"Should we end it once and for all? How long must we tolerate this filth? Before, we lacked the power… but what of now?"
Silence swallowed the modest old-Japanese dwelling, its tatami floors and paper screens quiet against the biting alpine chill outside.
On the left sat Eleanor, her graceful cascade of flowing silver hair framing a face that could topple empires. Yet her choice of attire was delightfully incongruous, a tight white full-sleeve white shirt that covered her form like a goddess masquerading as some modern scholar. No flowing robes of antiquity, no divine regalia.
Just clean lines and subtle allure, as if she had grown weary of playing the eternal schemer.
The people of Xianthera were, after all, distant echoes of Greek gods once chained in Tartarus.
This fractured realm was Tartarus reborn, a prison turned homeland where bloodlines mingled in chaotic splendor. Kin to the divine, yet forever scarred by it.
