Demeter felt a sudden tug on her blouse, soft but insistent, like a vine seeking sunlight.
She glanced down to see their daughter—little Elara, nine years old with wild curls like her mother's and eyes sharp as her father's—clutching the fabric, tiny knuckles white.
Demeter knelt slightly, leaning in close. "What is it, sprout?"
Elara whispered, voice tiny in the vast void, "Mama... I'm scared."
The words hung there, fragile amid the glowing arena and the staring hosts. Demeter's heart twisted, but she smiled gently, patting her daughter's head with a hand that still smelled faintly of earth and wheat.
"Don't worry, love," she murmured. "Your daddy—Father Black—has everything under control. He's the smartest, strongest man in all the worlds."
Elara's gaze shifted, big eyes locking onto Father Black. "Daddy..."
