Buer

Kyle woke to the soft warmth of sunlight brushing against his cheek, filtered through the sheer white curtains that swayed gently with the mountain breeze. He groaned, one arm thrown over his face as he shifted beneath the woven sheets. It was bright—too bright.

Damn. Late.

He squinted up at the ceiling, judging the time from the angle of the light alone. The sun had already cleared the eastern ridge of the mountain spire. That meant he was two hours past his usual routine. Maybe three.

He let out a slow breath and rolled onto his side, gaze trailing across the wooden beams overhead, the subtle shimmer of runes carved faintly into the corners of the room. The events of the previous night resurfaced like cold water slipping beneath the skin.

"Don't fall in love with her just to spite me."

She had said it so softly. No emotion on her face. As if her words weren't a blade and he hadn't felt the edge sink into his ribs.

Kyle sat up slowly, rubbing his face with both hands. His hair was a mess, and his robe was bunched around his waist, clinging from where he'd tossed it off the night before. He hadn't even bothered to climb under the blanket properly. Just lay there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling for hours, listening to the quiet hum of wind through the corridor stones.

He didn't sleep so much as collapse into exhaustion.

Now, morning had arrived with a cruel gentleness. Too bright. Too soft. Too still.

He rose with a stretch, bones popping, and dragged himself over to the wardrobe. A fresh robe—dark teal with embroidered silver thread along the cuffs—slid onto his frame like ritual. He tied the sash absentmindedly, still haunted by the night before.

As he walked down the hallway, the scent of spiced tea and warm herbs drifted toward him, wrapping around his senses like a beckoning hand. Fresh bread. Melted butter. Soft fruit jam. A hint of lemon peel in the air. Egeria's work, no doubt. She always added lemon zest to the tea when the weather grew colder.

Kyle paused at the edge of the doorway, hand resting on the carved wooden frame as he took in the sight.

There she was.

Egeria sat at the long dining table, serene as a still lake at dawn. The morning light streamed through the eastern windows, turning her silver-white hair into strands of moonlight. She had already poured herself a cup of tea, the steam curling gently above the rim. She didn't look up as he entered—only took a slow sip, eyes half-lidded in her usual contemplative calm.

On the table before her sat two plates.

Two.

And they were still warm.

The bread was buttered. The tea had been steeped perfectly. A dish of stewed root vegetables and lightly salted mountain fish had been arranged with care—her aesthetic touch unmistakable in the symmetry. It was the sort of meal Kyle had always loved.

She'd timed it.

She knew he would wake late.

She'd anticipated every detail—the delay, the hunger, the exact moment he would walk in. It was so quietly intimate it made his chest hurt.

How is it fair to love someone like this, he thought. How is it fair when she moves through my life like moonlight—silent, silver, and always out of reach?

He cleared his throat gently and stepped inside.

"Good morning, Master," he said, voice quieter than usual.

Egeria didn't look up immediately. Instead, she set her teacup down with meticulous precision, as if measuring her response to the world with the same control she brought to her divine duties.

"You slept in," she said, voice calm.

"I did."

"You never do."

Kyle offered a small, tired smile. "I suppose even the hopelessly punctual need a lapse now and then."

She finally looked at him.

And as their eyes met—hers cool and unreadable, his soft and searching—something passed between them. A silent acknowledgment of the night before. Of the chessboard. Of the king tipped sideways. Of the words that had followed after.

"Sit," she said at last, gesturing to the place across from her. "The food will get cold."

He obeyed without a word, pulling the chair back and settling into it with a sigh.

As he reached for the bread, he hesitated—his hand brushing the butter knife beside it. Then he looked at her again.

"You made lemon tea."

She nodded once. "You always look less grim with citrus."

Kyle smiled faintly. "And here I thought you were above using flavor as emotional manipulation."

Her expression didn't change. But there was a ghost of something near her lips. Maybe amusement. Maybe memory.

"You're easier to manage when fed," she said.

"Manage?" he repeated, raising a brow. "That's the word you're going with?"

"I considered 'tolerate,'" she replied smoothly, picking up her cup again, "but thought it too generous."

Kyle laughed softly—his real laugh this time. Not bitter. Not tired. Just… present.

They ate in silence after that, and it wasn't uncomfortable.

If anything, it was almost peaceful.

He watched the way she cut her vegetables—clean, precise, elegant. The way she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, like it annoyed her even though it didn't touch her tea. He watched the way her lashes cast faint shadows across her cheeks when she lowered her gaze to her cup.

She was so normal like this. So human.

It was terrifying.

And beautiful.

When the meal was nearly done, Kyle spoke again—quieter this time, not looking up from his plate.

"Thank you. For breakfast."

Egeria didn't look up right away. Her spoon moved through the last of her soup, quiet, precise, deliberate. Then she set it down and lifted her cup again—carefully, as though weighing the next words with more gravity than they seemed to deserve.

"Buer will be arriving tomorrow morning," she said, her tone level. "She sent word earlier."

Kyle blinked and sat up straighter, reflex tightening in his shoulders. "…Tomorrow?"

"She visits this time every year. You forgot."

"I didn't forget," he said automatically, then hesitated. "…Okay. Maybe I did."

A faint sigh escaped his lips as he leaned back in the chair. One hand drifted lazily across the table, brushing aside a few stubborn crumbs from his plate. The smile that touched his mouth was small and dry, somewhere between amusement and resignation.

"Yes." Egeria's tone didn't shift, but he could see it—how the name alone sent a ripple through her composure. Not discomfort, exactly. Something older. Something rarer. Affection, perhaps. Laced with a kind of resigned tolerance one only reserved for those they couldn't help but love despite everything.

Kyle blinked, his appetite momentarily forgotten.

Buer—the God of Wisdom, one of the Archon of Sumeru—was the only visitor to their mountaintop sanctuary in all the years he'd lived here. The only one Egeria ever allowed to pass the outer wards without preamble, without announcement. There was history between them, clearly. An old friendship that ran far deeper than whatever casual warmth gods showed one another in public courts.

And she treated Kyle like she had known him since the womb.

From the very beginning, she had greeted him not as a stranger or a student—but like a favorite godchild, halfway between a project and a precious little joke that never stopped amusing her. And while her visits weren't frequent by mortal standards—just once a year, always in early spring—they never felt brief.

Each time, it was like she'd never left.

She'd sit on the veranda with Egeria and braid flower stems into his hair like he was ten again. She'd ruffle his robes, tilt his chin, tug at his cheeks, and hum songs while passing him cups of honeyed tea he never asked for but always somehow needed.

It was hard to tell if she was treating him like a son or a lover or a pet—or maybe some strange mix of all three.

He could still hear her voice in his head—low, musical, just a little too amused.

"My sweet little sprout… you still furrow your brows when you lie. That won't do if you ever plan to fool anyone worth fooling."

And then she'd smile. That smile.

Like she was always five steps ahead of whatever thoughts he hadn't even had yet.

The first time she came, she'd carried him up the temple steps in her arms like a bride, declaring with laughter that he'd "finally arrived."

The second time, she'd kissed his forehead and whispered, "You'll grow up to be dangerous."

The third, she gave him a once-over, smirked at his jawline, and purred, "Mmm… ripening nicely," with Egeria seated two feet away.

She loved to watch Egeria react, too—loved to dance right on the edge of propriety like a dragonfly skating across a still pond. And Egeria… never stopped her. Not really. Which only made it worse.

One year, she kissed his cheek. The next, it was nearly on his lips. Last spring, she slid her arms around his waist under the excuse of "helping him balance" as he stood barefoot on the edge of the veranda wall. She leaned in then—whispered something too quiet for even Egeria to hear—and then laughed as Kyle nearly lost his footing.

He remembered how Egeria's fingers tightened—just slightly—around her teacup.

"She's going to try something again," he muttered under his breath, glancing sideways.

"Likely," Egeria replied, her tone unreadable.

"And you're just going to let her?"

"She is my guest." A pause. Then, flatter: "And my friend."

He turned toward her, studying her carefully. "You say that like you don't want to toss her down the mountain."

"I would prefer," Egeria said calmly, "that she not flirt with my apprentice under my roof."

It was the most direct she'd ever been about it. Yet even that carried no anger—just that same cool disapproval, subtle and restrained.

Jealousy? Possessiveness?

No. Those were too loud, too human. Egeria didn't do messy emotions. If she ever felt such things, she expressed them the way only she could—through tiny shifts. The slight furrow of her brow. The rare narrowing of her gaze. Choosing not to share her bed that night when Buer crossed a line.

Yes. That line.

The one Buer always danced around, until she didn't.

Because in all the years Buer had visited, the guest room had never once been used.

She slept in Egeria's bed, always. Sometimes curled up like a cat draped across Egeria's back, sometimes tangling their limbs under the pretense of "old comfort."

And then… other nights, Buer slipped into his room instead. Without knocking. Without shame. Her voice low and warm as she whispered ancient Sumerian lullabies against his skin, her fingers combing through his hair as if he were still a child.

He never stopped her. But he never slept soundly either.

Because there was always that look in her eyes.

Like she was watching him the way a scholar watches a sealed scroll—waiting for it to unroll, waiting for the ink to bleed.

And it frightened him.

Not because she was divine. Or powerful. Or even beautiful—which she undeniably was.

But because she looked at him with the same eyes, the same knowing affection, the same longing… that he looked at Egeria with.

Since the day they met.

And it didn't make any sense.

How could she possibly know?

Why did her love feel older than the time he'd lived?

And most of all—what did she know that he didn't?