In the palace's primary chamber—a vast, living sanctum carved from the very dreams of forgotten stars, its walls breathing with subtle constellations and the slow pulse of timeless warmth—Parker and Zhang Ruoyun emerged like twin celestial tides. The room, paradoxically intimate despite its impossible scale, hummed with waiting power.
The guests were already seated—no, positioned, like mythic figures frozen in a moment before cosmic judgment.
Cleopatra reclined with the effortless dominance of a woman whose name was carved into empires and whispered by dying gods. She didn't sit so much as command the air around her, each movement declaring: I was sovereign before your ancestors knew the word.
Beside her, Cassandra teetered on the edge of her seat—shoulders tight, hands twitching slightly—as if the weight of unspoken timelines bore down on her lungs. Her eyes, wild and too knowing, flickered toward Parker like a seer trying to decide which version of him had just entered the room.
Hector remained standing—his posture carved from battlefield geometry, as if he expected a spear to materialize from the wall at any moment. Every breath, every glance, catalogued exits, power sources, threats. It wasn't paranoia. It was reflex.
And Isis—serene, inscrutable—sat still as a still moon in a stormless sky. Her presence felt like an ancient river that had long since stopped needing to flow to assert its depth.
"You're one hell of a bad host," Cleopatra said without waiting for pleasantries, her voice a silken blade dipped in honeyed steel. It cut through the air like a throne issuing judgment. "Vanishing mid-discussion to indulge in your familial drama while we sit here wondering if we've been dismissed."
Before Parker could speak, a door shimmered open and Atalanta swept in, bearing a tray of drinks with the grace of someone who'd once outpaced gods. Naomi followed her, composed and precise, while Elena offered a soft smile to each guest as she handed out refreshments like they were sacraments.
It tugged at something quiet in Parker—deeper than nostalgia, brighter than pride. Naomi and Elena, despite now possessing powers that could level continents or conjure banquets with a thought, still moved with that quiet devotion they always had.
They hadn't let ascension warp them. They still served—not from obligation, but out of love. They had become divine... without losing their humanity.
And in that moment, with war-torn legends and divine forces seated before him like a tribunal of myth, Parker smiled.
"Thank you," Parker said, voice smooth and low like a bedtime story for galaxies.
Elena, the Battlemaid, smiled with that soul-thawing sweetness that could make winter apologize, while Naomi giggled as he ruffled her hair—an older-brother gesture that would've looked normal if said "brother" didn't casually bend the laws of existence in his spare time. Sure, they were technically the same age.
But Parker being Parker—with nine lifetimes, multiversal trauma, and cosmic tax debt in his soul—made him feel like a kindly ancient god babysitting demigods on a playdate.
"Apologies for the delay, ladies and gentleman," he said, turning to his guests like a host at the world's most dramatic dinner party.
The women gave polite nods—each with their own flavor of grace—while Hector gave a bow that was 40% etiquette, 60% detective mode. His eyes never left Parker's face, studying it like it held the answers to fate, free will, and maybe the exact moment his sister started catching feelings.
Because something was up with Cassandra.
She wasn't being the Oracle™ today. Not the warning-machine, not the divine burnout with visions of doom leaking from her eyes. No, this was different. Hector had seen her turn down Apollo. Apollo, the original blond obsession, god of light and eternal daddy issues. She rejected him, ate the consequences, and walked away with cursed prophecy and zero regrets.
Now she was smiling. With her eyes. This was dangerous.
"Not a problem," Cassandra said, but her voice was dipped in something deeper—like the air had just tasted her words and decided to pause the whole atmosphere in reverence.
Not walked—moved. Like Fate was gently tugging her toward a scheduled kiss or war or spiritual awakening. Every step was deliberate. Every motion choreographed by prophecy's favorite playlist. She stopped in front of Parker.
Close enough that Parker, all towering calm and cosmic authority, could feel her breath graze up his throat—warm, slow, deliberate. She had to tilt her chin to meet his gaze, the height difference turning the moment from romantic tension into a visual power imbalance that should have been awkward… but wasn't.
It was magnetic. Unnerving. Like watching prophecy flirt.
Then—without a word—Cassandra reached up and touched his face.
Fingertips on cheekbone. Gentle. Reverent. Like she was mapping fate with her hands.
Zhang Ruoyun's eyes snapped tighter, pupils contracting like she'd just spotted a glitch in destiny's script. The air itself hiccupped. Around the room, reactions scattered like stunned lightning: like she'd just seen a forbidden scene from a play she thought she directed. Surprise danced across her face like fireflies on gasoline
Atalanta—his woman in name only, their romance still stuck somewhere between battlefield loyalty and polite small talk—stiffened like her sword had just been insulted.
Cleopatra's mouth parted in silent betrayal. The woman had nursed her schoolgirl crush on Parker for years like it was fine wine aging in a vault of patience, and here came Cassandra with prophecy privileges and audacity.
Isis, goddess of restraint and divine decorum, twitched. Actually twitched. A single temple pulse betrayed the crack beneath her perfect mask. The literal goddess of magic and poise, had the audacity to blink twice.
Even Hector, whose whole deal was usually protect-sis-first, stood there looking like someone had just handed him a prophecy where step one was: "Watch your sister touch the reincarnated embodiment of chaos." He looked like he was calculating how much divine jail time he'd get for uppercutting Parker through a dimension.
And every god, warrior, and legend in the room felt the balance shift.
The universe blinked.
And somewhere—between void, because spying is always more fun when it's illegal—Annabelle clutched her father and poor Erebus like popcorn and soda at a cursed romcom premiere.
She hissed, victorious and venomous. "I knew it. This bitch wants Parker for herself." Get full chapters from novelꞁire.net