Chapter 015: The Gaze Above
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{SUNDAS, SOLYRA 22, 999 – 16:15}
{FREYA}
From her balcony at the top of Babel, Freya watched the city breathe. The world below moved in golden threads and pale dust, mortals glinting briefly in the fading afternoon like sparks caught between sun and shadow. Their desires shimmered in her sight—the dull blue of longing, the fevered red of ambition, the soft silver of love. All predictable, all temporary. It was like watching rain swirl down glass. Beautiful, but fleeting.
Except for one.
Her eyes lingered on the eastern quarter, where a man's presence stood still in the flow. No hunger, no yearning, no flicker of divine awe. Just stillness. She could see every heart in the city and know it for what it was, but his? It didn't speak. It simply existed.
That, to Freya, was more intoxicating than worship.
The goddess rested her chin on her hand, white hair caught in the breeze, a slow smile curving across her lips. "So that's the one," she murmured. "The merchant who conjures miracles."
Behind her, Ottar waited in silence, a statue carved from loyalty. His aura was a constant, steady thing—warm in its devotion but dull in its simplicity. He did not ask why her voice held that particular softness. He never did.
"They say he made things appear before the Loki Familia's gate," Freya continued, her tone almost wistful. "And not trinkets or baubles, but goods. A thing of mortal function, delivered as though by a god's whim. Imagine that, Ottar. A mortal reshaping matter without divine favor."
"If you wish it, I will look into him," Ottar said, voice low.
Freya's smile deepened. "If I wish it? Oh, I do. But not yet." She turned away from the balcony rail, silk whispering against stone as she moved. "Curiosity is a wine best savored slowly. I want to see how the city reacts first. He's already the talk of Orario."
She glanced toward the marketplace again, eyes narrowing. The man was there somewhere, beneath the glimmering bustle of trade and gossip. She could feel the stir of mortal fascination beginning to bloom around him—questions whispered at tavern tables, speculation traded in the Guild's marble halls. That delicious kind of chaos that always preceded her interest.
"He's untouched by us," she said, almost to herself. "No thread of devotion. No chain of faith. Even the gods who've seen him don't understand what they're looking at."
That alone made him rare. In a city that lived and died by divine favor, indifference was a sin of its own sort.
"Lucian Gilford," she said, testing the sound. Mortal syllables, plain and unadorned, yet they lingered sweetly on her tongue. "He hides his heart well. Perhaps he doesn't even know what to hide."
She turned again to Ottar, her silver eyes catching the late sun. "Have you ever seen a soul that doesn't burn, Ottar? One that simply endures?"
"No, my lady."
"I have now," she said softly.
The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of the lower city—baking bread, oil smoke, and the perfume of too many mortals too close together. Beneath it, her divinity brushed the hum of countless hearts and the pulse of her own Familia below. Each one bent toward her. Each one worshiped. Each one wanted.
But the merchant… he remained still. She could not hear the music of his want, and that silence was maddening.
Her hand rose, fingertips brushing her lips as a slow laugh escaped her. "A mortal without desire," she said. "How delightfully impossible."
Her laughter echoed faintly through the tower's open chambers, drifting past marble and silk. Ottar said nothing. He had long since learned that when Freya laughed like that, it meant someone—somewhere—had already been claimed.
Freya looked once more toward the fading sun, and in her gaze was the promise of a goddess who had found her next fascination.
"Soon," she whispered. "Let's see how long you can stay still, little merchant."
Freya's laughter faded, leaving the chamber still. The air above Babel shimmered faintly with the residue of her amusement before stilling once more. Beneath her gaze, the city glowed—mortal hearts brightening like lanterns at dusk, the rhythm of life too quick, too desperate, too loud. And amid that noise was him. That quiet pulse, steady as a star that refused to flicker.
She rose from her seat, the hem of her gown whispering across marble. The motion was liquid, languid, deliberate—the kind of grace only gods could wear without thought. Ottar stepped aside wordlessly as she crossed to the mirror standing against the wall. Its frame was gold chased with obsidian, carved with the faces of lovers long forgotten. Within it shimmered her reflection: silver eyes, moonlight skin, and the power to unmake kingdoms with a smile. Beautiful, yes—but useless for what she intended.
Her hand rose, two fingers brushing the glass. "Syr," she whispered.
The mirror darkened, light collapsing inward until her divine reflection dissolved. Pale hair shortened, softening to a duller white; her eyes turned grey, mortal and forgettable. The skin of a goddess became the gentle warmth of a woman who could serve drinks and smile modestly while men mistook courtesy for affection. The scent of divinity retreated beneath perfume and soap. Her lips curved faintly as the transformation settled—a shadow of herself wrapped in linen and humility.
Syr Flova gazed back from the glass.
Freya tilted her head, testing the mortal softness in her expression. "Much better," she murmured, voice now touched by the faint lilt of innocence. "He'll be coming soon, won't he?"
Ottar bowed low. "You mean to meet him."
"I mean to see him," she corrected, adjusting the apron that now hung from her waist. "Words can wait. The heart speaks more truly when it thinks it isn't being watched."
She left him without further instruction. Ottar's silence followed her down the spiraling stair, the weight of her divinity folding inward until it disappeared completely. By the time she stepped into the fading warmth of evening, no one saw a goddess. Only Syr, the gentle server from the Hostess of Fertility, basket in hand.
The city was alive with light and scent as she descended Babel's shadowed streets. Candles flickered in the upper windows, voices rose in laughter and haggling, and the smell of roasting meat tangled with the perfume of flowers sold by the handful. Freya—no, Syr—walked among them unseen, the crowd parting for her only by chance. The anonymity thrilled her. To walk without worship was a rare pleasure.
The Hostess came into view as twilight settled—its lanterns bright, its chatter spilling into the street. Mia Grand's domain pulsed with mortal vitality, a place where adventurers sought warmth that had nothing to do with fire. Freya had long cultivated Syr's presence here precisely for that reason. It was the perfect mask: approachable, unthreatening, invisible.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stew and ale, undercut by the faint tang of cleaning herbs. Syr slipped behind the counter with practiced ease, setting her basket aside and greeting Ryuu with a smile that disarmed suspicion before it could form. The elf returned it with a nod, as reserved as ever.
"Back early," Ryuu said quietly, polishing a glass.
"I thought I'd help with the dinner rush," Syr replied, letting her tone fall somewhere between cheer and sincerity. "We'll be busy soon."
Ryuu accepted that without question. Mortals were delightfully simple that way—acceptance dressed as trust.
Freya—wearing Syr's smile—glanced toward the window, where dusk had deepened to a soft indigo. Somewhere not far off, the merchant would be locking his shop, coins of Valis shifting in unseen ledgers, unaware that a goddess had set her gaze upon him.
She brushed a strand of pale hair from her cheek, savoring the flicker of anticipation. There was something delicious in not knowing how this would play out. Would he sense her? Would he recognize her eyes in this lesser guise? Or would he, like every other man, see only the woman and not the divinity coiled behind the smile?
Either way, she would find out soon enough.
The bell over the tavern door chimed faintly as a group of adventurers entered, their laughter spilling warmth into the air. Syr turned toward them, offering her practiced welcome, her mortal voice smooth and bright. And behind the civility of that sound, Freya's curiosity burned quietly—cool, patient, and inescapable.
Soon, she thought, watching the door swing shut again. Soon, the little merchant will walk in, and I'll see what kind of soul refuses to bow.
And walk in, he did.
The door's bell chimed with its usual soft metallic lilt, and conversation in the tavern dipped for only a moment before resuming its gentle hum. Syr glanced up from the mug she was drying, feigning surprise at the newcomer, though she had been waiting for that sound since twilight began to thin.
Lucian stepped inside with the unhurried ease of someone unbothered by reputation. The air followed him—cleaner somehow, cool against the warmth of the hearth and oil lamps. He wasn't dressed finely, not by any measure Orario might praise, but there was something deliberate in his simplicity. Even the small folds in his sleeves looked chosen, the kind of carelessness that disguised thought.
He paused at the threshold, eyes taking in the crowded room, and Syr felt the ripple of subtle awareness that always followed him. Not the awe mortals reserved for gods or heroes, but a gentle draw that made people want to stand a little closer, to listen when he spoke. It wasn't magic. It was human grace sharpened into charm.
Mia barked his name from across the counter—she had remembered him after all—and he raised a hand in acknowledgment before finding an empty seat near the corner. He smiled at a passing waitress, murmured a thanks that earned him a grin, and in less than a minute, he'd managed to soften the edges of a room that barely knew him.
Syr watched him through the soft veil of her lowered lashes. His laugh—when it came—was easy, unforced, and it carried that rare quality that made people laugh with him instead of at something. When a drunk adventurer fumbled a joke about gods favoring fools, Lucian countered with a dry quip about gods having terrible taste in investments. The table roared with laughter. Even Mia smirked.
There was no venom in him. No ulterior gleam beneath the humor. His wit was clean, used not to strike but to lift, and it unsettled Freya more than cruelty would have. Mortals were rarely kind without reason.
She brought him his meal herself, because Syr would have done so, and because Freya could not resist the nearness. The stew's steam curled between them, fragrant with thyme and roasted grain. He looked up as she set the plate down, and for an instant, his eyes met hers—steady, curious, polite. Not the vacant glaze of worship or the tremor of fear. Just simple, human acknowledgment.
"Thank you," he said.
Syr smiled the way she always did: soft, modest, demure. "You're welcome."
But Freya beneath that skin felt the spark of something sharp and new. His gaze did not linger. It moved past her as though she were what she appeared to be—an ordinary girl in an ordinary tavern.
He ate quietly for a time, trading words with other patrons, and when he laughed again, it was at a story told by someone else. His joy, his ease, his capacity to draw trust without even meaning to—it all fascinated her. There was no aura of power, no divine touch, yet mortals warmed to him instinctively.
How strange, she thought. How dangerous.
As the tavern filled and emptied again, Syr busied herself with cups and trays, listening without listening. Every so often, she caught fragments of his voice—little remarks, gentle jokes, the sound of contentment carried on the hum of conversation. Each one landed like a stone in still water, rippling outward. He never tried to lead. The world simply followed.
And when his meal was done, he rose, paid in exact Valis, and thanked Mia with the same calm sincerity he'd shown everyone else. No lingering glances. No attempt at charm. He just smiled that quiet, effortless smile.
Freya's fingers traced the rim of an empty mug, slow and thoughtful. "A mortal who draws warmth instead of taking it," she murmured under her breath, a smile curving faintly. "How curious you are, little merchant."
The bell above the tavern door chimed once more as he left, the sound barely audible beneath the chatter that filled the room. Syr turned toward the window just as his silhouette passed beyond the lamplight, shoulders squared, gait steady. The night swallowed him without ceremony, and yet the air seemed to move differently in his wake.
She lingered there, tray in hand, her reflection faint in the glass. The mortal face smiled absently, as though content with another satisfied customer, but Freya behind the smile burned with thought. There was a steadiness in him she hadn't tasted in centuries, a kind of self-possession that felt older than he should be allowed to carry. He neither begged nor boasted. He simply was. And now, she could not look away.
Around her, the tavern continued its rhythm—the clatter of cutlery, laughter spilling like wine—but her mind had already left the room. What did it take to draw a man like that closer? He was a merchant, wasn't he? Men like him followed coin, followed opportunity. Perhaps, then, she could speak to him in the only language mortals had ever truly honored.
Her fingers brushed her apron, thoughtful. Two bears, perhaps. The great plush ones that had caught so much attention already. If one could make a goddess smile, two might make a man curious. And if she bought them both, he would surely come himself to ensure the delivery. She would see him again, speak to him longer, learn what hid behind that calm humor.
Or better still—what if she bought something grander? The extravagant items no one else dared touch. The ones meant to dazzle kings and confound artisans. He would not ignore a customer who spent like that. He would come to thank her, to speak with her directly.
Yes. That was what merchants wanted. Not offerings, not prayers—transactions. And every transaction was a thread. Once a thread was tied, it could be pulled.
Syr's lips parted faintly, the mortal softness of her borrowed smile hiding the hunger beneath. "You'll come to me soon, little merchant," she murmured, her voice lost beneath the hum of the tavern. "All mortals do, in the end."
She turned from the window, gathering the last of the empty mugs. Her mortal hands looked steady enough, but Freya's pulse thrummed through them like a current. The thrill was exquisite: the slow, deliberate chase. She would not command this one to kneel. She would make him choose to.
Because he already belonged to her. He simply hadn't realized it yet.
Outside, somewhere beyond the lamplight, Lucian Gilford walked home through the quiet streets, unaware that a goddess watched the shape of his soul and found it beautiful. And above that mortal mask of Syr's gentle smile, Freya's eyes gleamed faintly, silver and distant.
"Yes," she whispered, as if answering some secret thought. "You'll be mine soon enough."