The building was not the same as before.
This time, it rose in the middle of a battlefield that had never happened — a place of scorched earth, trampled grass, and air that smelled of blood even though none had been spilled. The teahouse stood untouched in the center, walls blackened like charred parchment, roof tiled in fragments of broken shields.
Inside, the table was long and low, set not with porcelain but with dented metal cups and a teapot hammered from a single, twisted breastplate.
Luna Heartreach sat at the head, barefoot as always, her white dress brushing against the floor. She poured herself tea, though the steam smelled faintly of iron.
They were coming. She could feel the weight of them in the air.
The first to arrive was Ares, the Greek god of war. He did not walk — he strode, his heavy bronze armor ringing with each step. His eyes burned like molten copper. He looked around the room with open disdain.
"A teahouse?" he asked. "I expected a feast. Or at least a fight."
"There's always time for both," Luna said. "But the tea cools first."
The second came in a storm of wind and grit: Sekhmet, the lioness-headed goddess of war from Egypt. Her golden eyes gleamed like the sun over a killing field. Every movement radiated lethal grace.
"You must be the strange mortal who thought to gather us," she said, her voice a low, rumbling purr.
"I didn't gather," Luna said softly. "I just set the table."
The third was Odin — not in the guise of a kindly wanderer, but as the war-god of the slain. He wore a wolfskin cloak over a blood-red tunic, his single eye sharp as a spearpoint. Two ravens sat on the beam above him, watching silently.
"You are either very wise, or very foolish," Odin said.
"Wisdom is just foolishness that survived the night," Luna replied, filling his cup.
The last to arrive shook the ground. Kartikeya, the Hindu god of war and commander of celestial armies, entered in golden armor, his spear glowing faintly. He moved like a soldier who could end battles by walking through them.
"This is not a battlefield," he said with mild disappointment.
"It is," Luna said. "It's just waiting for the war."
She poured for each: Ares' tea was the color of fresh blood; Sekhmet's shimmered gold; Odin's was dark as ravens' feathers; Kartikeya's glowed faintly like embers in ash.
They drank.
For Ares, it tasted of the moment before the clash — that breathless heartbeat of anticipation.
For Sekhmet, it was the heat of a desert wind carrying the scent of victory.
For Odin, it was the heavy silence of a mead-hall after a long campaign.
For Kartikeya, it was the steady discipline of a soldier sharpening a blade before dawn.
For Luna, it was still just tea.
"You didn't bring us here to drink," Ares said bluntly. "You want something."
"Wanting is loud," Luna murmured. "I prefer quiet."
Odin leaned forward. "You've been with Death. I can smell the underworld's shadow on you. Why come to War after that?"
"Because death is the echo," Luna said. "War is the shout that makes it."
Sekhmet's tail flicked lazily. "And what do you think you can gain from our company, little mortal?"
"A lesson," Luna replied. "I want to know… what war looks like when it never ends."
Kartikeya tilted his head. "An unending war is chaos. No side wins, no side loses. It becomes… meaningless."
Ares slammed his cup down. "Meaningless? War is meaning! Without conflict, there is no glory!"
"Without end, there is no glory," Odin said, voice calm but edged. "Only exhaustion."
Sekhmet's golden eyes narrowed. "Endless war devours its warriors. It becomes hunger for its own sake — and hunger eats itself."
Luna stirred her tea idly. "So if a war cannot end, does it turn on the one who began it?"
The gods looked at her.
"Yes," said Sekhmet.
"No," growled Ares.
"Sometimes," Odin answered.
"It depends on the general," Kartikeya added.
When Luna poured again, the steam from the cups took shape — a spear, a lion, a crow, and a chariot. They hung in the air for a moment before shattering into sparks that rained down on the table.
"This is not just talk," Odin said slowly. "You're testing us."
"I'm testing me," Luna replied.
Ares leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "What do you know of war, barefoot girl?"
"I know," Luna said, her voice suddenly quiet and sharp, "that it begins long before the first blade is drawn. It begins in the pause before a choice, in the crack between wanting and taking. I know that it doesn't stop when the field is empty. It follows you home. It drinks from your cup. It sleeps in your bed."
The gods were silent for a moment.
From her sleeve, Luna drew a small object and set it in the center of the table: a single, blackened bullet.
"I took this," she said, "from a war that was never supposed to happen. It killed no one. It was fired into the air. But it still fell. It still landed. And now, it waits."
Sekhmet reached for it, but Odin stopped her with a raised hand. "It's not for us."
Luna smiled faintly. "Correct. It's for the war that hasn't started yet."
Ares' grin was feral. "I like you."
They drank the last of their tea in a silence that wasn't peaceful, but sharpened — like the edge of a blade. One by one, they left:
Ares, laughing as though already dreaming of the next battle.
Sekhmet, vanishing in a shimmer of golden heat.
Odin, fading into a swirl of raven feathers.
Kartikeya, stepping out as though marching into a new campaign.
When they were gone, Luna sat alone, the bullet still in the center of the table. She picked it up, rolled it between her fingers, and whispered:
"Not yet."
The battlefield faded, and the teahouse went with it.