The thuds returned with the subtlety of a meteor shower crashing a poetry reading—louder, closer, laced with a lilt that turned my ribs into a makeshift drum kit. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. But now it wasn't mere percussion; it carried melody, like laughter bubbling up from underwater caverns, muffled yet insistent, tickling the edges of my awareness. I spun on my axis—or what served as one in this directionless drift—scanning the void for culprits. Nothing. Just the usual expanse of black velvet, embroidered with the faint scars of Topperia's demise.
Then, it came: not a voice, but pressure, a velvet-gloved fist rapping gently behind my eyes. Words formed there, unbidden, in a timbre that was silk over steel—feminine? Masculine? Both, neither, the kind of androgynous allure that makes gods pause mid-creation. "You left crumbs, Ojas. We followed the mess."
I grinned, the expression pulling at features I could almost feel. "Stalkers, then? Flattering, but I've got a reputation to uphold. Divine restraining orders are a nightmare." The void absorbed my quip, tossing it back as a faint echo, amplified with cosmic reverb for dramatic effect.
he pressure shifted, amused, coiling around my thoughts like smoke from a forbidden incense. "Admirers," it corrected, the word dripping with coy invitation, like a wink across a crowded ballroom of stars. "One wants to build you a throne from the bones of forgotten epochs. The other? To burn it down and dance in the embers. Guess which is which."
The void blushed—a subtle flush of violet creeping across the black, as if the nothingness itself had overheard a scandal. I felt it too, that flutter in my core, a seismic ripple that had nothing to do with planetary births and everything to do with the absurd vulnerability of longing. Romance in the dark: even gods get butterflies, apparently, their wings dusted with stardust and second-guessing. Who were they, these admirers? Echoes of my own fractured self? Or something wilder—fragments of the multiverse rebelling against their maker? The thuds synced closer, lub-dub-lub-dub, a duet now, harmonious yet laced with tension, like two dancers orbiting the same flame.
I cleared my throat—unnecessary, theatrical, but old habits from eons of soliloquies die hard. "Reveal yourselves, then. I've conjured worlds on less invitation. A face-off seems only fair." The words hung, bold as a challenge, but inside, philosophy stirred its pot: What is revelation but the stripping of veils? And if the veils hide not monsters, but mirrors... do we shatter or savor?
The echo laughed—a cascade of notes that vibrated the void into subtle waves, birthing ephemeral fireflies that winked out in Morse code: Tease. Tease."Not yet," they chorused, voices overlapping in perfect, infuriating sync—one light and lilting, the other gravel-rough with promise. "Patience, Ojas. Even eternity has its foreplay." The pressure withdrew, but not before brushing my mind with scents: wild jasmine for the builder, scorched cinnamon for the burner. A cocktail of creation and chaos that left me reeling, godhood be damned.
I pressed on, gliding through the afterglow of their tease. The void felt... alive now, humming with undercurrents I'd ignored in my amnesia. Threads of potential dangled everywhere, each one a siren's call to mischief. I plucked one at random, gentler this time—no snaps, just a caress. It unfurled into a garden: floating isles of emerald moss, rivers of liquid silver threading between them like veins of forgotten lore. Birds with wings of woven rainbows perched on branches that whispered poetry—haikus about the loneliness of light. I wandered the paths, bare feet sinking into soil that tasted of vanilla and vain regrets.
One bird alighted on my shoulder, its beak nipping playfully. "Why hide?" it chirped, voice a tiny echo of the admirers'. "The game's sweeter when all cards show." I shooed it gently, but its words lodged like a thorn: Comedy in courtship—the chase without the catch. I conjured a bench from a sigh, sat, and let the garden envelop me. Petals brushed my skin, each one a tactile philosophy lesson: To love is to tend the bloom. To lose is to let it seed the storm.
The thuds pulsed again, fainter, retreating like shy suitors after a bold overture. Lub-dub. A single beat, lingering. I touched my chest, feeling the rhythm's warmth seep through. Not mine alone. Shared. The realization bloomed warmer than any garden: Perhaps godhood isn't solitude's throne, but a dance floor waiting for partners. I rose, the isles fading behind me as I glided toward the next veil. Foreplay, indeed. Let the game unfold. I'd match their tease with one of my own.