Michael's close friend and aide-de-camp, Peter, approached him with news about the investigation into the general's suspicious death. At first, their exchange seemed routine, but Michael quickly realized the matter was too delicate for the palace halls.
He ordered Peter to request leave from the Heavenly Ruler. The approval came almost too quickly, granted without question. Michael's reasoning had been unassailable.
When Peter returned, Michael's voice dropped. "We need privacy."
Peter glanced around the grounds, a flicker of unease in his eyes. Before he could respond, Michael said, "My mother's garden."
Peter stiffened. "That place is sacred, my lord."
"Then we'll enter with purpose," Michael replied evenly. "That will suffice."
The garden greeted them with hushed splendor: a hedge maze spiraling toward a marble fountain, willow branches hung with swings, a white gazebo standing proud among thick flowerbeds. Yet beneath its beauty lingered danger. The Celestial Goddess loathed trespassers in this sanctuary she had nurtured with the Goddess of Nature.
Peter admired little of it. His thoughts stayed on their mission. "Despite testimony and the unit's efforts, the investigation has stalled. We've hit a dead end."
Michael frowned. "And no one fits the description." His gaze darkened, his voice low. "Almost as if we are being driven into a trap."
Peter exhaled, fingers tightening around his note-scroll. "So the mission drags, and we have nothing."
Michael tilted his head. "Strange."
"Strange?" Peter echoed, surprised by his commander's calm, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him.
"I was thinking," Michael murmured, brushing hair from his brow, "how much our choices, even our words, bend under mortal influence."
"That's bold, Mi—"
Peter stopped as Michael raised a hand, eyes scanning something beyond the hedges.
"Irene…?" Michael whispered.
There she stood, clutching a man's black tunic so tightly the fabric wrinkled. Panic shone in her eyes, raw and unhidden.
Michael's stomach sank. The man matched perfectly the traitor they sought. His fingers twitched toward his weapon.
Before Michael could move, a faint rustle betrayed Peter's quick step. He was at Irene's side in an instant, pulling her back with the precision of someone who had anticipated this moment. Michael barely had time to register the movement.
Then Drake's eyes caught his. From the shadows, a smirk flickered across his face, knowing and deliberate, and gone as quickly as it appeared. Innocence returned to his expression, but Michael could feel the danger coiling beneath. Every subtle twitch of his lips and measured blink hinted that Drake enjoyed the tension as much as he feared the consequences.
Michael's chest tightened. He pivoted sharply toward his sister. "Irene, do you understand how dangerous this is?"
Her lips trembled, yet she held his gaze. "He's no stranger to me."
Michael drew a deep breath, chest constricting with dread. "Do you remember Father's principle?"
Her voice was hushed, almost mechanical. "'Maintain control. Do not involve yourself in forbidden ties. Do not risk illegitimate offspring.'"
"Then why," Michael pressed, "are you standing with this man?"
Color rose in her cheeks. "We haven't even done anything yet."
Peter's eyes darted to Drake, assessing him, tension coiled in his stance. He did not speak but stood ready, a silent guardian against any sudden move. Michael's gaze flicked between Peter, Drake, and Irene, a storm building in his chest.
"I didn't ask for that!" he snapped, his voice slicing through the still air. "I asked if you remembered the principle!"
"It's not my fault!" Irene's voice cracked with anger, trembling with raw hurt. "You've always been the selfish one. Why can't I have something that's mine?"
"Selfish?" Michael's composure fractured. "You think me selfish?"
"You are!" Her words erupted, precise and relentless. "Father groomed you for succession. You wore his armor, learned his commands, stood at his right hand. And me? I was left behind, a daughter he never trusted with anything greater than embroidery and silence."
Michael flinched. Her words struck like arrows. She pressed on, voice trembling but resolute.
"You preach control, but you've never lived without it. You've never known what it feels like to be overlooked, dismissed, told your worth begins and ends with obedience. All my life I've watched you praised for every step you take, while I was told not to take any at all."
"Irene—" His voice faltered, ragged, as if her accusation had drained him.
"No!" She cut him off, eyes blazing. "You're not protecting me, Michael. You're protecting yourself. You cannot stand the thought of me choosing for myself because it threatens your perfect order."
Her words hung like knives in the air, slicing through the quiet scent of flowers. Michael's throat tightened, every accusation sinking deep.
"You think I wanted Father's mantle?" he shot back, low and trembling with restrained fury. "You think his praise was joy? It was chains, Irene. Every word of approval bound me tighter. You despise the discipline he taught me, yet you never saw how it hollowed me."
Her laughter was sharp and bitter, echoing among the marble paths. "At least you had chains worth carrying. Mine were invisible but heavier. At least Father saw you."
The clash of years unspoken flared hotter, voices rising, hearts hammering, until Michael's hand struck her cheek.
The slap cracked like thunder across the garden. Irene staggered, clutching her face, shock widening her eyes. The scent of crushed flowers mingled with the metallic tang of fear. Silence fell for a heartbeat, tense and electric.
"Enough!" Michael's voice roared, shaking with anger and regret alike.
The true thunder came then. Helios, the Heavenly Ruler, loomed at the garden's edge. Michael and Peter dropped instantly into bows, every muscle rigid. Irene froze, hand pressed to her reddening cheek.
Their quarrel had grown too loud. Attendants had heard. That was all it took to draw divine judgment.
Helios pinched the bridge of his nose, fury radiating. Callista, serene as ever, lifted her chin skyward. "Will you not silence them?"
"Handle it," Helios muttered. "And have them escorted out."
"As you wish."
.
.
.
"Peter, you are dismissed," Callista said firmly.
He bowed low, hand over his chest. "Είθε ο κανόνας σου να είναι αιώνιος. May your reign be eternal." Then he left them to their fate.
Silence weighed heavy. Helios cracked his neck, eyes narrowing on his children.
"Now," he said coldly, "you will explain everything. Every detail. And if either of you lies…" His voice sank. "You will regret it."
Michael began, measured and precise, though anger coiled beneath his words. Irene followed, her voice unsteady but unbroken, still echoing with defiance.
As Helios listened, he longed for the bitterness of tea. In his mind, his son embodied order: controlled, dutiful, unyielding. His daughter, however, stood as proof of chaos unrestrained, a warning made flesh.