Gadriel sat in her study, her fingers drumming lightly on the parchment before her, ink poised to strike like a general preparing for battle.

Revealing the truth to her daughters was not something to be done carelessly. Gadriel had spent a lifetime mastering the art of diplomacy, weaving words like threads in a tapestry to construct outcomes precisely as she intended. She knew that no battle—whether on a field or in a parlor—was won without preparation. And this, more than any war, required absolute control.

Gadriel’s quill hovered above the parchment, poised in thought, when the soft echo of footsteps broke the silence of her study. She glanced up, meeting Reynard's masked gaze, a teasing smirk visible beneath the fox mask.

"My dearest, you spent less time negotiating peace between the Barbarians and the Lords," he said, his voice curling around the dimly lit room like silk spun with mischief. "Are you planning a war with your daughters, or simply expecting one?"

Gadriel sat back, rubbing her temple. "I am merely ensuring that they react in a manner that will not spiral into chaos."

Reynard chuckled, the sound low and amused. "Ah, so you expect them to behave rationally. That is ambitious of you." He reached down, plucking the parchment from her desk and scanning her meticulous notes with interest. "Contingency upon contingency," he said, his eyes dancing over her calculated scenarios. "And yet, you’ve forgotten the most important rule of all."

She arched a brow. "And what might that be?"

Reynard flicked the parchment back onto the desk and leaned in, his masked face mere inches from hers. "That no plan survives first contact with the enemy," he whispered playfully.

Gadriel exhaled sharply, rolling her eyes even as the corner of her lips twitched. "They are not my enemies, Reynard."

He hummed, tilting his head. "Perhaps not. But they are your daughters, and daughters rarely react according to the carefully laid plans of their mothers.

Gadriel hated how right he was.

Reynard straightened and sauntered toward the window, pushing the heavy velvet curtain aside. “You know,” he mused, his voice softened with something almost like amusement, “I think this is less about planning and more about avoidance.”

Gadriel stiffened. “Avoidance?” she echoed, feigning nonchalance as she reached for her quill.

Reynard turned, leaning lazily against the windowsill, arms folded. "Yes, my love. Avoidance," he repeated, watching her carefully. "You are calculating every possible reaction, preparing for every possible misstep, as if strategy will save you from the simple truth."

She dipped her quill in ink with precise, measured movements. "And what truth would that be?"

Reynard sighed, shaking his head. "That you are afraid."

Gadriel’s grip on the quill tightened just slightly. "I am not afraid," she said evenly.

"Of course not," Reynard said, his smirk returning. "You’re simply orchestrating the perfect encounter so you don’t have to feel anything unexpected."

Gadriel's gaze met his, her eyes sharp as emerald-cut glass. "I am ensuring that this does not end in disaster. That is not fear—that is prudence."

Reynard chuckled, stepping toward her. He leaned down, bracing one hand against the desk, bringing his face close to hers. "Admit it, Gadriel," he whispered. "You are not afraid of what they might say. You are afraid of what you might feel."

Gadriel’s breath caught for the briefest moment, but her expression remained composed.

He had always seen through her too easily.

She did not respond, but Reynard did not press her for an answer. Instead, he reached for her hand, tracing his fingers lightly over hers. “All your planning won’t change what’s coming,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You will see them again. And no amount of diplomacy or strategy will shield you from what that moment will do to you.”

Gadriel exhaled, shaking her head as she pulled her hand from Reynard’s gentle grasp. “This new form of interrogation you and Antioch have been working on is quite annoying,” she muttered, reaching for a fresh piece of parchment as if redirecting her focus would dismiss the conversation.

Reynard grinned, straightening with an air of satisfaction. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “Annoyance is often the first sign of progress.”

She arched a brow, tapping the quill against the parchment. “And have you and Antioch come up with a proper name for this vexing little mind game?”

Reynard turned back to her, his smirk deepening. “For now, we call it therapy.”

Gadriel sighed, setting her quill down as she fixed Reynard with a look that teetered between exasperation and amusement.

"Enough of your meddling, Reynard," she said, voice smooth yet edged with command. "Go to bed. I will be along shortly—once I’ve decided how best to punish you for your insolence."

Reynard’s smirk widened beneath his half-mask, his features practically glowing with anticipation.

"Oh?" he mused. "Now that, my dear, is a promise worth waiting for."

He stepped back toward the door, pausing just long enough to cast her one last glance—his eyes gleaming with wicked delight.

Then, with a dramatic flourish, he turned and disappeared into the dimly lit corridors beyond, his laughter trailing behind him like the ghost of a whispered temptation.

Gadriel remained still for a moment, watching the space where he had stood, before shaking her head with a smirk of her own.

That insufferable man.

Gadriel exhaled sharply, rolling her eyes toward the jungle canopy as if seeking divine intervention.

She longed to be back in her chambers, wrapped in silk sheets, pressed against the warmth of an insufferable, smirking trickster.

Instead, she was here, wrists aching against the unyielding grip of her captors, watching as Harahel quivered in the aftermath of whatever that had been.

Aglaope stepped away from Harahel. Her fingers still tingled from the brief contact. She swallowed hard, glancing at Thelxiepe before turning back to Harahel. "How are you connected to our mother?" she asked, her voice unusually quiet.

"Mother!" Thelxiepe exclaimed. "Aglaope, what are you talking about?"

Gadriel let out a slow breath, forcing herself to remain still as she focused on the scene unfolding before her. Aglaope’s gaze was sharp with scrutiny, her fingers flexing as though still feeling the remnants of that strange, electric touch. Thelxiepe, by contrast, stood rigid, her expression a careful mask, though her widened eyes betrayed the unease simmering beneath.

Gadriel had seen these kinds of moments before—tipping points, fragile seconds before reality fractured and reassembled itself into something new, something irrevocable.

And Harahel, true to form, was about to walk straight into it.

Harahel lifted her hands—palms up, open, a gesture that was neither pleading nor forceful but something in between.

“I think,” Harahel said, her voice soft yet carrying through the humid air, “that it would be easier if your mother explained it to you herself.”

Silence fell.

Thelxiepe’s shoulders tensed as though she had been struck. Her gaze darted between Harahel’s outstretched hands and Aglaope, looking for some anchor to make sense of what she had just heard. Aglaope reached for her hand, she did not pull away. Instead, she let her fingers slip into Aglaope’s grasp, gripping tightly, seeking something solid in the shifting ground beneath them.

Aglaope gave her a small, steady nod. A reassurance. A promise.

Together, they turned toward Harahel.

Rhaemisia stiffened. "What are you doing?"

Aglaope did not look back. "Getting answers."

Himerope exchanged a glance with Rhaemisia, unease flickering between them, but neither moved to intervene.

Gadriel watched as Aglaope and Thelxiepe moved forward—two blades cutting through the fog of uncertainty, drawn not by command but by something far older, far deeper.

Thelxiepe still looked wary, her steps hesitant, but she did not let go of her sister’s hand. That alone told Gadriel more than words ever could.

Aglaope’s expression was unreadable—composed, yet burning with questions, with something that shimmered just beneath the surface like a song struggling to remember its tune.

They reached Harahel together.

The scene was painfully gentle. Aglaope extended her hand first, reaching for Harahel with the slow, deliberate motion of someone stepping into a story they weren’t sure they belonged in.

Harahel’s shoulders trembled as their fingers touched—then stilled, as if a current had passed between them.

And then Thelxiepe followed. She was more guarded, her body taut with instinctual resistance, but still, she reached. Still, she chose.

And when her hand found Harahel’s, something ancient clicked into place.

Gadriel felt it.

Like a thread pulled taut across time.

Like breath held in the lungs of the world.

The moment their hands connected, the air around them shimmered. Not with heat—but with memory.

A pulse echoed outward from the three women, invisible yet tangible, rippling through the jungle, through Gadriel’s skin, through the very bones of the island.

Thelxiepe felt the pulse of energy rippled through her.

A shiver, like lightning through her veins, sharp and sudden. The jungle around them vanished in an instant, as if the world had been swallowed whole.

Then—salt. Wind. Water.

She inhaled sharply, the scent of the sea filling her lungs, the warmth of the sun brushing against her skin. The humid press of the jungle was gone, replaced by the crisp, open air of a shore stretching endlessly before her. The horizon burned gold and violet, the waves rolling in a steady rhythm, a melody without sound.

This place.

It was familiar.

Then—something flickered.

Not in the world around her, but within.

A vision—no, a memory—flashed behind her eyes.

It hit her like a wave.

She was small again. Tiny legs, tangled hair, laughter spilling from her as she ran down the shoreline, chasing foamy waves that retreated faster than her feet could carry her. The water was cold, but she didn’t care. Her whole body felt alive.

She could smell the salt in the air, feel the sting of it on her tongue.

She could hear a voice—light, warm, familiar.

"Careful, Thelxi!"

She turned in the vision, her younger self spinning in the surf, and saw her—Aglaope, older by just enough to act like she knew everything, sitting on the rocks, legs tucked beneath her, watching with a look that was all pride and protectiveness.

The vision rippled—colors bleeding, sound dimming—until it slipped away entirely, like a dream she’d tried to hold on to after waking.

Thelxiepe blinked.

She was no longer a child laughing in the surf.

She was back on the shore again. Her hand was still wrapped tightly in Aglaope’s. The warmth of her sister’s grip anchored her, steadied her.

Then she looked down—at the other hand she held.
The hand that had sparked it all.
She looked up, and her breath caught in her throat.
It was not Harahel who stood before her now.
It was her.

Golden robes rustled softly in the ocean breeze. Her flowing hair framed a face both achingly familiar and otherworldly. And her eyes—those deep, knowing eyes—looked down at Thelxiepe with sorrow, with love, with something unshakable and eternal.

“Mother…” Thelxiepe breathed.

The word fell from her mouth like a truth she had always known but never dared to speak.

Euterpe smiled. Not wide. Not bright. But soft—so soft it broke something inside her.

“My beloved children,” Euterpe said, “I have so much to tell you.”