Mother of Midnight

Chapter 181 – Palace of Ice

Yenhr didn’t like war. It was a pointless waste of life, a cycle of bloodshed fueled by the ambitions of those in power. She had never understood why mortals were so obsessed with hierarchy, always seeking to place themselves above or below one another. It had not been her design—life itself had been the creation of Akhenna and Praxus. The two had needed to compromise to bring their vision into being, expending a monumental amount of aether to shape the mortal species into what they were.

She could ask Akhenna why they had been made this way, why they sought control, why they fought wars for their so-called leaders. But the goddess of fate and wisdom was as likely to lie as she was to tell the truth.

Still, there was no changing the nature of mortals. And she—reluctantly—had to accept that war was coming, whether she willed it or not.

She needed a new champion.

She had loved her chosen, truly. He had served her well, and she did not fault him for wanting to live his life in peace. He had a family now. A quiet home. A future beyond battle. That was good. That was what she wanted for her people.

But it also meant he was no longer what she needed.

With a thought, she reached for the small piece of divinity she had placed within him and pulled it away.

Somewhere in the mortal world, his eyes bolted open in a panic. She winced, knowing how sudden and jarring the loss of power must feel. He could not see her—she was not currently manifest—but she could already hear his prayers, frantic and confused, pleading to know why she had forsaken him.

Guilt pressed against her, but she could not waver. She sent back warmth and reassurance, silent feelings of apology. He had not failed her. He had not displeased her. He simply was not the one she needed for what was to come.

With a sigh, she turned her gaze outward, looking beyond her domain and into the world below.

She was not the only god watching the battle forming in the north. Many of her kin had already set their eyes on the conflict, and she understood why.

A titan had chosen to follow a god.

That alone was unheard of. In all the millennia she had known them, the seven giants had cared for little outside of themselves. They did not serve, they did not follow, and they certainly did not fight for the ambitions of others.

What had changed?

The only being the titans had ever shown reverence for was Gorvahra—their mother, the third oldest of the primordials. But even then, they remained independent. Free.

She missed Gorvahra. The great primordial had been slow to think and even slower to speak, but every word she uttered had been weighted with purpose. Yenhr wondered if she would wake again someday.

It would be catastrophic for mortals, of course. A being of her power did not stir without consequence. But still… Yenhr would like to see her old friend again.

A long sigh rippled through her domain, the space around her shifting in response to her melancholy.

Sensing her sorrow, her lumina wisps stirred. The glowing spirits, shaped like a variety of animals, nestled against her divine form—fur and scales pressing against her in a silent gesture of comfort.

She smiled, reaching out to them, trailing her fingers through their luminous bodies.

They always knew how to cheer her up.

Yenhr needed to choose a new champion. One who was kind, selfless, someone who hated war but still felt compelled to help, despite the darkness of the world. The problem was, finding someone worthy, someone who wasn’t already corrupted or bound by other gods, was becoming a rarity. The followers of Praxus were everywhere, swaying or outright forcing those with potential to serve under his banner. She could only watch as her faithful were scattered, either by force or by doubt sown within them, turning their hearts away from her.

It was a delicate balance. She needed someone who could embody her ideals—someone who could bridge the gap between peace and action, someone who didn’t shy away from fighting when it was necessary, but who wouldn’t fall into the bloodlust that often accompanied it.

But how powerful should this champion be? Yenhr knew she would have to make them strong enough to survive in this tumultuous world, but not so powerful that they would surpass her, or worse, start to act on their own, growing too independent for her liking. It was a precarious choice. She couldn't afford to make another mistake.

Her power was vast, but even she knew that in the grand scheme of things, it paled in comparison to the might of the primordials. She and Heraline, her twin sister, were seen as the weakest of them all. In the eyes of many, they were mere whispers against the storms of the more powerful gods. Gorvahra, the third of the primordial pantheon, was somewhere in the middle, though her slow, deliberate nature meant she preferred to stay in the background unless truly necessary.

Then there were Akhenna and Praxus. Akhenna, while seemingly reserved, held a level of mystery in her quietude. Yenhr had learned long ago not to underestimate her. But it was Praxus who truly outshone the rest of them. His might was immense, a force beyond comprehension. The others might pretend to match him, but deep down, Yenhr knew that there was no comparison. Praxus was a god of structure, of divine order, and his reach stretched farther than any of them would care to admit.

The disparity between the primordials was staggering, and while Yenhr could rival the gods of the mortal realm, she knew her place among her ancient siblings. She could never challenge Praxus directly, and she didn’t have the luxury of playing his games. And yet, his growing influence over the mortal world was suffocating her own.

Perhaps her sister would have insight. Heraline, who existed as both the embodiment of night and the quiet observer, might understand better than anyone how to find the right mortal—one who could carry Yenhr’s ideals without being consumed by the violence of the world.

With a quiet thought, Yenhr released the war-light of her domain, her shimmering essence slipping through the aetherium, drifting through the planes toward her twin’s realm. It was always a strange sensation, moving through the endless sea of worlds and energies. Night and day were ever entwined, but Heraline's domain was a realm of shadow and cold—a perfect reflection of her sister’s somber nature.

Yenhr arrived in moments, though it always felt like she was crossing a vast distance. The cold hit her immediately as she passed into Heraline’s domain, a sharp, biting chill that made her divine form shudder, even as her essence adjusted. The air here was still, as if time itself had slowed, and the ground beneath her was hard and barren, shaped by the whims of stars that no longer shone. She could feel the weight of silence in this place, and yet the distant hum of creation itself resonated beneath it.

Above her, the stars were the only light—distant pinpricks of hope in an endless sky. The Star Weavers, the ethereal beings who wove the dreams and hopes of mortals, rested between jagged rocks and craggy peaks, their delicate webs shimmering in the twilight of Heraline’s realm.

It was beautiful in its own way, Yenhr thought, though it was a beauty unlike any other. It spoke of stillness and patience, of quiet contemplation. For a moment, Yenhr stood there, taking in the sights and sounds of Heraline’s domain, before continuing on toward the palace.

Her sister's palace always left her in awe. It was a fortress of ice, impossibly tall crystalline spires rising from the barren ground like jagged teeth. The palace itself was alive with the hum of cold, like a heartbeat that pulsed through the fabric of reality itself. Each of the towers was a gleaming shard of translucent blue, shaped by winds and forces that no mortal could ever imagine.

Yenhr approached, feeling the familiar comfort of her sister’s presence, even before she arrived at the gates of the palace. The towering, frozen doors opened with a mere thought, and Yenhr entered, her essence slipping into the icy halls that shimmered with light from a thousand star-forged windows.

Heraline was there, waiting as always. Her form was a silhouette against the cold, her long, flowing dark robes blending seamlessly with the night itself. She was both a part of the shadows and something greater, a being made of time and stillness. The only thing that moved was the soft glint of her eyes, those pale stars that reflected nothing but the void around her.

“Yenhr,” Heraline's voice echoed softly, a sound like the wind on a mountain. “What brings you here?”

Yenhr stood still for a moment, the weight of her task pressing against her. “I need your counsel, sister. I need to pick a new champion, and I am not sure who.”

Heraline stretched languidly, her movements slow and deliberate, as though she had all the time in existence to consider the request. She let out a soft yawn, her breath curling like mist in the cold air of her domain. “Well, it wouldn’t do to keep you standing,” she murmured, motioning lazily for Yenhr to follow.

Yenhr obliged, walking behind her twin as they moved through the towering, icebound corridors of the palace. The halls were impossibly vast, each wall lined with bookshelves stretching dozens of meters high, filled with tomes older than some stars. Their frost-laced covers glimmered in the dim light, the knowledge within them untouched by mortal hands. The soft, distant hum of the Star Weavers’ threads could be heard beyond the walls, weaving their ever-present whispers of fate and dreams into the fabric of the universe.

Heraline led them into a grand waiting chamber, its ceiling vanishing into the void above. Books lined every wall, their weight pressing down in a way that felt almost sentient. With a casual flick of her wrist, Heraline snapped her fingers, and a fire sprang to life in the crystalline hearth. It crackled with a deep blue glow, casting dancing shadows across the polished ice floor.

She threw herself onto a long, curved lounger draped in dark silks, stretching once more like a cat curling into comfort. With a lazy wave of her hand, she gestured for Yenhr to seat herself wherever she pleased.

Yenhr took a chair, settling into it with a slow exhale. She was no stranger to Heraline’s languid nature, but the contrast between them never failed to amuse her.

Her sister’s gaze, dark as the void between stars, flicked toward her with mild curiosity. “So, was your last champion not good enough or something?” Heraline asked, her voice laced with casual disinterest.

“He wasn’t suitable,” Yenhr admitted, her fingers tracing idle patterns against the chair’s armrest. “There is great change coming, sister. I need someone strong—someone willing to do what’s right, even when it is difficult.”

“I see,” Heraline murmured, though there was no rush to her words. She reached for a glass of deep violet liquid that had appeared on a side table—an offering of the palace itself, no doubt—and took a slow sip. “Why come to me, then? I don’t even have a champion. That sounds like too much work.”

Yenhr couldn’t help but giggle. “Of course you would say that.”

Heraline merely raised a brow, unbothered.

“We need our champions to interact with the world directly,” Yenhr continued. “I want to help, so I need someone to work through.”

Heraline sighed, setting her drink aside. “Then what is the problem? Just pick a mortal and tell them what to do.” She waved a dismissive hand as if the matter were as simple as plucking a star from the sky.

Yenhr frowned. “It’s not that easy.”

Heraline smirked, resting her chin against her palm. “Of course it isn’t. You want someone strong, but not too strong. Righteous, but not self-righteous. Brave, but not reckless. Someone who will uphold your ideals but not become a tyrant in the process.” Her fingers idly tapped against the arm of the lounger. “You always were too particular, sister.”

Yenhr sighed. “Would you rather I choose carelessly?”

“No, no,” Heraline said with a languid chuckle. “But mortals have a habit of becoming exactly what you least expect, no matter how carefully you pick them.” Her expression turned thoughtful, distant. “And even the best of them are still fragile little things in the end.”

Yenhr tilted her head. “Are you saying I shouldn’t choose at all?”

Heraline let out another soft sigh, her gaze turning toward the fire. The blue flames flickered, casting strange shapes against the ice walls. “No, I am saying that you should remember what you are dealing with. No matter how much you hope for perfection, you are choosing from imperfection.”

Yenhr fell silent, contemplating that. Her sister was right, in her own detached way. No matter how much she searched, how carefully she chose, she would never find a perfect mortal. The best she could hope for was someone who would try.

Still, there was another problem. She exhaled slowly, the weight of it pressing against her as she finally spoke. “I see. I do have a problem, though. Those of Praxus’ faithful are smothering my own. My pickings are getting slimmer by the day.”

Heraline hummed in thought, absently twirling a lock of silver hair between her fingers. “Then pick one of his faithful.”

Yenhr bolted upright in her seat, her glowing eyes widening in shock. “I couldn’t! That would be disrespectful!”

Heraline scoffed, rolling her eyes as she leaned back against the lounger. “Like he isn’t disrespecting you? Or rather, disrespecting all of the other gods already?” She propped her chin on her fist, watching her sister’s distress with amusement. “Honestly, Yenhr, why do you insist on playing fair in a game where your opponent isn’t?”

Yenhr clenched her hands together, her fingers digging into the armrest of her chair. “I-I couldn’t…” she murmured, though the words lacked conviction.

Heraline tilted her head, her expression calm but knowing. “Why not? What is it that stops you? Is it pride?”

“No,” Yenhr whispered, shaking her head.

“Then what?” Heraline pressed, her voice soft but unrelenting.

Yenhr hesitated, searching for the answer within herself. It wasn’t pride—it wasn’t as if she thought herself above taking a follower from Praxus. But to do so felt… wrong. Like she would be taking someone who was not hers to take.

“It’s… it would be a violation of their faith,” she finally admitted.

Heraline arched a delicate brow. “Would it?” She gestured vaguely with one hand. “Or would it be an opportunity? Think about it, sister. How many of his faithful are truly loyal to him, and how many follow out of fear? How many serve because they feel they have no other choice?”

Yenhr swallowed hard. “I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to force them.”

“Who said anything about force?” Heraline smirked, taking another slow sip of her drink. “Mortals change, Yenhr. Some will see through him, some will grow disillusioned. You don’t need to steal them—you just need to be there when they start looking for another path.”

Yenhr bit her lip, her thoughts a storm of uncertainty. Could she do it? Could she take one of his faithful, knowing what it meant?

Or… was it not taking them that would be the greater mistake?

“You might be right. Thank you, dear,” Yenhr murmured, her voice quiet but carrying the weight of a decision forming.

Heraline gave a lazy hum, stretching out like a great cat in her seat, then held out her arms in invitation. “Mhm.”

Yenhr hesitated for only a moment before obliging, moving from her chair and slipping onto the couch. She climbed atop Heraline with familiar ease, her body settling against her sister’s as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The cool, numbing embrace of dusk enveloped her as Heraline’s arms wound around her waist, drawing her in with an effortless pull.

The goddess of dusk let out a contented sigh, her breath brushing against Yenhr’s cheek. Heraline’s expression softened into a slow, dreamlike smile—the kind she wore when utterly at peace. It was rare, that expression. Yenhr responded in kind, a quiet smile tugging at her own lips as she reached up to brush a strand of silver hair from her sister’s face.

Heraline’s gaze, filled with the deep stillness of the void, met hers. There was no hesitation, no need for words. She tilted her head up, capturing Yenhr’s lips in a deep, lingering kiss.

Yenhr melted into it, her fingers tightening in Heraline’s hair, her own divine warmth bleeding into the goddess of dusk’s cold touch. It was familiar, it was comforting—two halves of a whole, entwined as they had always been, as they were meant to be.

Yenhr pulled away, breath light against Heraline’s lips, and was immediately met with that sleepy, contented smile. A smile so warm, so unguarded, that it sent warmth curling in her chest. She loved that smile.

Her fingers lingered against her sister’s jaw, tracing the smoothness of her cool skin before finally settling back into a more relaxed embrace. Heraline, still draped over the couch like a lounging beast, tilted her head, silver hair spilling over her shoulder like a cascade of starlight.

Yenhr barely had time to react before Heraline moved.

Not with haste. Not with force. But with the slow, inevitable weight of dusk swallowing the sky. One moment, Yenhr was comfortably nestled in her sister’s lap, fingers still tracing the cool contours of her face. The next, Heraline shifted beneath her, her body stretching out like a great beast settling into its domain—until Yenhr found herself flat on her back, pinned.

Her breath hitched. Heraline loomed above her, silver hair spilling around them like strands of moonlight. She wasn’t even using her full strength, merely resting her weight atop Yenhr, but it was enough. More than enough. Yenhr was trapped.

A shiver ran down her spine.

Heraline must have noticed, because a slow, indulgent smile curled at her lips. “What’s wrong?” she murmured, voice as smooth and deep as the first creeping tendrils of night. “You want my attention, don't you?”

Yenhr swallowed, her fingers twitching against the cushions.

Heraline gave a soft hum, dragging one hand up Yenhr’s side, trailing her fingers with infuriating leisure—lingering just long enough to make her ache for more but giving nothing. It was intoxicating, that numbing chill against the heat of her skin, a contrast that left her breath shallow and uneven.

She hated how easily Heraline could do this to her.

“…I do,” Yenhr admitted, though her voice came out far weaker than she’d intended.

Heraline’s smile deepened.

“Good.”

Before Yenhr could brace herself, Heraline dipped down, capturing her lips in a kiss—slow, deep, and utterly possessive. It wasn’t searching. It wasn’t teasing. It was taking.

Yenhr barely had time to react before Heraline’s free hand slid to her wrist, effortlessly pinning it against the couch. Not hard, not painful—just a silent, unmistakable reminder that she couldn’t move unless Heraline allowed it. That she was utterly helpless.

A thrill shot through her.

She made a weak noise against Heraline’s lips, but it only seemed to amuse the goddess of dusk. Heraline pulled back, just enough to leave Yenhr breathless, her lips ghosting over hers, teasing but denying at the same time.

“Look at you,” Heraline murmured, eyes half-lidded, drinking in every ounce of Yenhr’s helplessness. “The goddess of dawn, the light in the dark, defender of the weak. But here you are, squirming beneath me.”

Yenhr swallowed hard, her breath shaky. “You’re being cruel.”

“I am cruel.” Heraline tilted her head, as if pondering her own words. “But only to you.”

She let her lips drag lower—down Yenhr’s jaw, down the delicate curve of her throat—each movement slow, calculated, savoring the way Yenhr’s body responded to her. She didn’t need to rush. She never rushed.

Yenhr was already hers.

And Yenhr knew it, too.

She made a weak, frustrated noise, trying to move, trying to get something more, but Heraline held her there, effortlessly keeping her right where she wanted her.

“You don’t get to decide,” Heraline murmured against her throat, her breath cool, her grip unyielding. “I do.”

Yenhr shuddered, her entire body caught between heat and that creeping, numbing cold.

“And right now,” Heraline continued, her lips barely brushing Yenhr’s ear, “I think I’d like to take my time.”

“I might have an idea on who you can appoint,” Heraline murmured, her voice like the whisper of the tide pulling out to sea.

Yenhr perked up, rolling over under the covers to properly look at her. “Really?”

“Mhm.” Heraline’s fingers idly traced patterns along Yenhr’s spine as she spoke, her tone distant, as if plucking her thoughts from the cosmos itself. “His dreams are filled with nightmares of a battle past. His faith in Praxus wavers, as though he does not yet know what to believe.”

Yenhr’s brows furrowed. “A deserter, then?”

Heraline hummed in confirmation, shifting slightly beneath her. “He has already turned his back on the armies of Aegis. Not alone, though—there was a huntress with him. A tether, perhaps.” She let out a slow breath, her voice dipping into that half-lidded, lulling tone she always had when peering through the veils of fate. “He is still young. Moldable. Not yet set in his ways.”

Yenhr’s mind whirred, possibilities spinning before her like threads waiting to be woven. A deserter. A man fleeing Praxus’ rigid order. A mortal caught in the tides of change, standing at the precipice of something greater.

She exhaled, pressing her forehead against Heraline’s cool shoulder. “…Tell me more.”