In the heart of a vast flower field within the Flower Realm, Irene knelt among the blossoms, her hands moving with deliberate care as she clipped flowers and tea leaves, laying them neatly into her woven basket.
Beside her, a green-haired woman hovered, a swarm of pixies glimmering like drifting sparks in the sun. After a long pause, she finally spoke.
"I thought you came here for me," she teased, voice light but pointed. "But it seems you're far more interested in these… common herbs."
Irene coughed softly, her expression calm, though her eyes flickered with quiet scrutiny. The speaker was Clover, minor Goddess of Nature and Youth, ambitious and clever, with influence nearly matching her own.
"And whose fault is that?" Irene replied evenly, clipping another stem with calm precision.
Clover lifted a brow, a smirk tugging at her lips. "How polite. But blaming others? That's not noble. It's cowardly."
Irene only hummed, lowering more blossoms into her basket, deliberately slow, as if daring Clover to push further.
"Are you even listening to me?" Clover pressed, her tone sharper now, tinged with impatience.
"I am," Irene said smoothly, tilting the basket toward her companion. "Would this be enough for what we planned?"
Clover leaned closer, eyes scanning the collection. She gave a reluctant nod. "It should do. Though honestly, making tea from weeds, sorry, common herbs, is bold of you."
"It's hardly poison," Irene replied with a faint smile, the calm in her voice masking the faint amusement she felt. "Mortals drink these every day. I read about it."
Nearby, two young elves watched, barely daring to breathe.
"Hey, isn't that the Celestial Saint?" one whispered.
The other nearly stumbled. "Yeah! That's really her!"
"Wow, she's—whoa—OWW!" the boy yelped as someone yanked his ear. He froze, eyes wide at the culprit.
"You little brat—"
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.
.
Clover ignored the scuffle, leaning closer to Irene, her curiosity sharpening. "So, have you heard the rumors?"
Irene's expression darkened slightly, her calm slipping for the briefest moment. "Do I look like I care? Gossip is just jealousy dressed in words."
"You sound like a grandmother," Clover teased, a playful lilt in her tone. "Don't tell me you're actually two thousand years old."
Irene stifled a yawn, lips twitching in faint annoyance. They had reached her modest treehouse, nestled against the roots of an impossibly massive tree.
"Why don't you make your guest some tea and biscuits?" she suggested gently, though her eyes carried a hint of challenge.
Clover sighed dramatically, then sighed again as if bracing for Irene's next move.
"If you actually brewed some, maybe we could talk properly," Irene said. When she turned, Clover had vanished, leaving a faint sparkle of pixie dust in the air.
Sulky as ever, Irene eased into a chair. What do mortals call that? Her gaze drifted to a painting on the wall: a crowned man wielding a crimson sword, arm outstretched in defiance, while behind him stood a figure cloaked in light and white robes.
Clover returned, this time trailing a floating teapot, two cups, and a jar of biscuits, which she set neatly on the table.
"What year was that painted?" Irene asked, nodding toward the artwork.
"Sometime during the reign of a great human emperor, just before the Armageddon War," Clover said, shrugging.
"And the one behind him?"
"Your father," Clover said flatly, her sarcasm unmistakable.
Irene narrowed her eyes but said nothing. Clover clapped once, shifting her gaze to something unsaid.
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Later, Irene sat in a grand public library, slender fingers turning the pages of the Record of Scarlet. Those passing by slowed, bowing briefly, then hurried on, unsettled by her presence.
"The Scarlet Empire," she murmured under her breath, "a vast mortal realm under the Scarlet Emperor's rule."
The weight of the knowledge pressed lightly on her, though she did not yet realize its significance. After two hours, she closed the book with a soft thud and sent it gliding back to its shelf. The room exhaled quietly as she rose.
Far across the lower realm, she paused at a majestic fountain where fairies and divine races gathered. For a moment she considered lingering, savoring the calm, but the upcoming gathering pulled her focus back.
"What was that spell again?" She tapped her chin before whispering, "Ah, Οη μοτηερ Γαια, guide this child to the Celestial Palace."
Light flared. To most, the magic would seem trivial, almost impossible. To Irene, it was simply convenient.
In moments, she appeared at the gates of the Celestial Goddess's palace. Immortals bowed low.
"Greetings, Celestial Saint."
She ignored them, striding through ornate halls. Her mother presided within, surrounded by lofty deities with time to spare and lesser ones desperate to earn favor. Faye, ever-loyal servant and Guardian of the Forbidden Tree, guided her to a private chamber.
Inside waited her brother, Mikael, God of Archangels. He regarded her with a cold, measured gaze.
"I thought you'd avoid gatherings like this," he said, tone clipped.
"Father told me to come," Irene replied curtly, meeting his gaze evenly.
The two legitimate children of the Heavenly Ruler had not spoken in years. The silence between them stretched, heavy and tense. At last, Irene beckoned Faye.
The servant leaned close, startled by Irene's whispered command, but obeyed without question.
Hours later, Irene slipped quietly into the palace gardens. At the marble fountain, a familiar figure waited.
Her composure melted instantly. She rushed forward as he opened his arms.
"You're late," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
She clung to him tightly, burying her face against his chest and breathing in the scent that never left him. His hand rested gently on her head, though his eyes carried a flicker of guilt she did not see.
Love blinds as much as it warms. Time itself seemed to pause. Only the trickle of water, the distant chirping of birds, and their mingled breaths broke the stillness.
"I missed you, Drake," Irene whispered, voice soft and tremulous.