face into something terrifyingly gentle.

And it was all because of him.

The scholar. The alchemist.

That man.

He knelt—not with the flair of a knight or the awe of a worshipper, but like a friend, like a partner, like someone who belongs. He placed a hand—not to possess, but to ask.

And then he spoke, in that quiet tone that makes my ears twitch:

“Are you all right?”

As if the question were some ancient vow, it struck her. She nodded once, her hand brushing over her belly.

And again—that smile. That terrifying, unexplainable, warm smile.

I have been with her through battles and festivals, through prophecy and silence. I have danced in her orbit like a devoted moon. But never—never—have I seen her wear an expression like that.

What is it?  What power did this man-child uncover?

What human magic could twist my goddess into someone so… tender?

I wanted to laugh. To scream.

But instead—I stared.

And—for the first time since I descended to watch them—

Afraid.

Chapter Text

It was a new experience! A delight! A thrill! Can you even imagine it? Me! Calypso—once the fearsome Titan of Creation, she who once plucked stars and spun worlds—now browsing root vegetables and arguing over milk prices at Mamoreal Market! Oh, how the mighty have… evolved!

But such is the charm of this new life! Our home, the newly build quarter, is still in chaotic migration. Aglaea, ever the commander, has ordered our husband’s many contraptions, flasks, blueprints, and suspicious beeping boxes to be transported from the Grove and integrated into our living quarters. It’s like housing a library, a bomb lab, and an overgrown bird nest under one roof.

Lovely!

And so, with great ceremony, I took initiative to go grocery shopping—an endeavor of utmost freedom after nine months of cruel confinement and nesting! Nine months, mind you! Of sitting still! Of nibbling dry nuts! Of resisting the urge to hurl alchemical textbooks out the window while Anaxa snored beside me!

But today? Today was mine!

I skipped—from the house, radiant in my floral coat (Aglaea said it was “garish”; she’s just jealous), dragging Anaxa along, who looked like a man just released from an 800-year prison and immediately handed a shopping list.

He was carrying Caliophe—my sweet bunny cherub—who refused to leave her mama's side. Can you blame her?  

She clung to him like a tiny queen being ferried by her loyal manservant.

Anaxa, of course, tried to bargain for more lab budget using banana coupons. I told him if he doesn’t behave I’ll personally stuff him in the cereal aisle next to the sugar bombs.

The best part? Oh, the best part?

After months of tormenting that adorable idiot of a husband at home—throwing pillows, rearranging his formulas, stealing his left shoe—today I had the public to witness my art. The chaos, the flirting, the parental bickering.

I was actually a little hesitant at first—just a smidge!—to show any public display of affection. Not because I was embarrassed, heavens no! But because he gets all stiff and flustered, like someone just caught him brewing affection in a sterile beaker.

But then again… as they say, you only live twice! Or once. I don't actually care.

So I did it.

I slipped my arm around his—my husband, my reformed, recently-paroled, utterly mine husband—and locked us together like a matched set from a divine catalog.

He went rigid immediately. Poor thing. Honestly, it was adorable how his whole posture adjusted like he was suddenly being graded on how to walk romantically.

And the eyes we drew in the market? Oh, darling, you would think the stars themselves had come down for a stroll.

Apparently, being tied to the Chrysos Heirs—and dragging along the legendary scholar once sanctioned for... academic insubordination or whatever it was—is enough to make us the Attention of the Year.

Many of whom already knew his reputation—oh yes, the brilliant, insufferable, now-tamed Anaxagoras—and of course, his infamous ties to Lady Aglaea, immediately gave us the best prices they could muster. Some even outright refused payment. A fruit basket here, a jar of preserved starplums there—

 Such generosity!

I just smiled. Sweetly. Graciously. Radiantly.

And thanked them each like the glowing face of love incarnate as I introduced myself—Calypso, wife, mother, and former Titan of Reason turned master of grocery diplomacy.

After all, I understand how vital networking is in this new society. We can’t just sit around basking in divine detachment anymore. We mingle. We charm. We conquer politely.

I think little Caliophe might even do better than her papa in that department!

While he was busy mumbling thank-yous and trying to count change we never needed, Caliophe would simply coo or blabber in baby language—her own adorable dialect of joy and drool—and the old women swooned. Truly, I’ve never seen grandmothers melt faster.

“Such a radiant baby!”

“Oh look at her little ears—just like her papa’s!”

“No, like her mama’s, surely!”

A battlefield of compliments, and we triumphed without lifting a finger. My daughter: the true socialite of this family.

Our business at the market today wasn’t just to show off our devastatingly charming family, no no—Anaxa had something else in mind too.

Apparently, one of his precious student was sick—he heard it from the healer at Twilight Courtyard, that pink one (Hyacine? Hydrangea? Whatever flower she’s named after). And when Anaxa gets that concerned furrow in his brow, I know resistance is futile.

He suggested I take Caliophe home—"She needs rest, Calypso," he said like a grumpy housekeeper.

Please. As if I’d let my baby sit around indoors all day and not receive her daily adoration from the world.

“It’s bad for her aura,” I told him with utter confidence (and no scientific basis). So, I waved over a trusted garmentmaker and asked them kindly to deliver our shopping bags to the estate.

And so we walked—baby wrapped close in my arms, my husband carrying the last of the bags (he insisted, bless him)—toward the house belonging to this student of his.

A quaint little thing nestled near the edge of the residential district. A home clearly designed for one, with windows that caught the light in a kind of shy way. Not the gleaming perfection of the Golden Estate, but… cozy. I could see the appeal.

A maid greeted us—a little stiff, clearly not used to royalty darkening their doorway—and led us inside.

We were brought into a softly decorated playroom, a bright and gentle space with woven mats and stacks of books and plush dolls with uneven eyes.

At the center of it all, sitting on a quilted blanket, was that boy—Pienon—with the other one who must be Midi… or Midie. Whatever they call him, he had that exhausted but stubbornly conscious look I’ve seen on new fathers and insomniac poets.

At the center of it all, nestled in a nest of pillows like a delicate petal on water, was that boy—Pienon. Curled under a blanket with cheeks flushed not from embarrassment for once, but from a lingering fever.

Beside him, looking like a loyal guard dog in pajamas, was that other one—Midi, he was clearly the caretaker here.

He kept brushing back Pienon’s hair and adjusting the damp cloth on his forehead like a mother hen in training. I briefly considered applauding.

Anaxa gave them one of his classic, rare nods—stern yet full of hidden softness—before kneeling beside Pienon with that same tenderness he shows to his experiments, his students, and—when no one’s watching—me.

His hands moved gently over Pienon’s wrist, taking his pulse, asking quiet questions that even I, with my fine ears and curiosity, couldn’t quite catch.

Hmph. So focused. So tender. Just like when he’d read to my belly during those long months, as if reciting poetry would make Caliophe come out smarter.

And I? I simply stood there, watching, rocking my sweet baby girl and wondering—just how many people has this man of mine secretly adopted under Aglaea’s nose?

The boys—whose names, as it turns out, were Phainon and Mydei—greeted us with such disarming respect that I, of course, immediately decided they were good children.

Excellent children, really. The kind you want to secretly adopt and invite over for warm soup during storms.

I even considered, just briefly, that my husband could stand to learn a thing or two from them in terms of social grace. I made a mental note—maybe a passive-aggressive reminder over dinner later.

But good children tend to attract others like them, and sure enough, more arrived not long after—like flowers drawn to sunlight. A parade of hesitant footsteps and curious eyes.

Most of them froze a little at the sight of me , but their eyes didn’t stay on me for long.

No. They saw her.

My Caliophe.

Still just a marshmallow—squishy, warm, pink with life. One soft sigh away from turning her father into a blubbering mess. She sat in my arms like a royalty unaware of her crown, blinking up at the world she’s barely begun to know.

And the girls? They melted. Just melted. I saw it in their eyes—the same look you get when you see the first bloom of spring after a cruel winter.

I didn’t let anyone touch her, of course. Absolutely not. She’s still at the age where a single breeze makes me reach for three blankets. But looking? Looking is fine. I’ll allow it.

The more I learned their names—Hyacine, Castorice, Tribbie—the more the fog began to lift.

I began to see it. Feel it.

Why my husband, for all his cold stares and maddening silences, risked so much. Why he pushed himself past the limits of reason and into the kind of trouble even I would hesitate to poke with a stick.

Because they weren’t just student or friend. Not really. Not just names in a roster or titles in a report.

They were good people. Honest. Kind. The kind of friends who showed up even when it was inconvenient, who’d sit by your side and joke with you until the hurt stopped hurting quite so much.

Knowing Anaxa, he’d never say it out loud—he’d swallow the words, dress them in sarcasm, and change the subject faster than you could blink. But I could see it now, clear as crystal.

These weren’t just strays he picked up out of obligation.

They were people he chose to protect.

And slowly, without realizing it, I found myself understanding them... and him... a little more.

On cue—my darling Caliophe let out a cry, delicate but firm. The kind of royal wail that demanded attention. Of course, I knew exactly what she needed. My little bunny was hungry.

Naturally, my internal body clock twitched to attention. Motherhood really is just an endless stream of bodily alarms, isn’t it?

“I’ll excuse myself for a moment,” I said with a polite smile, rising from the cushion. “Duty calls.” I lifted Caliophe into my arms, rocking her gently as she sniffled and hiccuped.

But before leaving the room, I could not resist.

With the most radiant, innocent smile I could summon, I turned toward Anaxa, who was mid-conversation with those sweet boys—what were their names again? Phainon and Mydei?

“Darling,” I cooed, “Caliophe’s hungry. I suppose it’s time for her midday feast.”

He nodded, visibly nervous about where this was going—smart man.

Then I tilted my head ever so slightly, let my voice drop into a sultry whisper just loud enough for the room to catch.

“Would you like some too, my husband?”

The room froze.

Hyacine choked on her tea. Castorice dropped a biscuit. I think Phainon’s soul tried to flee his body.

My husband?

He went rigid. Color drained from his face, then returned with double force, blooming red all the way to his ears.

“Absolutely not,” he hissed, voice sharp and strangled.

I giggled, delighted.

Ahh, public humiliation—my favorite spice.

I swept out of the room, hips swaying, leaving my poor flustered husband to explain himself to a room full of stunned teenagers and a very amused Tribbie.

Motherhood has not dulled my edge. In fact—I daresay I’ve sharpened.

Breastfeeding Caliophe, I’ll admit, was something I had to learn—not in theory, of course. I’m brilliant in theory.

But in practice? Oh, darling, the first few times I flinched every time those tiny lips latched on like a starved little flower. I would stiffen and gasp like I was being hexed.

But now? Now it comes naturally, like breathing. Like fire dancing in the heart of a forge. I’ve learned the rhythm—rock gently, hum a little tune, pat her back in just the right way.

And when she's done, oh, that tiny burp she lets out? It could melt entire kingdoms.

But here’s the most interesting part—the little tradition she invented all on her own.

Once her tummy is full and her world is safe and warm again, my darling Caliophe doesn’t want to sleep in my arms. No, no. She starts to wriggle and whimper until I bring her to her papa.

She seeks him out with this tired, glassy-eyed stare, as if to say: “I’ve had my fill, now give me the boring one to nap on.”

And Anaxa, always freezes up the moment I hand her over, like I just gave him a live phoenix chick.

But somehow—somehow—the moment Caliophe lays her cheek on his shoulder, she goes out like a light.

As if his stubborn, stone-faced stillness was exactly what she needed. Like she trusts him so utterly, she doesn’t even need a lullaby. Just her father’s quiet warmth.

It’s... strangely beautiful.

Of course, with Caliophe, no serene moment ever lasts too long. She is, after all, my daughter.

There we were—Anaxa seated stiffly like a cursed statue, gently patting her back, while our little sunshine finally drifted into a dreamy slumber on his shoulder. His face, usually carved out of stone and snark, had gone so... soft. So warm.

And then it happened.

That familiar little shudder. The one I’ve come to fear. The ripple of doom.

And the serenity on his face crumbled like stale cake as he discovered the steaming, damp badge of honor now soaking through the front of his robe.

Yes. Caliophe had blessed her papa the only way an infant can: a full bladdered, warm-lovingly streamed rebellion. Right through the cloth.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. Just stared at it like it was a betrayal from the gods.

I, of course, stood across the room in absolute glee. Clasped my hands together and gasped, “Oh thank you, my bunny. You truly are my child! A second me!”

And Anaxa?

Still processing the fact that the small bundle he once called a “delicate experiment in biological potential” just peed all over his calculations.

It was divine.

Chapter Text

Pregnancy… is not something to joke about.

I thought that, very clearly, as I dragged my throbbing head across the edge of consciousness, every movement igniting a riot somewhere in my skull. Nausea clawed at my throat with the subtlety of a marching band, and the betrayal of my own stomach urged me to vomit—again.

I barely managed to ease myself down onto the sofa, every joint aching like I’d been hexed. To think… this is only the beginning. This debilitating, maddening sensation will only worsen for the next nine months. And I haven't even finished the first trimester yet.

And whose fault is it?

That damned blasphemer. That absurd, stubborn man with his ruinous smiles and even more ruinous affection. Anaxa.

It’s his fault for even entertaining me with this idea.

The nerve. The audacity of that man to speak with such softness—such ridiculous tenderness—that I’d let down my guard for a single night, a single conversation, a moment where reason faltered under the weight of longing.

I should’ve known. I did know. But I let it happen.

And now here I am. Lady Aglaea of the Goldweaver, practically brought to her knees by what feels like an internal revolution of hormones and bile.

But do not—do not even think—that my baby is a burden.

Heavens, no.

I would sooner let myself be buried six feet under, with a polished gravestone that reads Here Lies Lady Aglaea, Too Glorious to Complain, than ever dare utter such disgrace.

This child—my pride, my joy, this tiny flame of life that dances within me—is mine. Ours, yes, but mine first. And she will never be some mere extra weight on my body. She is not a problem to be solved nor a hindrance to my ambition. She is the culmination of something I rarely let myself admit: love.

No, my misery stems from something far more stupid.

My husband.

That ridiculous, impossibly smug man who struts around like the stars themselves chose him to be everyone's favorite genius.

That damnable smirk glued to his face, like he knows things he shouldn’t, like he's amused by my pain. And I swear, the way he speaks sometimes—"You're glowing, my lady," he says—like I’m supposed to be charmed while I’m fighting off the urge to vomit on the rug.

And now? Now?

He’s been doting more on Caliophe—yes, Cerces's baby, the literal child of a Titan—as though he’s the father of every child within a five-kilometer radius.

To an extent, even Calypso gets more of his attention than I do. And that is a sentence I never thought I would live to say.

Meanwhile, I sit here, on this sofa, rotting like an abandoned myth while he plays housemaid, professor, philosopher, and self-appointed babysitter.

Worse than that... there’s a part of me—traitorous and silent—that actually aches when he doesn’t look at me first. Me. His wife.

I… I will never tell myself to cry.

Never.

Even if I did—if I ever let myself break—it would not be because I am weak. It would be because this absurd situation has wrung every last drop of tolerance from my body. But no. I don’t cry. Not now. Not when I’m the one holding this fragile universe together with sheer willpower.

And yet… all of this… everything I’ve kept sealed behind my teeth… all of it returns to the first and final problem—

Him.

That arrogant, chaos-summoning problem with tousled hair and a mouth that never shuts.

And speak of the blight—he has the gall to emerge from the bedroom, yawning like he’s endured a hard day of philosophizing under trees. He looks tired. Tired.

Oh, please.

He scratches the back of his neck, adjusting that ridiculous robe, and I wait. I wait like some demure, well-trained house cat while he strolls past me with nothing but a glance.

A glance.

Does he even realize? Does he even comprehend that the woman who carries his child is suffering? That her head is pounding, her stomach is in revolt, and her entire nervous system is screaming while he lounges about like a philosophical squirrel?

I wish—

No, I wish—even with Mnestia curled like firelight inside my womb—that he could feel what I feel right now.

I want to punch his stupid little face in.

Just once. Right between the eyes. Right where the smugness sits. Maybe it’ll knock some divine empathy into that sponge-brain of his.

But alas.

Even now, when I try to get up—to stand with dignity and make some statement of my womanly strength—my stomach lurches. The nausea claws its way back up, and I sink into the cushions like a tragic heroine from one of those plays he insists I’m too good for.

However… what came after was something I didn’t expect.

He sat beside me.

No words, no dramatic flourish, not even his usual smug remark to announce his presence. Just the quiet sound of him settling next to me, careful not to jostle the sofa too much—as if I were some brittle thing he didn’t want to shatter.

I didn’t look at him. I refused to. He didn’t deserve that much.

But then, gently, he offered me a cup. Herbal tea.

The kind I used to drink when the migraines became unbearable. When I’d shut the curtains in my study and lay down with the lights off, pretending the world didn’t exist. The scent of it reached me first—faint chamomile and that bitter edge of goldvine—and it made my chest tighten.

I stared at it. My fingers didn’t move.

One part of me—one traitorous, aching, irrational part—wanted to take it and kiss him. To let him pull me in and say something dumb like, “Told you you’d overwork yourself.” Something that would make me cry and laugh and hit his chest all at once.

But the stronger part—no, the angrier part—refused.

And so… I cried instead.

I don’t even know why.

There was no great insult, no final straw. Just something in me, cracking—slow, invisible. Like a fault line that had held for years, finally giving in to pressure I hadn’t known I was carrying.

“Mnestia… help me,” I whispered, as if the soul inside me could explain why I suddenly couldn’t breathe.

And then…A hand.

Gentle, steady—wrapping around me. Not possessive. Not pitiful.

Just there.

He pulled me into him, carefully, until my head rested against his chest. The fabric of his robe was warm against my cheek, his heartbeat a dull, rhythmic hush like the tide. And his hand—gods, his hand—moved through my hair in that slow, unthinking way he always did when I couldn’t sleep.

It was a lullaby without music. A confession without words.

And slowly, as the tears ebbed, I let myself breathe in that familiar scent of his—ink, sun-warmed dust, and that faint spice he never admits he uses. I let my body rest against his, hollow and heavy and tired.

No apology passed his lips. But somehow… I heard it anyway.

And I accepted it.

Silently.

“I told you not to get cozy with me,” I muttered, pushing weakly against his chest, though I didn’t move far. “You still don’t understand what it means to carry a child.”

My voice trembled—part with rage, part with exhaustion.

But once the words escaped, the dam broke.

“I’m the one who wakes up nauseous before the sun even rises. I’m the one whose back aches, whose legs cramp, who can barely eat anything without retching. And this is just the beginning. We haven’t even reached the part where my body becomes unrecognizable—where I can’t sleep, can’t breathe, can’t think without feeling like I’m losing myself.”

His hand had stopped in my hair, frozen halfway through a motion.

Good. Let him listen.

“And yet… you—” I swallowed the thick feeling rising in my throat. “You’re busy playing philosopher and historian with Calypso. Laughing, arguing, wasting away the daylight like it means nothing. Like I mean nothing.”

Silence.

I hated it.

I hated how quiet he became when I needed him to fight back, to say something, to defend himself so I could feel justified in being angry. But he didn’t. He just sat there—head tilted down, robe rumpled, eyes unreadable.

“And then there’s Caliophe,” I went on, eyes burning. “You hold her like she’s the center of your world. You cradle her, whisper to her, walk her around the house like she’s made of gold leaf—like she’s your whole heart.”

My hands clenched against my belly, instinctively protective.

“And yet here I am. Bearing your second child. And I can’t even get you to look at me the same way.”

That was the truth, wasn’t it?

The ugly, unspoken, shameful truth.

Not jealousy—no, it wasn’t that. It was fear. Fear that I was being left behind. That this life we carved together would now stretch between other people. That Calypso, Caliophe, and even his damned research meant more to him than me.

That the center of his world had shifted, and I was just a shadow standing at the edge.

And still, he said nothing.

At the beginning, before any of this…

Before the sleepless nights, before we shared the same roof, the same bed, the same weary silence in the morning light—

I had already come to an understanding with Calypso.
Or rather, Cerces—the so-called Titan, the playful menace, the old flame turned housemate with the same status, the same title… wife of the Great Performer.

It wasn’t a rivalry. It wasn’t a competition. No—Cerces and I, we understood each other.

In our own ways, we were both the kind of women who made Anaxa's world turn.

And with Mnestia—goddess, guide, and so often my silent companion—I thought I’d even had the upper hand.

That counted for something. Didn’t it?

Maybe it was pride speaking. Maybe I told myself that too many times to feel better on quiet nights. But I truly believed—believe still, in some deep, proud corner of my heart—that I stood a step ahead.

I earned that place.

Not just through old memories, but through the kind of bond that forged itself in fire.

He and I… we’ve fought. We’ve bled. We’ve survived each other.

That kind of history doesn’t fade. Not even if Cerces wraps herself around his shoulder and teases him to the end of time.

But now… Now I wonder if even that is enough.

Because when I look at him holding Caliophe, I don’t see the flame we lit together. I see a man who’s drifting. Who might still love me—but who doesn’t see me.

He still wraps his arms around me at night.

Even when I toss and turn with another migraine—the kind that makes the room spin, the kind that makes me bite the inside of my cheek just to stop from screaming—he's there. Holding me. Whispering those quiet, nonsense comforts into my hair.

Like I’m still the only one in his world.

And maybe that should be enough.

But then… on his right side, Calypso sleeps so peacefully.

Clinging to his other arm. Like a kitten curled in the warmest corner of the universe.

She always smiles in her sleep. As if she’s dreaming of the way he calls her name. The way he laughs at her jokes. The way he lets her braid his hair, even if it ends in knots.

And I—I can’t help it.

Is it selfish…?

To want that entire warmth for myself?

To want his arms just for me—even now, with our daughter growing inside me, and another woman already claiming his other side?

I thought I had grown past such pettiness.

I thought I had prepared myself for this—this shared life, this sacred balancing act we all agreed to. I love Cerces. I do. I trust her. I know she loves him, and maybe even me, in her own twisted, chaotic way.

But some nights… like tonight… when the world is silent, and my head is pounding, and I’m sandwiched between a Titan and a dreamer…

I wonder if this is me, or if it’s the mood swings speaking through clenched teeth. Maybe it’s the child inside me stirring my heart more than my stomach.

Or maybe… maybe I just want to be seen again. As Aglaea. Not the pregnant one. Not the strong one. Not the one who always has it together.

Just me.

As my tears began to betray me again—filling the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill—I refused to look at him. I didn’t want him to see me like this: unraveling, helpless, tired of being strong.

But then, without a word, he reached out.

Gently. Like I was something fragile for once.

His hand found my cheek, warm and steady, and before I could think to turn away, he kissed me. Softly. Tenderly. Not with passion, but with knowing. With that maddening sense that he always—always—knew when I needed him most.

And then, he rested his forehead against mine.

No apologies. No grand speeches. Just the quiet hum of our breath mingling. The slow, rhythmic beat of his heart synced with mine. The warmth we shared in that small contact seemed to melt something inside me… or maybe realign it.

And then, he whispered it. Only two words.

“I love you.”

Simple. Unshakable. Like a truth older than time.

And somehow, the pounding behind my eyes, the nausea, the storm of bitterness and longing… it all faded. Dissipated into nothingness.

I couldn’t explain it. I didn’t try.

I just closed my eyes and let myself fall into him—just for tonight.

Chapter Text

I cannot sleep, I cannot sleep at all.

My mind has been constantly running itself like an automatic clockwork for the past few days... or weeks, I don’t know anymore. Time has blurred itself into a soft mess of wailing, milk bottles, and two women I love either sighing or glaring at me—sometimes both at once.

My day starts at night. Always.

Caliophe cries. Sharp and punctual, like a factory worker clocking in. I flinch awake from my sacred middle space—wedged between Aglaea's growing warmth on my left and Calypso’s silent gravity on my right.

I rise slowly, careful not to knock over the alchemy scrolls or parenting guides I left on the floor, then stumble toward the crib like a half-dead ghoul.

Diaper first. Always check the diaper. I never thought I'd be this good at changing one. I've counted—I can do it in under a minute now. A minute and three seconds on a bad day. Yes, thank you. I’ve become what some might call a father. No applause necessary.

If the diaper’s clean, then it’s hunger. I shuffle toward the refrigerator and squint at the bottles. One eye still blurry from sleep.

Is this... Calypso’s breast milk or store-bought? I do not want to repeat the taste test from last week. That memory still haunts my soul.

As the milk heats, I rock Caliophe in the crook of my arm. She's still grouchy, her nose all scrunched up, but once the bottle’s in her mouth, her world is calm. Mine too. For a moment.

And then I glance back toward the bed.

Aglaea is still asleep.

That’s... rare.

Usually, she’s the one who keeps waking me up—her voice sharp, urgent, commanding, as if I were one of her underlings instead of the poor wretch she agreed to share a bed with. That, or Mnestia decides it’s a wonderful time to materialize in the corner of our room just to say something cryptic before vanishing again.

I swear, those two are in cahoots. Secret nightly meetings. "Operation: Keep Anaxa Sleep-Deprived Until He Snaps." Very successful so far, ladies. Congratulations.

But tonight—tonight, Aglaea rests. Her brows are still drawn, her mouth parted just slightly as if halfway through a scolding she forgot to finish. And yet, there's a kind of peace in the air, like even her body is too exhausted to resist anymore.

Her moods have been swinging more violently lately. One minute she’s crying because I didn’t peel the fruit the right way, and the next she’s threatening to explode my spleen with her thread because I breathed too loud.

And yet... I find myself strangely proud that I haven’t completely lost my temper. Not even once.

Because I know. This is her first time.

And it must be terrifying. To have a living being growing inside you. Something foreign. Something loud and hungry and ever-changing, stealing nutrients and sleep and comfort like a tiny, ungrateful parasite.

How do I know that?

Because I once dreamed it.

A nightmare—I don’t talk about it. I was the one carrying something inside me. It twisted and pushed and writhed under my skin, and I couldn’t scream, couldn’t move. I woke up gasping, soaked in sweat, clutching my stomach as if it were real.

It was one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever felt.

So no... I don’t mock her for her moods. I don’t judge her when she breaks down, or when she kicks me out of the bed for existing too close to her leg.

On the other side, Calypso sleeps peacefully.

Too peacefully, even.

Ever since she was finally able to shift her body again—no more bulging stomach anchoring her like a sea mine—she’s become a sprawling, graceful menace. A Titaness of tranquility, wrapped in blankets like she owns the concept of rest itself.

Meanwhile, I…

I have been trained. Forged. Tempered through the grueling method known as "fatherhood."

I cannot even sleep sideways anymore. I’m the sacred axis of a precarious equilibrium. If I lean too far left, Calypso stirs from her gentle dreamscape only to flip me back like an overcooked pancake—no words, just instinct.

Same if I drift toward Aglaea. The moment my weight shifts wrong, she growls or mutters and shoves me back into neutral. Left. Right. Titan. Queen. One man. One vertebra at a time.

It's like I need to split myself in half just to keep the world in balance.

But then, a soft little burp breaks through my spinning thoughts.

Caliophe.

Her tiny face, now relaxed, mouth slightly open, eyes glimmering with renewed energy. That burp was her victory trumpet—"I am fed, and now I shall bring chaos."

At early morning, no less.

So, naturally, I concede defeat.

I cradle her gently and walk out into the corridor, leaving behind the warmth of my tangled destiny in bed.

The maids are already up. I nod at them, and they bow with tired but knowing eyes—mothers, sisters, warriors of their own unseen battles. They recognize the zombie shuffle of a man who has lived through a thousand sleepless nights in one moon cycle.

I reach the veranda and sit.

The wind is cool. The horizon still yawns into a pale blue, like the world hasn't made up its mind to be awake yet.

And I sit there, holding my daughter like the fragile miracle she is. Her weight small, her presence infinite.

Caliophe, for me… was special.

Not in the traditional sense—not born of passion or serendipity—but constructed. A miracle forged in a lab flask. A literal baby bottle child, created with both my gene and Cerces’s, an accidental success born from one of my far-too-ambitious experiments.

And yet… I still love her. Deeply. Unquestionably.

Maybe it's the hormones. Maybe something in my brain finally rewired itself to accept that I am now someone’s father—someone’s comfort, someone’s entire world.

Because whenever I put her on my knee and start juggling her gently, the moment her little body bounces just right, she bursts into a laugh so pure it knocks every other thought out of my head. And in that instant, I smile.

Not because I should. But because I can’t not.

It’s ridiculous how easy she makes it feel. Like all the sleepless nights, the leaking bottles, the panic over whether that was actually a rash or just something she spilled—all of it becomes background noise the moment she giggles and reaches her hands out like I’m the entire sky.

But peace is fleeting.

A couple of hours later, the next trial arrives.

Caliophe, now full of milk and dangerously close to crying herself awake again, is placed gently—firmly—back into her crib with one of those wind-up music toys I regret introducing.

Then it’s Aglaea’s turn.

I shuffle to the kitchen and start preparing her herbal tea, one hand still tingling from carrying a squirming infant and the other carefully measuring out the dried herbs we stock specifically for this moment.

Morning sickness.

We’ve been through it before—Calypso’s pregnancy trained me well. I know the signs now: the faint groan before she even opens her eyes, the way she turns her body a certain way to try and ignore reality, and of course, the glare. The death glare that tells me she’s awake and the world should pay for it.

I brew the tea carefully. Not too hot. Slightly sweet. Just the way she pretends she doesn’t like it but always finishes anyway.

Now, as per ritual demands—ancient and unspoken—I become the butler of this house, delivering morning tribute to the sovereign queen in bed.

Herbal tea, lightly steeped.

A single slice of toast, cut diagonally, never horizontal.

Aglaea waits upright in bed like a monarch halfway between grace and wrath. Her hair a battlefield, her eyes narrowed with the weight of another sleepless night, and a swelling stomach that seems to have declared open rebellion on her spine.

She barely blinks before the accusations begin.

“Why,” she mumbles with a sharp tongue dulled by sleep, “are you never in bed when I wake up?”

I explain. Patiently. “Caliophe needed to be fed. She started crying. Loudly. As she does every—”

She’s already stopped listening.

The reasoning falls on deaf ears. Or perhaps selective ears. She mutters something under her breath that I suspect isn’t flattering, but it’s quickly drowned out by the first sip of tea. Then the toast. Then the silence.

Ah yes. Blessed silence.

It means the food was acceptable. The tea was warm. My life is not in immediate danger.

On the other side of the room, Calypso stirs. Normally she would still be in her drama-induced sleep coma, refusing to rise until the sun had been up for at least an hour and a half. But ever since Caliophe’s arrival, she’s developed a maternal instinct that rivals any divine blessing.

Her first words aren’t “good morning” or “have you brewed the mint again instead of rosemary?” No, her first instinct is to look for Caliophe.

“Where’s my baby?” she mumbles groggily as she pulls herself up, already reaching toward the direction of the crib without looking.

“In her crib,” I replied.

Calypso yawns and shuffles across the room like a sleepwalker in a silk robe. Aglaea glares at her. Calypso ignores it. Their cold war continues.

Now that the morning is over, we cross the threshold into the great battlefield known as afternoon.

Two roads lie before me, both paved with traps.

On one hand: Aglaea. Queen of precision. Duchess of fabric. Tyrant of budgets. She spends her afternoons ruling over her garment business with the same intensity one might use to command a fleet.

If I’m lucky, I only need to bring her a fresh cup of tea, soothe her with back rubs, or hold her waist when she forgets how to breathe from all the stress. If I’m unlucky, she drags me into logistics meetings

On the other hand: Calypso. Who has decided that today she will replace me in lecturing the students at the relocated campus near city hall. Which leaves me to manage Caliophe alone.

So the hours pass like a fever dream.

If I stumble in either role—if I fail to soothe Aglaea during one of her episodes of “my seamstress didn’t show up, the lace shipment is late, and why are you breathing so loudly?” or if I fail to keep Caliophe from chewing on every antique scroll I own—then the consequences are swift.

Both women will breathe down my neck like twin furies, questioning my competence, my decisions, and even my existence.

People—well, let’s be honest, men—who look at me from the outside, seeing my domestic constellation of Aglaea the beautiful, Calypso the radiant, and a child that looks like she stepped out of a divine tapestry… they think I’m lucky.

And perhaps, in a way, I am.

But luck ends the moment the process begins.

It’s easy to admire a tower. Harder to live under it when the ceiling keeps caving in.

Reaching midday, the punishment deepens.

This time, it's Aglaea's turn to drag me away from my last shreds of peace.

Today’s activity? Marital Women’s Yoga Club.

A quaint little gathering of soon-to-be mothers and retired nobility pretending their joints still function like they did ten years ago.

It’s a class recommended—insisted, really—by Aglaea’s physician. For posture, circulation, and perhaps to help her “release tension,” which is ironic considering how much of that tension is me.

There’s a brief window—a sacred, whispered sliver of time—between arriving at the venue and the session actually starting, where I could have closed my eyes. Slept. Even just five minutes, slouched against the wall.

But no.

The moment I begin to drift into unconsciousness, a hand—her hand—smacks my chest with surprising precision.

"You don’t exercise enough," she says.

"You need to stretch too," she says.

"I need you there in case I fall," she says.

She is doing yoga, for Aeon’s sake. Not scaling a cliff.

Yet here I am, acting as her personal bodyguard, towel-boy, and emotional support furniture, while she very slowly attempts what I believe is called the “Swaddled Seahorse Pose” and glares at me like I’m the one not bending correctly.

I count the ceiling tiles in the yoga hall to stay awake. Forty-seven. One of them has a crack shaped like a duck.

My eyes are so tired after that yoga session.

The strange harp music echoing from the crystal speakers didn’t help either—it pulled at my already thinned consciousness like a lullaby meant to guide old men into the abyss of sleep.

And maybe I would’ve gone there, too, if we hadn’t shifted locations.

Now, it was time for the public bathhouse.

Specifically, the private chamber reserved for the Heirs—not for luxury, mind you, but for the simple reason that Aglaea doesn’t want to share space with strangers, and Calypso insists that my body “scares commoners.”

(Whatever that means. I’m decently fit, thank you very much.)

We arrived and, predictably, everyone was already there. Calypso sat in the shallow basin with Caliophe, who was gurgling happily and flailing her arms like she’d just discovered the concept of water.

Around her, Hyacine, Cipher, and the others cooed over her like doting aunties, some of whom probably didn’t know which one of us she was genetically related to—and at this point, I don’t think they care. She’s just Caliophe. The small miracle that makes everyone act at least ten years younger.

At long last, I saw my chance. My divine window.

I lowered myself into the warm bath, sliding beside Phainon and Mydei, who were already in the water and engaged in what sounded like a very one-sided debate about aquatic sword techniques. I didn’t care. My head went back. My eyes closed.

I sank.

Not just physically, but spiritually.

Then—

“Don’t you dare fall asleep in the bath, Anaxa.”

Her voice cracked like a divine punishment above my head. Aglaea.

Chiding me with that strict, regal tone she normally reserves for diplomats who insult her earrings. “It’s part of the bath rules,” she added, like she hadn’t personally made that rule just to torment me.

On occasion, I find myself quietly slipping into the infirmary—not for injuries, but to ask Hyacinthia for medication.

Something for stamina. Something for sleep. At this point, anything short of poison would be fine.

My sleep schedule is in complete shambles, so chaotic even Caenis might be impressed by it. My body doesn’t know when it’s supposed to rest, or eat, or even exist. I once fell asleep during a blink.

And then—dinner.

Part of what I now call my daily ritual of dignified suffering.

On the other, Calypso multitasks like a goddess—feeding Caliophe, debating foreign policy, and teasing me all in one breath.

And I?

I babysat the largest baby of them all—Aglaea, the Goldweaver herself.

Not physically, of course. But emotionally. Aglaea, in her divine golden grace, becomes a different being when she’s hungry and hormonal.

“Anaxa. This rice tastes like soggy apathy.”

“Anaxa. I desire honeyed lamb stuffed with cloves, lavender, and a trace of moonlit thyme. Why aren’t you already making it?”

She says this while never lifting a single finger, except to rub her temple.

I nod. I obey. I suffer quietly like any decent man who values his life.

And once the queens are fed, and Caliophe is full, she proceeds to pee on me again. This time with a smugness that I swear she inherited from her mother.

And as the warm dampness sinks through the last clean tunic I have, I sigh.

“Caliophe… do you actually think I’m your father?”

She gurgles.

“Or just some glorified golden toilet?”

Nightfall.

Time for rest, they say. Time to heal. But not for me.

Before I can even touch the pillow, I face a familiar forked path: Do I perform my sacred husbandly duties and satisfy the unchecked desires of my wives...

Or do I risk everything for sleep?

Tonight, the heavens granted me mercy. The latter path was chosen.

The room darkens, the lamps extinguished, and for a brief moment—peace. I breathe in the silence. My eyes flutter closed. My body sinks into the sheets like a man returning to the womb.

Then—slap. Or maybe a kick.

Hard to say, really. I lie between two powerful forces of nature, at this point, I’ve stopped trying to guess.

Was it a twitch from a bad dream?

Was it vengeance for some forgotten remark?

Or perhaps it’s Mnestia—goddess of memory and punishment—making her nightly rounds.

Either way, I stay awake. Cautious. Numb in more ways than one.

Calypso is now draped over my arm like a cat on a windowsill—serene, beautiful, and wholly inconsiderate of my blood circulation.

My arm is dying. Slowly. Painfully. And I dare not move it, for she looks so peaceful.

Caliophe, of course, is not to be forgotten. As if hearing my thoughts, she begins her nightly opera—a rising whimper from the cradle like the prelude to war.

At this point, I began to wonder:

Will I even survive tomorrow?

Chapter Text

From the moment my teacher, Anaxa, shared his crazy idea about overthrowing the gods, I couldn’t even imagine it would come this far.

At first, it was just a whisper—him saying he wanted to drag the goddess who hijacked his body, and the Titan of Romance, down to their knees… using a play.

A literal theatrical performance. I thought it was just one of his dramatic moods. You know, those long monologues he'd sometimes give in class when he got lost in his thoughts about the world and its absurdity. But this time, he meant it.

And not just that—he had plans. Scripts. Roles. Layers of misdirection and mirrored truths. He handed me the outline like it was a prophecy sealed in wax, and said, “Don’t tell anyone.”

So, I took the role. Not as an actor in his grand scheme, but as a quiet spectator. The silent nurse in the wings, watching it all unfold with a steady heart and a hand ready to heal whoever stumbled too hard in the game.

Truth to be told, his original goal—to take back his body from the goddess—was tame. Almost noble, even. But what he did after… creating a god, a new one, born from the child he bore using the homunculi body… that went beyond anything I ever imagined.

I only realized it much later. Long after the rehearsals were done, after the curtains fell, after the audience clapped without knowing the truth they just witnessed. He had staged the whole thing—from beginning to end—with such cold precision it frightened me.

And then, the plan failed.

Now, he lives with the consequences.

Well, if anyone could say it... at least from an outsider’s perspective... I was—actually a little jealous that the “consequences” he bears had, in some twisted way, carved out a whole new life for him. A new role.

A family man.

Maybe it’s just because I’m still a teenage girl. Alone. Single. Watching from the sidelines while everyone else seems to find their place.

I mean, who wouldn’t yearn for that?

He got a mansion—thanks to Lady Aglaea’s absurd wealth—two wives (both gorgeous, of course), and now even a child on the way.

Isn’t that just… perfect?

Well… not really, actually.

There’s a lot going on behind the scenes that makes everything way more complicated than what it looks like on the outside. So much so, it honestly makes my head spin. Because somehow—somehow—I feel like the truth itself is spinning on the axis of my life right now.

Secrets.

Ugh. How I abhor that word more than anything else.

From the moment I agreed to keep Professor Anaxa’s plan quiet—to not breathe a word of it to anyone—I've been locked in this internal war. A war of knowing too much but having no one to share it with. Not even a single vent or outlet.

It makes my head ache.

And yet… I kept it. I held it in stride. Because I believed in him. And maybe I still do. But it’s hard.

Miss Trinnon… she’s another story. She—goddess, sometimes I feel like she knows. Or knew, from the start. There’s this gentleness in her voice when she encourages me, a way she always shows up when my thoughts are about to snap apart.

I suspect she already knows what’s plaguing me. And yet, she never pries. Just offers warmth. A kind of understanding.

She’s such a great person...

When the plan failed… I was finally free to tell everyone everything. The entire truth—how it all unfolded from the very start, like a stage play unraveling after the final act.

And to my surprise, the others… they took it well.

I expected shouting. Accusations. Guilt-tripping me into oblivion for keeping them in the dark. But instead… they listened. They let me speak. They accepted it.

It made me realize something a little painful:

I didn’t give them enough credit. I didn’t trust them like I should’ve. Maybe I never believed I deserved their trust back.

Bad Hyacine.

But… even with all that, Anaxa didn’t blame me. He didn’t say much at all after everything collapsed. He was… quiet. Maybe too quiet. But the way he looked at me—just a nod, the way his eyes didn’t flinch when I spoke—I think he knew. He knew it was my place to explain everything now.

And that means… in his own quiet way, he still trusted me.

That was the big secret. The one I finally got off my chest.

And it felt… comforting, in a way I didn’t expect. Like taking off a too-tight coat after walking miles in the heat.

But time didn’t stop after that. If anything, it started moving faster. Because the more Anaxa bore his punishment… the more I got roped into the mess that followed.

He started showing up again—knocking softly, or sometimes just appearing with those three garmentmakers Lady Aglaea assigned to shadow him like elegant prison wardens. They didn’t say anything, just quietly stitched the air with their eyes.

Anaxa couldn’t so much as sneeze without Aglaea knowing. He had an ankle monitor that chimed when he wandered too far from the mansion grounds, and sometimes—sometimes—there’d be that golden thread drawn tight around his neck like a leash made of sunlight.

And yet… he came to me.

He looked tired. Not just physically, but soul-deep tired—like someone trying to hold two wild elements in both hands while pretending it didn’t burn. And he said:

“Hyacine… do you know how to survive a marriage with two temperamental wives?”

His voice was half-whisper, half-confession.

And I just stared at him. I’m a teenager. I haven’t even had a boyfriend. And he’s asking me how to handle Lady Aglaea and Cerces/Calypso—two of the most volatile women he ever met?

It was almost funny.

Almost.

But I didn’t laugh.

Because behind that question was the truth—he was overwhelmed. Not because he didn’t love them, but because loving them came with an avalanche of consequences.

I tried my best, really. I sat him down, gave him tea, even put on my best “wise counselor” face the way Miss Trinnon used to when I vented about the drama.

I told him gently, “You have to be patient. Especially around pregnant women. Their emotions can shift faster than the wind in Kremnos Canyon, and most of the time they can’t even help it.”

But… what do I know about this?

And it doesn’t help that one of his wives is a Titan. I mean—how am I supposed to guess what a Titan thinks?

Do they even feel the same things as us humans? Or is it like… a whole other plane of emotions, stitched together with metaphor and cosmic math?

Still… the more he opened up about Cerces—Calypso, as she insists now—the more I saw a side of her I never expected.

She’s trying. Really trying.

Integrating herself into this strange, tangled new role: a goddess reborn into a home of warmth, chaos, and squabbling over who gets to pick dinner. Not a battlefield. Not a divine court. But a family.

And I was hit by this wave—no, more like a tide—of respect.

Because if someone like her, a Titan of Reason, could humble herself and learn how to live like us… maybe there’s more humanity in the divine than I thought.

Or maybe she was never as distant as I imagined.

Maybe the gods, like the rest of us, are just trying to figure it out as they go.

Next thing I know, Professor Anaxa started coming more often.

And more often.

At first, I thought it was just for casual check-ins—maybe he just needed a place where he wasn’t being watched like a ticking time bomb. But then he started asking for things.

Sleeping pills. Energy drinks. Herbal remedies. Anti-insomnia runes. He once even asked me if I had anything to "mute dreams temporarily," which… frankly scared me a little.

He looked awful.

Heavy bags under his eyes, like bruises etched by time. Shoulders sagging like he was carrying Okhema’s entire transit system on his back. And that blank look in his eyes? Like his mind was constantly buffering, stuck between a memory and a meltdown.

I almost didn’t recognize him. The once-proud, razor-sharp professor I met when I first entered the Grove of Epiphany had unraveled into something... softer. Sadder. Stretched too thin.

And it wasn’t just the exhaustion.

I’ve had patients with marriage problems. I’ve counseled students going through heartbreak, even some noble heirs dealing with arranged partner stress. But nothing—absolutely nothing—compares to the chaotic constellation that is Professor Anaxa’s romantic entanglement.

I mean, one time, he came into the infirmary and started talking to a plant.

A plant.

Dead serious, too. He called it “Professor Ygros,” bowed, and apologized for missing a faculty meeting.

I had to gently tap him on the forehead to rouse him, and when he blinked and realized what he was doing, he just muttered something like, “Ah. Chlorophyll hallucination again,” and sighed.

Meanwhile, the three garmentmakers assigned to monitor him just stood behind him, trying their best not to laugh.

One of them actually took out a little notebook. I think she was recording quotes.

I didn't know whether to scold them or join them. Because, I mean—yes, it was kind of funny. But it was also deeply sad. And it made me feel this twisting knot of protectiveness I wasn’t prepared for.

Not because I wanted to pity him.

But because somewhere in that mess, I could see what he was trying to endure. For his wives. For his child.

There was one time—just one—when he asked me something that genuinely caught me off guard.

He sat down heavily on the infirmary bed, his hair a little more unkempt than usual, face pale and eyes dim. And with the kind of tired honesty that made my throat tighten, he asked:

“Hyacine… if I asked you to cut the golden thread—just for a moment—would you do it?”

He didn’t say it with rebellion in his voice. There wasn’t a trace of anger, or desperation even. Just this quiet, aching plea.

He said he wanted to study the new vines growing around the sunwell. That he missed the feel of a page beneath his fingers. That the lack of access to books and knowledge was suffocating.

And I… understood.

I told him, gently, that I’d try to talk to Lady Aglaea. Maybe there was a way to let him breathe just a little. Just a little.

But before I even opened the clinic’s shutters the next morning, someone else arrived instead.

Because she came first.

Lady Aglaea. The Golden Seamstress herself.

She didn’t knock. She never had to.

She entered the infirmary like she owned the air in the room—and to some extent, she did. Graceful, pristine, her heels never made a sound and her presence alone made my spine straighten.

She smiled at me—refined, elegant, cool.

Not cruel.

But not kind either.

It was the smile of a ruler about to ensure obedience.

“Hyacine,” she said softly, “if the professor makes any further requests regarding research, books, or experiments—deny them. Do not entertain indulgences. This is still part of his punishment. I trust you’ll honor your post.”

There was no need to ask how she knew. The thread on his ankle? The eyes in the halls? The Garmentmakers she kept stationed like living shadows? It didn’t matter. She knew everything. Everything.

And when she smiled like that, like the sun glinting off an unsheathed blade, I knew she wasn’t warning me.

She was reminding me: no one bends the rules. Not even someone as close to the center as I am.

I nodded.

When he came again the next day—bruised and quiet—I didn’t have to ask.

I knew. And from the look in his eyes… he knew that I knew.

So we didn’t talk about it. No clever remarks. No sly sarcasm. Just silence and salve.

I focused on healing him. He focused on pretending it didn’t hurt.

But Professor Anaxa isn’t the kind of man to give up—not even when stripped of books, chalkboards, and free will.

He began finding ways to communicate with me without the golden thread picking up on it. And perhaps… even the Garmentmakers knew, and simply chose to play along. Maybe they pitied him. Maybe they were entertained.

Either way… he tried.

A scratched message beneath his teacup. Morse code tapped along the brass spine of my clipboard. I’d grown used to these secret rhythms.

But I wasn’t prepared when he tapped out:

“I need contraceptives.”

I dropped my pen.

My eyes bulged. My brain short-circuited. Every nerve in my body suddenly became painfully aware of who I was talking to.

And worse—why he was asking.

I looked at him slowly, like he had just asked if I could harvest clouds for him. “...Professor, why?”

He didn’t even flinch. Just answered honestly, like it was the most mundane thing in the world. “I don’t want to burden Aglaea with more responsibilities.”

I stared at him.

At the deepening shadows under his eyes. At the lingering tremor in his fingers. At the thin, barely-held-together version of the man who once stood so tall and untouchable.

I knew what he meant.

And I knew what he really meant.

He was afraid. Not of responsibility. But of what would happen if both Cerces—no, Calypso—and Aglaea were pregnant at the same time.

Two wives. Both divine in their own right. Both unpredictable. Both temperamental. And he, the mortal Scholar, was barely surviving one.

I told him I’d think about it.

And I did.

Not because it was the right thing. Not because I owed him anything. But because somewhere inside me… I just wanted him to be okay.

Even after everything.

And so… I gave it to him.

I told him to be careful. And he was. He always is, even when he’s a wreck inside.

A couple of months passed. He came by again, still tired—but better. Lighter. Less hollow behind the eyes. He even thanked me.

Said he could finally focus. That Calypso’s moods were still chaos, but at least it was one battlefield instead of two. We even talked like normal again. About soul theory. Emotion echoes. The ethics of posthumous memory extraction. It was almost like old times.

Almost.

But then… Lady Aglaea came.

Not with the usual air of silent command or dignified coldness. She didn’t look proud. She looked… unsure.

She stood by my doorway for a long moment, saying nothing. Her eyes shifted around the room like she didn’t recognize it. Like, she didn’t recognize me. It took five whole minutes for her to even meet my gaze.

And when she did, all she said was:

“How have you been, Hyacine?”

Her voice was soft. Strained. Not cold—fragile.

I forced a small smile. The one I reserve for patients in denial. “I’m alright. What brings you here, Lady Aglaea?”

She took a breath that almost didn’t come out. Her fingers trembled ever so slightly as they brushed the fabric of her sleeve. And I saw it then—underneath all the calculation, all the poise—there was something quietly cracking.

And then, just like that… the wall dropped.

She sat down across from me. Not as a noble. Not as the demigoddess. Just as a woman.

“I need your help.”

Her voice was barely a whisper. “As a friend. Not a physician. Not as Anaxa’s… anything. Just as Hyacine.”

I listened.

“I… I’ve been wondering for some time now. Whether I… whether I can still have a child.”

She looked away again.

“I don’t want to ask him. I don’t want to worry him. But I need to know. For myself. For certainty.”

And all the while, her words echoed through me like the tick of a stopped clock.

Because I already knew.

I knew about the pills. I knew about Anaxa’s fear. I knew what I had enabled.

And now the woman he swore himself to—who once ruled Okhema like a shining star—was sitting before me like a wilted blossom, asking for truth.

Just like that… I was twisted again by the weight of the secrets I held.

On one side—if I told her the truth now, I knew exactly what would happen to Anaxa. I've seen Lady Aglaea wield retribution like a blade before.

But if I said nothing—if I chose silence over truth—I would be betraying not just my duties as a Twilight Courtyard healer… but my duty as her friend.

And so I looked at her.

At this woman who was always proud, always composed, always five steps ahead—now quietly unraveling in front of me.

And I chose the former.

I told her everything.

About the professor’s stress. His sleepless nights. His fear—both for the world and for the ones beside him. I told her how he was trying to juggle a burden far greater than what even a Titan could bear. How he came to me—bruised and breathless, desperate for even one piece of control in a life that had spiraled beyond him.

I didn’t spare the details. But I didn’t dramatize them either. I told her only the truth.

And when I finished… she didn’t speak. Not right away.

Her expression was unreadable. The kind of stillness that made the air thicken.

And then, slowly, I saw it:

That flicker. That cold.

It wasn’t anger. Not yet. But it was something close. Something quieter, more dangerous. A wall sliding back into place—brick by brick, behind those bright, calculating eyes.

She stood.

“Thank you for your honesty, Hyacine,”

She said it so politely, it cut deeper than any shout would have. “Please excuse me.”

She left.

And I—I didn’t try to stop her. I just watched her go. A storm was brewing in her silence, and I could only hope—

Hope that it wouldn’t fall too hard on my teacher. Hope that some part of her still remembered the why behind it all.

Hope that he’d be alright.

Professor Anaxa stopped coming after that.

Not a word. Not a cough at the door. Not even a scrawled Morse code on a napkin.

At first, I thought he hated me. That he knew I had spoken to Lady Aglaea and now wanted nothing to do with me.

But then—oddly enough—it wasn’t him who came next.

It was the Garmentmaker.

She arrived quietly one afternoon, as I was mixing a poultice by the window. No footsteps. No knock. Just… her, standing there like a shadow draped in silk and memory.

She told me that Anaxa had been barred from contacting me.

Not permanently, but “for a while,” she said.

His punishment had been doubled.

Lady Aglaea, apparently, wanted him to “focus solely on producing an heir for the household.”

I remember staring at her in silence for a good ten seconds. I wasn’t sure what struck me harder—the coldness of the command or the sheer absurdity of turning an entire man into a glorified seedbank.

Still, I bowed slightly, thanked her for the message, and handed her a small tin of ointment.

Something for bruises.

Because I knew… he would need it.

As she tucked it neatly into her sleeve, I could only offer a silent prayer in my heart.

“May God grant him mercy,” I whispered, as the Garmentmaker disappeared once more into the seams of the world.

Sometime after that, I saw him again.

Not at my clinic, not in the courtyard, not in secret between shadow and thread—but at the nursery room of the Goldweaver estate.

Lady Aglaea had summoned me. Not for herself this time, but for Calypso—or Cerces, as some called her now.

She was in labor, and I was asked to assist with the birth.

It was strange, at first. The room smelled of rosewood and dusted gold thread, yet felt warmer than any other place in that mansion—more alive. The walls didn’t echo pride or silence, but breath. Waiting.

And then she came.

A baby girl.

They named her Caliophe—which meant “little tree branch.”

Fitting, I thought. Considering Calypso’s soul had always leaned toward nature, wild things, and the wind’s whisper.

But it wasn’t just her birth that struck me.

It was his face.

Anaxa stood nearby, unsteady on his feet, hands still bruised and fingers cracked from Calypso’s grip. But when he saw Caliophe for the first time—when he held her gently in his crooked arms…

There was something I had never seen in him before.

Not cleverness. Not exhaustion. Not even pain.

But bliss.

A joy so raw and quiet it made my throat ache.

He looked like a man who had survived the storm and found a flower blooming in its wake.

I said nothing.

I simply reached for his hand as he cradled his daughter with the other and began to heal his fingers—one by one. Bones knit. Skin reformed. Life, in a way, returned.

And all the while, he kept whispering to her.

“Caliophe… she’s here… you’re here…”

And I… I just watched.

Because for once, Professor Anaxa wasn’t running from anything. He was becoming something.

A father. A real one.

Chapter Text

I feel there’s an enemy among us.

Or rather, a two-month-pregnant wife, one who shares the same husband as I. Specifically, the thundering demigoddess, Lady Aglaea, who seems to hold a quiet animosity toward me… or worse, on my baby. My tiny, innocent Caliophe, whose greatest crime so far has been drooling on a napkin shaped like a pegasus.

At first, I thought it was my usual overthinking. I mean, yes, Aglaea has the emotional range of a frozen potato on most days, but there’s a difference between indifference and frostbite. She's always been hard to read, always too poised to betray what she truly feels.

 But a mother knows. A tree knows when the air goes dry. A storm may be silent, but the pressure in your lungs still rises.

Every time I hold Caliophe, every time Anaxa cradles her with that rare tenderness he never shows to anyone else, I feel it—that weight pressing against us.

It unsettles me.

So, I did what any respectful co-wife would do.

I woke up my dear Mnestia to talk about it.

It was well past midnight. The manor had gone still, save for the soft creaks of old goldwood beams settling into sleep. Anaxa had finally collapsed after another long day, limbs slack and fingers still bandaged from when he tried to repair the nursery crib alone. Caliophe lay curled in her vine cradle beside us, humming gently in her sleep.

And Mnestia or Aglaea… our quiet bondmate.

I climbed over my husband, and touched Mnestia’s brow softly. I whispered to her in a hush only the trees might understand. She stirred faintly, golden lashes fluttering like leaves in wind.

“Mnestia,” I breathed. “Can you feel it? Do you sense her? What she’s hiding?”

She didn’t open her eyes. She simply murmured:

“It’s hazy… There’s too much storm in her. The child in me confuses it… everything’s tangled.”

And then silence. Mnestia drifted back into dreams, taking her half-seen truths with her. I mulled there in the dark, watching the woman I share my fate with a growing suspicion.

And that’s when Anaxa, beneath me, made a wheezing sound like an overworked bellows.

“…Calypso…” he rasped. “…what…”gasp “…are you DOING.”

I blinked down at him.

“Oh, hush,” I said, “we’re discussing spiritual warfare and potential eyebrow homicide.”

“Not on my ribcage,” he wheezed, “some of us need these organs. For living.”

I rolled my eyes but shifted slightly off his chest to let him breathe like a proper human being. He muttered something about ‘the dangers of marriage treaties involving nymphs’ before dramatically passing out again.

Anyway, Mnestia was no help. My mystery remained unsolved.

So I began to watch. Closely.

I didn’t let Caliophe out of my sight—not even for a sneeze. Especially not when she was with her father, who, I must remind you, is also the walking dartboard of this household. No, really. If Aglaea could throw knives with her eyes, Anaxa would be a cheese by now.

Caliophe, sweet innocent branchling of mine, just happens to share air with him. It’s guilt by proximity. Collateral cuddle damage.

So, was I being dramatic? Maybe.

Was I wrong? Absolutely not.

Because let’s face it—if you were cradled daily by a man who has committed crimes such as forgetting he has ribs, being married to two women at once, and leaving a bottle of migraine pills in the dining room because he was “working on something delicate,” then yes, you might be in danger too.

As I sat beside them—him rocking Caliophe in his arms, looking like the ghost of sleepless nights past—I narrowed my eyes.

He looked up at me mid-cradle.

“Why are you watching me?” he asked with a tired blink.

I gasped. Audibly. Like a betrayed forest spirit.

“Do you not realize,” I whispered, “your child may be in danger?”

Anaxa blinked. Then blinked again. “From… me?”

“No, from your lifestyle. Your aura. It’s like bait for divine retribution.”

He gave me that look—the one where he’s too exhausted to argue, but too Anaxa to surrender. I ignored it. I continued my silent watch like a suspicious houseplant with trust issues.

But I must admit—he looked peaceful with her. Careful. Reverent, even.

…Still a possible curse magnet. But a very loving one.

So I shifted a little closer. Just in case a lightning bolt chose that moment to strike. I’d rather catch it first than let anything singe my baby’s hair.

And besides, it’s not like I didn’t enjoy watching him try to navigate fatherhood like it was an explosive potion recipe. That’s half the joy of marriage, isn’t it?

A-ha.

On cue, the predator slithered into the playroom.

Aglaea entered like a thundercloud wearing heels. Her hair was immaculate, as always, and her expression said “I have not slept since the Second Era.” She looked tired. She looked grumpy. She looked like the demigoddess of deadlines and silent judgment had just taken a coffee break and left her in charge.

And then—it happened. She looked at us.

No—at my baby.

There! I knew it! That sharp gaze! That glint of primordial disapproval! That thousand-year-old ancient evil awakened from her bones! The way her eyes narrowed, not at Anaxa, not at me—but at the innocent bundle of foliage and cooing in my husband’s lap!

She wanted to devour my baby like a mythic stork in reverse.

“No!” I shrieked.

With lightning reflexes fueled by maternal panic and excessive imagination, I wrenched Caliophe from Anaxa’s arms. The poor man barely managed a grunt as I shoved him forward like an offering to the volcano goddess.

“Take it out on him!” I cried. “He’s the one who made us both pregnant!”

Anaxa stumbled forward, blinking as if someone swapped the script mid-act.

“Huh?” he said, voice cracking in disbelief. “What’s happening?”

He looked at me, then at Aglaea, then at my baby, then back at me—as if trying to solve a math problem with only a fork and trauma.

“Don’t play dumb,” I snapped dramatically, stroking Caliophe’s head while glaring past his shoulder like a wartime widow. “You brought this doom upon us.”

“I was just holding her,” he added, gesturing toward Caliophe like she was an illegal object.

Aglaea, goddess of Judgment and Untimely Appearances, simply blinked at us.

“I came to check if the milk delivery arrived,” she said slowly, as if speaking to two particularly irritating birds.

“Oh,” I said, hugging Caliophe tighter. “Carry on.”

There was a long pause as the tension evaporated like a botched potion. Anaxa tilted his head. “Wait. Why did you push me?”

“Because you were the closest to death,” I said flatly.

He squinted. “That’s not—how is that even logical—”

Caliophe cooed. And she just stood there rubbing her temples, probably wondering when exactly this family crossed from 'eccentric' to 'medically diagnosable'.

But I wasn’t wrong. Not yet. Not until I had proof she didn’t try to glare-laser my baby’s binky off her mouth.

Aglaea and I, believe it or not, actually came to an understanding a while ago.

It wasn't like we threw plates at each other across the breakfast table or fought over who got the warm side of the bed.

No.

 We’re mature women. Wives of the same brooding, half-asleep, alchemy-stained husband. We talked it out. We laid ground rules. We even exchanged hairpins once in a moment of mutual respect, like warriors laying down swords.

Because let’s be real—tolerance and balanced affection are non-negotiable when two women have to share the same man who somehow still forgets where the teething ointment is.

Honestly, I didn’t mind that Aglaea came first in his life. She had history, scars, a shared war against the taxes. I came later—an intermission performance in the long-running opera that is “Anaxa’s Emotional Unavailability.”

But we had boundaries.

At least... until Caliophe was born.

That’s when the frost crept in. Not between me and Aglaea directly—no words, no fights—but the tension! The glare! The sudden arrival to the playroom during tummy time as if summoned by baby giggles alone! You know the saying "it takes a village to raise a child"? Well, apparently, it also takes a glare capable of bending air.

And I tried to be rational about it. I did. I asked myself the hard questions.

"Is Aglaea tired?"

"Is she stressed about her own pregnancy?"

But one thought kept clawing back into my brain like an unwelcome raccoon: What kind of woman gets jealous of a baby?

I mean, sure, Caliophe stole Anaxa’s attention. He let her drool on his robes without flinching. He even read poetry aloud. Poetry! This is a man who once grunted at a love letter.

So maybe, maybe I understand the discomfort. But surely, that doesn’t justify the occasional dagger-stare from the doorway while Caliophe is doing something completely threatening, like giggling.

Right?

When the branching factor I suspected—namely my husband, whom I had offered wholeheartedly as a decoy-sacrifice—failed to draw out any reaction from Aglaea except a confused squint and a muttered “...what is happening,” I knew I had to take matters into my own perfectly manicured hands.

Because if no one else in this house was going to protect my baby bunny, then by the stars above, her mama would.

Yes, I, Lady Calypso, retired disaster, professional napper, and former goddess of “Let Someone Else Handle It,” would RISE.

So that morning, while Caliophe was peacefully curled up in Anaxa’s arms, I marched into the living room where Aglaea was reading, frowning at her fifth political manuscript of the day like it personally insulted her, and I said, brightly:

“Aglaea~ I was thinking of heading to the market. Want to come? Just us. We’re out of jam. And rice. And…grapes. And feminine balance.”

She looked up from her book, brows slightly lifted. “That’s an odd combination of—”

“It’ll be quick,” I smiled innocently. “And besides, you and I don’t get nearly enough one-on-one time. Fresh air, you know?”

She hesitated for half a second too long—suspicious—but finally nodded. “Alright.”

Perfect.

Now, I would never leave Caliophe alone, obviously. That’s why she was safely bundled in her father's arms. I pulled Anaxa aside and gave him a briefing so intense I think I saw him dissociate halfway through.

“If I return from this very important peace negotiation,” I told him sternly, “and Caliophe even so much as looks mildly inconvenienced, I will take it as a personal act of war.”

“…W- Are you mad, woman?!” he said, holding our daughter like she was a sacred relic from an ancient volcano temple.

And just like that, we found ourselves inside the newly opened department store at the heart of Mamoreal Market—the pride of local development and home to everything from fermented cucumbers to crystal-infused mop buckets.

The council had decreed that with the rising demand for daily goods, the merchants must be gathered in one place. And so here it was: shiny floors, color-coded shelves, and piped-in flute music trying desperately to mask the scent of pickled fish.

It was perfect.

A battlefield disguised as a wonderland of commerce.

Aglaea and I walked side-by-side, each holding a basket meant to be filled with our daily needs. Hers hung from one hand with practiced elegance. Mine—clutched like a holy relic.

This was part of my plan, of course.

I had read in a scroll (written by someone’s grandmother, probably) that you can tell what a wife is truly thinking based on what she buys. So I watched her carefully. Every step. Every product touched. Every pause.

The truth would reveal itself in the shopping cart.

When I saw what she grabbed first, I nearly dropped my basket.

A kitchen knife.

Not just any knife—no, no. This was the kind of gleaming, sharp-edged, soul-splitting thing you'd see in a midnight murder mystery. Aglaea held it up contemplatively, eyes narrowed in deep, chilling thought, as if calculating... cleaver or utility blade?

I froze.

Time stopped. Somewhere, a tomato rolled off a display stand like a doomed extra in a crime drama.

Was this it? Was this where she finally snapped?

I could see it now—the image of her, lips in a cold smirk, muttering something like,

“You’ve hogged the affection long enough… it’s my turn to cut in.”

SLICE! SLICE! SLICE!

I could see it clear as day. It all made sense now.

Every sidelong glance. Every silent nod. Every time she “accidentally” drank from my mug. Aglaea wasn’t just tolerating me… she was studying me.

Watching. Waiting. Like a predator in lace and logic.

And now? She was moving in for the kill.

“Calypso?” Aglaea tilted her head.

“I was thinking of learning how to cook. The maids always do it, but… maybe it’s time I tried something new.” She raised the cleaver. “What do you think?”

I paused at the question.

Then stared at the gleam of the blade in her hand. Then at her elegant fingers wrapped around the handle. Then back at her face—which was suspiciously neutral.

“Wait—are you… are you going to murder someone?” I asked, very calmly. Very politely. Like a concerned neighbor asking about someone’s bonsai plant that looked a little too well-pruned.

Aglaea blinked. Slowly.

Her head tilted.

“…What?”

“The cleaver. You lifted it up like you were contemplating divine retribution,” I gestured vaguely, my voice rising just a tad. “You were looking at it the same way I looked at Anaxa the first time he forgot our anniversary.”

Her brows furrowed as she lowered the knife. “You’re being weird today.”

Which was not a no, mind you.

A lesser woman would’ve let that pass. But I was Calypso. Former Titan of Reason. Current goddess of overthinking.

I narrowed my eyes. “Hmm…”

Aglaea turned away, and with the grace of someone who’d just been accused of homicide in the home goods section, smoothly diverted the topic.

“I wonder if this ketchup is still made with the Sanma tomatoes…” she murmured, examining a bottle with suspicious ease. “They used to import it from Aidonia before the tariffs.”

And then—oh how clever—she added beef shanks to her basket.  “Steak, maybe,” she said, almost to herself.

I see, So that’s your plan, huh?

You wave around a murder cleaver, I confront you, and suddenly it’s all beef and tomato paste and domestic dreams.

She was good.

A master of redirection. Like a swan gliding across a blood-stained lake.

Still… As I watched her carefully consider spice packets and check the marbling on the meat, I relaxed just a bit.

Because sure, she might be plotting something. But if there was one universal truth—it’s that people don’t usually buy parsley before committing cold-blooded treason.

After the market run—successful, I admit, as our bags brimmed with proper ingredients like real citizens instead of wandering disasters—I continued walking with Aglaea back toward her residence. Groceries in hand. Real groceries, too. No poison, no powder, no ancient cursed salt from a sealed ruin in Aidonia.

Aglaea mentioned, quite casually, that she was going to cook tonight.

How unusual.

Instead of heading straight home, she guided us to a private bathhouse tucked behind the hill, one of those newer facilities built after the city reform. Modern, serene, smelled like a forest crushed into shampoo.

She snapped her fingers, and her garmentmakers arrived shortly after—little silent shadows in pastel cloaks—who took the groceries off our hands and left without a word. Efficient. Disturbingly so.

We climbed to the second floor together. It was… empty.

Perfect for killing someone, if I were being honest. One scream? No one hears. One slip? Just a tragic bathhouse accident.

Still, I kept my cool. We changed into our proper bath suits

and stepped into the steaming water.

And I must confess—

This was one of those rare moments I truly appreciated being in a mortal body. The heat wrapped around me like melted silk. The scent of cedarwood and citrus filled my lungs. The way my joints cracked as I eased into the warmth was the loudest I’ve felt in weeks.

I sighed. Deeply. Honestly. My back made a sound like an old violin string snapping. Bliss.

How long had it been since I could do something like this?

Or… ever?

I leaned back into the curve of the pool, watching the steam rise around us.

If nothing else, Aglaea and I could agree on one thing: Bathing was sacred. Holy. A shared language.

Even if we disagreed on everything else—including her suspicious cleaver-wielding tendencies and my alleged ‘paranoia.’

In this water, though, with no maids, no heirs, no cosmic trials…We were just two wives, sharing a bath.

That was, until she casually began making slow, circular rubbing motions on her stomach.
Just a gentle, thoughtful kind of gesture, as if tracing something unseen.

Then she murmured, “This motion helps. When I feel nauseous sometimes. I don’t know why, but it eases it a bit.”

I tilted my head slightly, watching her from the corner of my eye.

“And…” she added, voice quiet, almost tentative, “Did you ever have that kind of thing too? During your own pregnancy?”

Oh.

Of all things I expected today—from cleavers to conspiracies to bathhouse assassination attempts—this was not it.

She was… asking. Genuinely.

“Ah,” I cleared my throat, trying not to sound too surprised. “You mean during my time carrying Calliophe?”

She nodded, still rubbing slow circles, eyes on the water.

“Well… yes, I did.” More than I care to admit. “I couldn’t stand the smell of jasmine tea. Or roasted yam. And everything felt… out of place, like my body had been rented out to a stranger.”

Aglaea didn’t interrupt. She just listened, as always, with that unnerving calm.

“It was frustrating at first,” I confessed. “I wasn’t used to the idea of being bound by hunger. Nausea. Gravity. I used to fly through solar currents, to rearrange logic with a thought. But then—when I finally got her out of me, that shrieking, wrinkly thing…”

I smiled faintly.

“My body felt lighter. And… when I heard Calliophe’s voice for the first time, it was like—like something cracked open. The whole world narrowed to that sound. And for the first time in my long, long existence…”

A pause. A breath. I didn’t even realize I was holding it.

“It felt worth it.”

I looked at her, at Aglaea, the shadow of steam rising between us. “Does that make me… a proper mom?”

She blinked slowly. No quick answer. Just her gaze, honest and discerning, flickering over me as if trying to find the right edge of truth.

“I don’t know,” she said simply, “what makes someone a proper mother.”

Her fingers gently trailed along the water, as if to mimic my earlier gesture. “But I think… your baby is happy. She seems unburdened.”

That word struck me. Not “gifted,” not “powerful,” not “chosen.” Just… free.

Aglaea leaned her head back against the tiled wall, voice softer now, but no less clear. “I envy her, in a way. Since I was small, I was raised to carry something. The duties of a priestess. A symbol of my house. The perfect daughter, the perfect heir. I wasn’t allowed to cry too loudly or laugh too freely. Not even to want things for myself.”

Her gaze wasn’t on me anymore. It had drifted toward the blurred windows, the world beyond the misty panes.

“I still don’t know what I really want,” she admitted. “But… watching Calliophe? That kind of freedom—just being able to be—that’s rare. And precious.”

I felt my chest tighten. Not in that suffocating Titan way, but something far smaller. Human.

“…I think I’d murder the world for her happiness,” I muttered.

Aglaea gave a tired smile. “Then I guess you’re a proper mom after all.”

We sank back into the warm water, steam curling around us like the veil of a forgotten temple. Two goddesses, soaking in mortal skin, watching each other with quiet, strange understanding.

I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was the heat, the quiet, or just the fact that we were both stripped of our roles—no thrones, no Coreflames, no audience. Just two women in warm water, steam curling around our shoulders like a truth-drenched veil.

I turned toward her slightly, watching the ripples sway between us. “Aglaea… can I ask you something?”

She glanced at me. “You already are.”

“Do you… hold any animosity toward me?” I asked, softer than I expected. “Or toward Calliophe?”

Aglaea blinked. Her eyes narrowed a bit—not in anger, but confusion. “Why would I?”

“You always glare at us,” I said with a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Back home. Or when Calliophe’s being clingy with Anaxa. I know we said we had an understanding in the beginning… that we’d share him. But lately, it’s felt different.”

She didn’t answer right away. I wasn’t sure what I expected—a sharp rebuttal, maybe. A cold denial.

But then, Aglaea just looked at me. Really looked at me.

And then… she chuckled.

“You’re acting so strange today,” she said, brushing a damp lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s honestly kind of endearing.”

“Don’t dodge the question,” I murmured, a little too pouty for a Titan.

She shook her head, smiling softly. “No. I don’t hold anything against you, or Calliophe. I’ve just… been moody. That’s all.”

“Moody?”

“Ever since my pregnancy,” she murmured, “things feel heavier. I try not to show it. But I guess I’ve been… withdrawing. And when I see how openly affectionate you two are with him, I—”

She paused, dipping her hand beneath the surface, watching the water swirl.

“—I get jealous,” she admitted quietly. “Not because I don’t want to share, but because sometimes I want him to look at me like that too. Without me having to ask.”

That admission hit me like a soft, unexpected wave.

“I thought you were glaring because you wanted to hex me.”

Aglaea scoffed. “Please. If I wanted to hex you, you wouldn’t be soaking in rose oil right now.”

I laughed—really laughed, until my shoulders shook. And when she smiled at me, it wasn’t her usual reserved one. It was warm. Honest.

“I guess I wanted to be a bit selfish,” she said.

Aglaea was quiet again for a moment, her eyes half-lidded, watching the gentle ripples that danced between us.

Then, with the kind of honesty that only warm water and softened hearts could draw out, she said, “I already think of Calliophe as part of my family. We’re together now… all of us. So I hope… when my child comes, you’ll think the same.”

I blinked.

It wasn’t grand, poetic, or ceremonious. It was just… honest. And coming from her, it meant something.

For a Titan, for a mother who wasn’t supposed to be one, for someone whose very existence was sculpted from solitude and principle—it hit deeper than it should have.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding and smiled at her, genuinely. “Thank you, Aglaea. That means more than you know.”

She nodded, still in that understated way of hers, as if saying more would make it harder.

I swirled the water lazily with my foot. “You know, for all the emotional chaos, stress, and jealous spats—at least we have someone to blame for it.”

Aglaea arched a brow. “You mean our husband?”

I grinned. “Who else?”

She gave a light snort and turned her head away, but I caught the upward curl of her lips. It wasn’t a smile meant to be seen—but I saw it anyway.

After a while, we rose, feeling lighter than we had entering. Whatever bitterness lingered had melted into the steam.

Once dressed, we made our way back home, our steps slow but content. The house greeted us with its usual silence, but something felt… off.

“No welcome?” I asked playfully as we closed the door behind us.

We moved through the hall, set the groceries down, and peeked into the kitchen. Empty.

“…Anaxa?” Aglaea called, setting a hand on her hip.

Curious, we made our way to the bedroom—and there he was.

Our husband was curled up in bed, holding a sleeping Calliophe in his arms. Her little hands clutched his tunic, while his arms were wrapped around her with a protective gentleness that didn’t quite match his usual stoicism. Their foreheads touched lightly, breaths aligned in peaceful rhythm.

Aglaea blinked, softening on the spot. “…He’s getting really good at this.”

I sighed theatrically. “Of course he is. We were out emotionally bonding and carrying groceries, and here he is, stealing all the affection points in his sleep.”

We stood there for a long moment, watching the two of them.

And maybe—just maybe-that strange little mess of a family didn’t feel so chaotic after all.

Just a little tangled. And very, very human.

Chapter Text

I know I shouldn’t do this… or even think about it. But lately… I think my husband is cheating on me.

Absurdity of the highest level.

I know what kind of man he is—how his performer persona shields a stone wall of restraint and emotional distance. Not that I don’t recognize his good qualities. I do. Intimately so. But it’s exactly because I know how careful he is with his attention that this thought is unbearable.

He’s not the type to open himself easily to just anyone. You have to break through his walls, earn his guarded respect, prove yourself through patience and sincerity. I know. That’s how our relationship began. That’s how I got in.

Sure, I’ve noticed the glances he sometimes gets. The lingering stares. But I told myself it was natural—he’s never alone, after all.

Wherever he goes, he’s flanked by me or Calypso. It’s not every day someone in Okhema sees a functioning polyamorous triad, especially one so public. It draws eyes. Whispers. Questions. The Chrysos Heirs alone would’ve drawn enough scrutiny. Add love into the mix, and the weight of our image becomes even more unbearable.

And yet… something’s different lately.

And it has something to do with my friend. Specifically—Cipher.

I can’t even begin to think where to start. They’re always arguing. Or rather, Cipher is always poking at him like a child who found the world's most sarcastic toy. She annoys him on purpose, I’m sure of it. That’s normal, right? That’s just how they are.

She still holds a grudge over that manipulation scheme he pulled a year ago—the one she barely escaped with her pride intact. I thought it would fade by now, but apparently not.

And Cipher, though older than most of the Heirs, sometimes behaves like she’s thirteen and powered by stolen candy. She’s clever. But mischievous in the most dangerous ways. That’s not slander—it’s objective observation. I’ve seen what she does to the dormitory intercom when she’s bored.

But that’s beside the point.

The real point, the burning core of this irrational suspicion spiraling in my mind—is that I need to confirm the truth. I must.

If he really is cheating on me—if that scholar has the audacity, the sheer blasphemy to sneak around behind my back with someone like Cipher—I… I think I will actually kill him on the spot.
No trial. No lecture. Just a swift end.

…Ah. No.

No no. That’s too extreme again. Breathe, Aglaea.

Calypso warned me about this. She said my temper was getting worse lately. That Hyacine told her our husband has been showing “advanced symptoms of psychological torment.” A fancy way of saying he looks like a burned-out alchemy candle. She said maybe we should tone it down.

Fine. I’ll tone it down. I’ll just start with surveillance first.

No murder. Just monitoring.

I think it started a few weeks ago—when Cipher began coming to our house a lot.
Not just casual visits—no. These were calculated, slinking, late-afternoon entries. She came quietly, maybe four, five times total. Always when she thought no one was watching.

But I knew.

I have eyes everywhere. Courtyard whispers. Window curtains that move when they shouldn't. My Garmentmaker’s field reports. Even the house cat noticed.

And the first thing she seeks out? Anaxa.

Not Calypso. Not me. Not even the kitchen for snacks. She heads straight to him.

And he—he doesn’t even mind.

He barely blinks. Not even when my Garmentmaker is right there with him, hemming sleeves or patching burn holes in his third-best coat.

They talk. They converse. They get quiet.

From what I’ve gathered, there’s no physical contact. No damning evidence. No lingering touches. No shared teacups. My Garmentmaker assures me it all looks "professionally cordial." Which means nothing. Nothing. Cipher and Anaxa are both too clever for that. Too slippery. Too calculating. If anyone could fool my Garmentmaker, it’s those two.

And yet…

I can’t shake this feeling inside my chest. This slow, gnawing ember behind my sternum.

Something is off.

A gut feeling—a woman’s instinct. Or perhaps a priestess’s sixth sense. And I don’t like it. Not one bit. Not when it concerns my husband.

I was silent at first.

Just watched him from across the room as he adjusted his coat. Said something about being called out—"urgent matters" from a colleague.

Unspecified. Indelicate to explain.

He wasn't lying. I saw the golden thread coiling faintly around his ankle. Truthbinding.

But every time he tells me that…He never meets my eyes.

And he always covers it with a kiss. A small one. Quick. Mechanical. Like a paper seal slapped over a crack in the dam.

I’ve interrogated traitors, you know. Cornered mercenaries with trembling fingers and silvered tongues. I’ve stood in the war rooms and peeled the truth off of liars like rotting skin.

I know a sinner when I see one.

And yet it wasn’t just Cipher anymore. It started with her—yes. That chaotic, teasing creature who always knew how to push the limits. But then…

Then it was the others.

Castorice, who always gave too much away with her downcast eyes. Mydeimos, who suddenly changed topics every time Cipher’s name was mentioned. Even Hyacine—sweet, open Hyacine—who stammered when I casually asked how Cipher was these days.

Why?

Why the sudden silence?

Was it… because of my mood swings?

I thought about that. Truly, I did. I sat down and went through every instance—every conversation, every argument, every moment my emotions got the better of me.

I recollected them, carefully, like evidence laid out in a courtroom. Was I unfair? Did I raise my voice? Did I accuse without proof?

If I did something wrong… I was willing to accept that.

I even asked Calypso. She just smiled, cupped my cheek, and told me I was overthinking again. That pregnancy muddles more than just the body—it fogs the heart too.

But even she...Even she seemed oblivious to everything else.She recommended a nice place for him to go relax with Cipher. Said they’d "get along better if they shared a little joy."

Does she not worry?

Does she not see the pattern—the late-night talks, the missing glances, the way Cipher avoids me lately like a guilty child?

Or maybe… maybe she does see it. And she’s just gotten used to it.

Maybe in this triangle we built, she’s already made peace with being the gentle one. The yielding one.

Maybe she knew this would happen eventually—that he’d get pulled toward someone else. Someone newer. Someone… not me.

And here I am, still playing the strategist, still trying to hold this fragile web together with sharp eyes and a bleeding heart.

As with most things in my life, I decided that if I wanted the truth…
I needed to extract it directly from the source.

No intermediaries. No detours. No half-truths spun by guilty eyes and clever mouths.

So I waited.

The estate was quiet that afternoon. The hourglass trickled sand down like a metronome of expectation. I dismissed my attendants under the pretense of solitude and stood at the second-floor veranda, hidden behind the columns, watching.

And just like clockwork—because of course she would be punctual—Cipher arrived.

There she was.

Well-groomed as ever, as if coming to a date and not a house ruled by suspicion. A faint scent of plum blossoms and iron clung to her. She greeted the maid casually, almost too casually, asking in a tone as breezy as the wind if "the professor" was in.

But she didn’t get the chance to hear the answer. Because I was already walking toward her.

She didn’t notice me at first. Her eyes were busy scanning the parlor windows for him. And then she turned.

For one moment—one—she froze. Her lips parted slightly in surprise. Or was it guilt?

I smiled. "There's no need to fear, Cipher," I said, gently. Calm, poised, measured. "I only wish to talk."

But before I could utter another word—

She bolted.

Like wind through paper walls, like a rabbit catching scent of the hawk overhead—she turned and ran. Down the steps, across the gate, vanishing beyond the arching bougainvillea before anyone else could react.

I stood there on the veranda, hand still slightly raised, breath caught mid-sentence.

No more.

I have played this kindly.

I have waited.

I have been patient.

I have tolerated the whispers, the glances, the tightening pit in my stomach that I once dismissed as nothing but the echo of childish insecurity.

But I am not a child.

And I will not be played for a fool.

So I stormed into the recreational room—his daughter's laughter still echoing faintly, only to fall into silence the moment my footstep crossed the threshold.

Anaxa was on the floor, looking up in surprise, his fingers mid-reach toward a little toy fox Caliophe had thrown his way. He blinked. His smile faded. He knew.

Calypso caught on instantly.

She moved without a word—scooping Caliophe into her arms with a grace that masked the concern in her eyes—and quietly excused herself to the next room, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

Now it was just us.

The calm I wore was a blade honed from years of diplomacy and warfare. I looked at him—my husband, my equal, my chosen—and said:

“Sit.”

He obeyed, albeit slowly, legs folding beneath him as if unsure whether this was a trial or an execution.

“I’ll say this once,” I continued, voice even, “Do not lie to me.”

He furrowed his brow, confused. “Aglaea, what is this abou—”

“Cipher.”

I folded my arms. “Your little rendezvous with her have become increasingly more frequent. Four times this week. Before that, three. Always under the guise of ‘classified matters.’ Always when I am busy or unwell.”

His eyes widened—just for a moment.

And then… they softened. Returned to their usual impassive calm. Then he chuckled.

That sound—that chuckle—was the match to the kindling in my chest.

“What,” I asked tightly, “is so funny?”

He shook his head, amused in that infuriating, scholar way of his.

“You’re jealous,” he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. As if that explained everything. As if he hadn’t just spat in the face of my restraint.

I was… shocked.

Not at his answer—But at how small he made it seem. Like I had just questioned the weather, not the sanctity of our vows.

The fury roared in my chest like a lit forge—I stood from my seat so fast it nearly toppled—ready to explode, to rip through every veil of secrecy and burn the truth from his mouth if I had to.

But—

He simply raised both hands. Not in defense. But in peace.

His expression was calm—so calm it made my blood boil all over again. He looked at me with those thoughtful eyes and said:

“Before you let your mind run to strange places, Aglaea… you should know. There’s something she and the others are preparing. It involves you. And… to an extent, Calypso as well.”

He paused—not in hesitation, but with deliberate care.

“I can’t tell you what it is. I gave my word. It’s not something I should interfere with.”

I stared.

No… scanned him.

Every breath, every shift of his shoulders. Every flicker of light in his gaze.

Even the golden thread I wove through his promise—it didn’t fray.

He was sincere.

Maybe it was the disbelief still etched into my face. Maybe it was the flicker of hurt I didn’t catch in time—But something in me must’ve shown, because Anaxa rose to his feet and stepped closer with that usual composed grace of his.

He didn’t ask for permission. He simply reached out and pulled me into a hug.

I resisted—at first. My arms stayed stiff at my sides, lips pressed into a flat, unimpressed line.

I refused to let him win. I refused to let him think this was over just because he played the sincerity card.

But then… damn him.

He rubbed his hand gently through my hair, then down to the base of my neck, drawing slow, deliberate circles.

And my body—traitorous as ever—leaned into his chest.

His heartbeat was calm. Steady. Like he wasn’t just caught having secret meetings with the girl who always stared at him with eyes too wide and smiles too dangerous. Like he wasn’t hiding something from me and Calypso both.

And yet… in that moment, wrapped in his arms, I hated how much I wanted to believe him. Even now. Even after everything.

“Damn you,” I muttered into his robes. “And your stupid, punchable handsome face.”

I felt him chuckle, the sound deep and warm in his chest. His hand never left my nape.

“All I wanted was a peaceful, ordinary day…” I murmured. “For us. For our future. For—our child.”

He held me tighter.

I looked up slightly, my eyes narrowed.“…Since when did you become such an expert in handling furious housewives?”

His answer?

“Since I married two of them.”

Smug bastard.

But even as I rolled my eyes, the weight in my chest lightened—just a little. I still had questions. Still had doubts.

But for now… I allowed myself to stay in his arms, just for a while longer.

And just like he promised me…The surprise came.

It was the morning after—the air still warm from our shared bath, Calypso’s damp hair pinned loosely as we walked back into the estate. The halls were quiet, unusually so. No footsteps, no distant clanging from the kitchen, not even the soft lull of music Anaxa usually played when working. Just silence.

I called for him. No answer.

Calypso shifted Caliophe in her arms. The baby gave a soft grunt, squirming slightly—she felt it too. The strange weight in the air, like we had stepped into a performance just before the curtain rose.

We made our way to the recreational room, our steps cautious. The door creaked open.

And—

“SURPRISE!!”

A burst of confetti rained down from above. We froze.

Two giant cakes dominated the room—one frosted in silver and navy, the other in soft gold and blush pink. Out popped Cipher with her arms flung wide, followed by Hyacine giggling uncontrollably, Castorice adjusting her glasses while smiling, Phainon shouting too loud as always, and of course, Tribbie, Trinnon, and Tianne—waving tiny party horns.

All of them shouting in unison: “CONGRATULATIONS, LADIES!!”

An early baby shower. For both of us.

I was speechless.

Calypso’s mouth hung open in awe. Even Caliophe stopped fussing and let out a curious coo.

From behind the cake, Anaxa emerged, grinning—his sleeves rolled up, a tiny smudge of icing on his cheek. Standing next to him was Mydeimos, looking awkward with a party hat slightly too small for his head but still smiling, like he’d actually helped.

Confetti floated down like snow, sticking to my shoulders, my hair—Calypso reached up and plucked a piece from my bangs, her expression warm and misty-eyed.

“You…” I turned to her. “You knew.”

“I suspected,” she said with a soft smile. “But I didn’t expect this.”

Cipher bounded over, linking her arm through mine. “Sorry for being sneaky,” she whispered with a wink. “But it was worth it, right?”

I still couldn’t speak.

My heart felt swollen in my chest.

I didn’t even have time to process it.

Cipher had already tugged me toward the table, Hyacine was demanding I pick a flavor, and Castorice—bless her sharp eyes—was already rearranging plates and napkins with the precision of a royal quartermaster. Phainon, of course, kept trying to poke the frosting, earning a collective “NO!” from the girls every time.

And our Caliophe was suddenly became  the star of the room.

Tiny fingers, wide eyes blinking at the colors and sounds, everyone gently crowding around Calypso’s arms to coo at her. Even Tribbie held up a mini party hat to her with exaggerated flair, making Calypso laugh. “She’s not a cake decoration,” she warned, but the affection in her voice was impossible to miss.

I stood there for a second, watching them all— The noise, the laughter, the absurdity of it.

Then Calypso’s hand gently tugged at mine. She leaned in close, whispering with a knowing glint in her eye:

“Let’s give him one more surprise, shall we?”

I smirked. Of course she’d plan something like this.

Together, we stepped toward Anaxa, who was very studiously trying to cut slices of cake—far too focused on angling the knife and definitely not making eye contact with anyone.

Then—in perfect coordination—Calypso kissed one cheek, and I kissed the other.

Right on cue, his face turned completely red.

He stiffened, the knife halting mid-slice as if he’d been struck by lightning. “A–are you trying to make me cut off my own hand?” he muttered under his breath, eyes flicking nervously to the rest of the room.

Phainon howled in laughter. Cipher actually let out a squeal.

“My, my,” Castorice hummed. “That’s one way to motivate a man.”

And Anaxa— Our infamously stoic, unshakable, alchemical genius—…was quietly dying inside.

And for the first time in a while… I let myself relax into the chaos.

Maybe today really was going to be peaceful.

Even if just for a moment.