The stench of siege warfare clung to the city's underbelly, a pervasive miasma of dust, fear, and scorched earth.
Beneath the very foundations of Orario, in the twisting, lightless tunnels that snaked through its ancient depths, the dark dealings between Erebus and Rudra continued, unseen and unheard by the weary populace above.
Their clandestine machinations, woven with threads of shadows and whispered promises, were a stark counterpoint to the fragile, flickering hope that had just begun to ignite in the city's heart.
Far above those subterranean conspiracies, bathed in the gentle glow of moonlight that filtered through grimy windows, stood a two-story tavern.
Located at the bustling nexus of Orario, it was just one of many buildings that had bravely flung open its doors, offering sanctuary and solace to the countless citizens unhoused and displaced in the grim aftermath of the recent brutal conflict.
Tonight, the despair that had gripped Orario for so long seemed to loosen its iron grip, if only for a few precious hours.
The tavern, usually a boisterous hub of ale-fuelled camaraderie, now hummed with a different kind of energy—a collective sigh of relief, a tentative breath of peace.
Flickering magic lamplights, supplemented the moon of twilight, painted the tavern's interior in cool, shifting hues of gold and silver.
Dust motes danced in the air, caught in the light, like tiny, silver fairies celebrating the moment. The heavy wooden tables, scarred with the history of a thousand spilled drinks and countless hearty thumps, groaned under the weight of platters piled high with steaming food.
The air, thick with the rich, comforting aromas of roasted meats, freshly baked bread, and a surprising variety of spices, mingled with the sweet, yeasty scent of cheap ale and the earthy tang of bodies unwashed but finally at ease.
Laughter, fragile at first, then growing steadily more robust, blossomed from every corner, weaving itself into a tapestry of sound remarkable for a city still very much at war.
"Munch, munch, glug, glug. Ahhh, what a meal! That'll bring anyone back to life, that it will!" The booming declaration cut through the general din, a triumphant roar of pure satisfaction.
It came from a burly adventurer, a veteran likely, whose scarred face was momentarily softened by the sheer bliss of a full stomach.
He wiped a greasy hand across his mouth, a wide, toothy grin splitting his face as he hoisted a brimming tankard of ale, its contents sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
Around him, other adventurers, their armour still bearing the scuffs and scrapes of recent battle, mirrored his sentiment, their own faces reflecting a similar, almost childlike contentment.
Regular citizens, their clothes patched and worn, their faces etched with the lingering shadows of hardship, sat shoulder to shoulder with adventurers, the city's protectors.
There were grizzled warriors, their expressions still holding a hint of vigilance, but their broad shoulders relaxed for the first time in days.
There were nimble scouts, their eyes still darting, but now with curiosity rather than caution.
And among them, families huddled together, children wide-eyed not with fear, but with wonder at the sheer abundance of food spread before them.
Platters of stewed vegetables, steaming bowls of hearty soup, and generous cuts of roast meat disappeared at an astonishing rate, washed down with copious servings of cheap, celebratory booze.
It felt less like an emergency ration distribution and more like an impromptu banquet, a defiant feast thrown in the face of despair.
For those who had been exhausting themselves day after day, whether on the front lines or simply trying to survive in the ravaged city, this meal was more than just sustenance; it was a balm for their weary souls, a jolt of pure energy coursing through their veins.
Shoulders that had been hunched with the weight of dread slowly straightened.
Faces, hollowed by fear and hunger, began to regain a hint of colour.
The simple act of eating a hot, plentiful meal, surrounded by others, seemed to be a potent medicine, slowly but surely coaxing their strength back to life.
In various corners of the tavern, scenes of emotional release unfolded.
Some of the unhoused residents, tears streaming down their gaunt cheeks, were thanking the adventurers profusely, their voices choked with gratitude, bowing low in heartfelt appreciation. "Thank you, thank you, for protecting us!" they murmured, their hands clasped tightly.
Others, their heads bowed in shame and regret, were tearfully apologizing for past transgressions, for any moments of anger or distrust they might have harboured towards those who defended them.
The raw emotion was palpable, a necessary catharsis in the face of so much shared suffering.
It was amidst this swirl of newfound hope and lingering remorse that Kaguya's sharp eyes, scanned the room.
Her own smile, though genuine, felt brittle, a fragile shield against a fear that was "well-grounded," as she herself would acknowledge.
She spotted him then—the young man who had thrown stones during a previous skirmish, his face now scrubbed clean of its former defiance, replaced by humbled remorse.
She also saw Leah's mother, her features now dissolved into a mask of tearful regret.
The sight tugged at Kaguya's heart, reinforcing her complex feelings about the war and its toll.
The two of them, the stone-thrower and Leah's mother, were on their knees before a small group of adventurers, their heads bowed almost to the sawdust-strewn floor, their voices thick with heartfelt pleas for forgiveness.
"We didn't understand… we were so afraid… please, forgive us!" they choked out, their faces contorted with shame.
Some of the adventurers, clearly caught off guard by the intensity of their contrition, shifted uncomfortably, trying very hard to maintain an expression of stern anger.
But a tell-tale quirk at the corners of their mouths, or a rapid blink of their eyes, betrayed their true feelings: amusement, tinged with an understanding that bordered on pity.
It was a difficult performance to maintain, given the sincerity of the apologies.
Kaguya's smile wavered, the warmth seeping out of it, leaving behind a residue of concern.
The immediate relief of the crowd was infectious, but she couldn't shake a deeper unease.
The city was still under siege, the enemy still at its gates.
This sudden, almost miraculous abundance of supplies felt...unearned, premature.
It was a temporary reprieve, not a victory.
Her gaze swept over the revellers, then settled on her companions.
"I know everybody's feeling a bit positive again after what happened just a few hours ago," she said, her voice cutting through the festive din, though barely loud enough to reach her immediate circle.
"But isn't this a bit much? We are still fighting a war, you know. Where are all these supplies coming from? This isn't… normal."
Alise, ever the cheerful, somewhat oblivious counterpoint to Kaguya's practicality, chirped an answer before anyone else could speak.
"You know what? I don't know, either!!" she declared, puffing out her modest chest with an air of self-importance that was entirely unwarranted by her admission of ignorance.
She looked utterly delighted by the food, her worries seemingly banished by the aroma of roast meat.
Ryuu, leaning back in her chair, a half-eaten loaf of bread in her delicate hands, sighed.
"You're the captain, Alise," she pointed out gently, a hint of dry amusement in her tone.
"You're supposed to know these things."
Alise's puffed-out chest deflated slightly, but before she could formulate a retort, a gruff voice from a nearby table interjected.
"It was my familia that gathered it all."
Kaguya shifted her gaze, following the direction of Alise's slightly frantic glance, to a nearby table.
There, Falgar, the young war tiger, was sinking his fangs with primal satisfaction into a substantial piece of roast meat, his expression softened by the sheer pleasure of a good meal.
He looked up, sensing her scrutiny, and offered a casual, almost languid smile, a smear of grease on his chin.
His eyes, usually sharp and predatory, held a glint of amusement as he swallowed a mouthful.
"Ah, don't worry about that, Kaguya," he said, his voice deep and rumbling even when relaxed. "The things we gathered from the shopping district at Asfi's request are still in storage elsewhere. This is something else entirely."
He gestured vaguely with his head towards the tavern doors, indicating the world outside.
Then, the young war tiger looked out the nearest window, his gaze sweeping over the silhouettes of the trading-houses lining the street.
He then shrugged, a casual, almost dismissive gesture for such a significant revelation.
"These are all things our god scrounged up from who-knows-where. He's got his ways."
The implication hung in the air: Hermes, had once again worked his inexplicable magic.
......….
Meanwhile, in a less boisterous, though equally busy, part of the city, a different kind of conversation was unfolding.
On the second floor of one of those very trading-houses Falgar had gestured towards, its lower level bustling with the quiet, organized movement of aid workers distributing supplies, the god Hermes blissfully unaware of his follower's conversation, was speaking of his troubles to someone else.
The trading-house's upper story was spartan, functional.
Dim lanterns cast long shadows across bare wooden floors and shelves, revealing only a few pieces of sturdy but unadorned furniture.
The air, unlike the tavern's festive aroma, smelled faintly of canvas, dried herbs, and the earthy scent of raw supplies.
It was a place of work, not revelry.
"Man, I sure am tired! Day after day of hauling crates into the city through Ouranos's secret tunnels!" Hermes exclaimed, punctuating his lament with a dramatic sigh that seemed to echo in the quiet space.
He gestured expansively, his fashionable hat momentarily slipping on his head.
"Transporting food and supplies from Demeter's secret storehouse… I've handled a lot of unpleasant jobs in my time, Astraea, a lot," he continued, turning to his conversation partner, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "but this might have been the most tedious of them all! The sheer volume of grain alone! And the mud! Oh, the mud was simply dreadful!"
He dabbed theatrically at his forehead with a pristine, silken handkerchief, though there was no visible sweat.
His conversation partner, seated calmly across from him at a simple wooden table, was none other than Astraea.
Her presence radiated a quiet dignity, a serene strength that seemed to effortlessly absorb Hermes's theatricality without being overwhelmed by it.
Her long, flowing hair, was pulled back slightly, revealing a face of beauty, framed by a gaze that was both ancient and compassionate.
She wore practical, yet elegant, robes that spoke of purpose rather than extravagance.
"Thank you, Hermes," Astraea replied, her voice a soft, melodic counterpoint to his more flamboyant tones.
Her hands were clasped serenely in her lap.
"Your efforts are invaluable. But are you sure the evilus occupying the walls did not see you? Such a large undertaking must surely have attracted attention." Her concern, though softly voiced, was clear.
The stakes were too high for any oversight.
Hermes, ever the showman, placed a hand theatrically over his heart, feigning indignation at the mere suggestion of a lapse in his legendary discretion.
"No worries there, Astraea! Absolutely none!"
He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of pride and mischief.
"The only ones who went in and out of that secret route through the Beor Mountain Range were me, Laurier, and a few of the other lower-class adventurers. We were extra careful not to attract any attention, moving only under the cover of the darkest night, using every shadow and every whisper of the wind as our accomplice."
He leaned back, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
"In fact, it's because there were so few of us, moving with such meticulous stealth, that it took so long for us to finish bringing it all in. Speed, in this instance, would have been our undoing."
The Hermes Familia's information network was not merely restricted to the labyrinthine walls of Orario, but extended far beyond, like an intricate web spun across various countries.
The Guild, recognizing their unparalleled ability to gather intelligence and operate in the grey areas between factions, had granted this neutral party special, unprecedented permission to leave and enter the city as they wished, even during times of siege.
They nearly always had agents operating in foreign lands, their eyes and ears everywhere, feeding vital information back to the heart of the city.
These very tunnels, ancient and known only to a select few, were the clandestine arteries that allowed the Hermes familia to operate with the same legendary speed and secrecy, even when the city itself was under siege, its conventional gates locked and guarded by enemy forces.
"For the same reason," Hermes went on, his tone shifting, a flicker of genuine regret crossing his face, "I'm afraid it wasn't possible to bring in any reinforcements that way. The risk of detection too high for such a large movement. We could sneak in supplies, but not an army. Sorry about that."
Astraea shook her head gently, a faint, understanding smile gracing her lips.
"Not at all, Hermes. That's more than enough. Far more than we dared to hope for."
Her voice was imbued with a deep, resonant gratitude, echoing the collective relief of countless souls.
"Thanks to you, we have food, medicine, and vital supplies for all of our children, for every man, woman, and child who has suffered these past few days."
The supply situation in Orario had been dire, a critical problem that had plagued Finn and the other members of high command, leaving them scratching their heads in worry for some time now.
The relentless siege had choked off all conventional routes, starving the city both of sustenance and morale.
Solving this seemingly insurmountable problem, providing such an unexpected influx of resources, had the potential to flip allied morale in an instant, transforming desperate resignation into renewed determination.
"Soon," Astraea continued, her voice gaining a quiet strength, "everyone will have the energy to fight again. To stand tall. To not just survive, but to truly live. Thank you so much, Hermes. Your contribution to this war, though unseen by many, is immeasurable."
Hermes, basking in her praise, allowed himself a moment of genuine satisfaction.
"Hey, as long as you're happy, Astraea. That's all that matters to your humble servant."
He offered a charming, boyish grin, but then, with a swift, almost imperceptible shift, his posture straightened.
His playful demeanour evaporated, replaced by an expression of an almost comical seriousness. "Speaking of which, and this is a matter of utmost importance, I assure you…" he began, his voice taking on a slightly deeper, more formal timbre, "could I trouble you for a reward, perhaps?"
Astraea's head tilted slightly, her brow furrowing in mild, genuine surprise.
"A reward, Hermes?"
Her serene gaze met his, utterly devoid of the amusement he often provoked in others.
A beat passed, filled only with the faint murmurs from the floor below.
Then, with a suddenness that would have startled anyone less composed, Hermes seemed to regress entirely.
The serious facade shattered, replaced by the unrestrained theatrics of a petulant child.
"Mommy Astraeaaaa!! I worked so hard for you!" he wailed, his voice rising by several octaves, his arms flailing dramatically.
Before Astraea could even react, he launched himself forward with all his might, a humanoid projectile aimed squarely for her lap, clearly intending to collapse into her arms for a long-anticipated cuddle.
But the goddess, was no ordinary deity to be easily caught unawares.
Her eyes, which had widened in genuine surprise for only a fleeting moment, quickly narrowed with a hint of something akin to exasperated affection.
With an effortless, almost ethereal movement, she shifted, taking a single, elegant step aside. Hermes, propelled by his own momentum, sailed past her, narrowly avoiding an embarrassing collision with the table.
The goddess of justice was no less agile or dexterous than Hermes himself.
Her domain encompassed both the sword and the scales; meting out judgment was another aspect she presided over, so she was by no means ignorant of the ways of combat, nor lacking in physical prowess.
However, this minor deflection was not nearly enough to dissuade Hermes.
He recovered quickly, a desperate gleam in his eyes, and rounded on her, his pleas escalating. "Please, please, please, Astraea! Just for a moment! Let me lie in your lap! Pat my head and tell me I'm a good boy! Just once! I deserve it!"
The overenthusiastic god was utterly insistent on indulging in this particular fantasy of maternal affection, his craving for praise and physical comfort overriding all decorum.
Astraea, who had faced down gods and monsters with resolve, found herself momentarily at a loss for how to deal with his relentless, childish importuning when…
"Hmph!"
The sound was sharp, decisive, and filled with a cold indignation that cut through Hermes's theatrics like a freshly honed blade.
"Guh!!"
A crushing blow, delivered with surprising force and precision, caught Hermes completely by surprise.
It landed squarely on his side, sending a shockwave through his form.
He yelped, a sound more of indignity than actual pain, clutching his ribs.
"Stay away from Lady Astraea, you piece of shit, or I'll slap you silly!"
The voice, though feminine, crackled with a fury that promised swift and painful retribution.
Hermes, scrambling to regain his balance, rubbed his sore side.
"You just did!" he complained, his previous grandstanding replaced by genuine irritation as he glared at his attacker.
It was Asfi, her cheeks flushed a vibrant crimson with indignation, her blue hair slightly dishevelled, her usually calm expression twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage.
She stood with her hands on her hips, her small frame radiating an aura of dangerous protectiveness.
She had clearly stormed in, having witnessed the tail end of Hermes's antics, and her patience with her erratic god had reached its absolute limit.
Hermes, still rubbing his side, stumbled backward, rolling along the floor until he collided with the sturdy wooden wall, coming to a rather undignified stop.
He looked up, a bewildered expression on his face, to see the blue-haired girl striding purposefully towards him, her eyes blazing.
"Where have you been all this time anyway?! You had me worried sick, disappearing without a word like that!" she raged, her voice escalating with each accusation.
"Take this! And this!"
Her fists, surprisingly solid, began to rain down upon Hermes, targeting his shoulders, his arms, his chest.
Each blow, while not truly lethal, carried the weight of her frustration, her fear, and her sense of abandonment.
"I'm sorry, Asfi! I'm sorry!" Hermes cried out, dramatically shrinking under the barrage, trying to shield himself.
"No… wait… stop… not the face! Not my beautiful face! You're beating it all out of shape!"
He made his suffering theatrical, but there was a genuine note of pleading in his voice.
He knew he deserved this particular torment.
The heavy, rhythmic blows steadily chipped away at Hermes's exaggerated vitality, a comedic but pointed punishment.
It was only after Astraea, her expression a mix of gentle reproof and hidden amusement, stepped in, placing a calm hand on Asfi's shoulder and saying, "Asfi, I think that's enough, dear," that the assault finally ceased.
Even then, Asfi continued to pant heavily, her chest heaving like a raging bull that had just expended its fury, her eyes still narrowed with residual anger as she glared at her bruised (and mostly faking it) god.
Hermes, disheveled but unharmed, rose unsteadily to his feet, carefully adjusting his clothes.
He swept his distinctive hat off the floor, brushing the dust and imagined indignity from its brim. With a final, dramatic sigh, he adopted a more genuinely serious, even contrite, attitude, the playful mask finally discarded.
"Look, Asfi, it's just… I needed you guys to stay in the city and fight. To hold the line. I truly didn't think it was a good idea to burden you with knowledge you didn't need, especially not with the risks involved in this operation. The fewer who knew, the safer it was for everyone, especially for the supplies."
He ran a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of genuine weariness.
"For what it's worth, I feel awful, you know, for not being there when you needed me. I truly did."
The god gave a guilty, almost sorrowful smile, then reached out, gently patting his follower on the head, a gesture meant to convey comfort and apology.
But Asfi, was unconvinced by this display.
Her cheeks, still rosy-red, were now flushed for a different reason—not indignation, but a lingering, deeply ingrained hurt.
"Don't do that," she replied flatly, batting his hand away with a sharp gesture.
"And don't pretend you thought about me, or any of us, at all during your little secret escapade." Her voice, though quieter, held the sting of betrayal.
Hermes's smile faltered, replaced by a look of genuine pain, a flicker of true remorse.
He knew her words were, in part, justified.
"I did, Asfi. I truly did," he insisted, his voice softer, more heartfelt.
He then offered what he hoped would be a bridge between them, a shared memory, a promise for the future.
"Look, after this is all over, when the city is safe again, let's all go pay Lydis and the other fallen children a visit. We can take flowers, and tell them about the victory we won for them."
At these words, the mention of their lost companions, the raw pain of their shared grief, Asfi's rigid posture visibly softened.
She clammed up, the fight draining out of her as if a plug had been pulled.
Her eyes, which had been so fiery just moments before, now pooled with moisture.
She looked down, hiding her misty gaze from Hermes, her shoulders slumping.
After a long, heavy silence, she finally managed to reply, her voice barely a whisper, filled with a fragile, emotional acceptance. "…Fine."
The fragile truce, however, was quickly shattered by the abrupt intrusion of a new voice, laced with characteristic irreverence.
"Get a room, you two. Geez, is it steamy in here, or is it just me?"
At that precise moment, who else but Lyra could walk in, her entrance marked by a complete, blatant disregard for the fragile, emotionally charged atmosphere that hung between Hermes and Asfi.
She swept into the room, her eyes glinting with a mischievous amusement as she surveyed the scene, a smirk playing on her lips.
"W-w-w-we weren't…!" Asfi stammered, her cheeks immediately flaring crimson again, her voice breaking with mortification.
"I mean, I—I—I wasn't…!" She gestured wildly, incapable of articulating her denial under Lyra's teasing gaze.
But Lyra had no interest in teasing the girl any further, her fleeting amusement quickly giving way to her more pressing agenda.
She cut Asfi off with a dismissive wave of her hand, her expression turning serious as she stated precisely what she had come for.
"I went to Finn. I asked him about that Hera familia woman. I need you to make me a magic item, Perseus."
Her gaze, sharp and analytical, fixed on Asfi, a subtle, cunning smile appearing on her lips, hinting at the complexity of her clandestine plans.
The "Hera familia woman" was a reference to one of the "three evilus champions" who currently stood unmatched by any in Orario.
Perhaps now only two if Mors was truly unable to recover in time, as the Bahamut familia's brief, terse summary of events from the factory district had suggested.
Lyra was nothing if not a strategic thinker, a master of contingency plans and unorthodox tactics. Faced with such overwhelming odds, she would seek to even them as best she could, through fair means or foul, leveraging every resource at her disposal.
And Asfi, with her skills as a magic item maker, was a vital resource indeed.
A look of surprise crossed Asfi's face, swiftly followed by a wave of despondency.
Her shoulders slumped once more, the brief respite from emotional turmoil replaced by the dread of an impossible task.
"I'm already handling a large order of things from Finn…" she said, her voice laced with exhaustion, a faint plea for understanding.
"My workshop is overflowing, and I haven't slept properly in days."
Lyra merely chirruped back, utterly dismissive of Asfi's complaints.
"Yeah, that's not going to be enough. Finn's plans are always thorough, but sometimes you need to think…outside the box, or perhaps, inside the box, and then make that box explode." Her grin widened, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"But I told my plan to Finn, and he agreed. So hop to it, item maker. The fate of Orario, and perhaps the world, rests on your nimble fingers." Her tone was light, but the underlying command was clear and absolute.
Asfi threw her hands up in exasperation, her fatigue giving way to a renewed burst of indignation.
"I can't just churn them out, you know! These aren't common gadgets! And I bet you've got something incredibly extravagant in mind, too! Something that will take weeks, months even, to perfect! I am still injured, you know!" She gestured vaguely to her bandaged body, which still twinged from the previous battle.
Lyra merely rolled her eyes, a dismissive flick of her wrist.
"Oh, just pull a few all-nighters and you'll be fine. A little sleep deprivation won't kill you, it'll just make you more creative."
Her tone was flippant, but her next words held a hint of genuine consideration, though still delivered with an overarching sense of command.
"I hear you got some armor from a rather impressive source recently that'll make a good starting point for the new item. Me and some of the mages will help you out with the conceptualization and even some of the simpler enchantments, so don't worry about it!" Lyra strode forward, grabbing Asfi's arm with surprising strength.
Before Asfi could fully protest, Lyra was already grinning, her eyes sparkling with determination, and began ushering her away from the trading-house, ignoring her increasingly desperate cries of "Hey!" and "Stop pushing! I can walk myself!"
The sounds of Asfi's protests, growing fainter and fainter, eventually disappeared down the hallway, leaving Hermes and Astraea alone once more in the quiet room.
A quiet, heavy stillness settled between the two gods, lengthening into an eternity before Astraea finally broke it.
Her voice was a hushed confession, carrying the weight of a grim truth.
"Hermes… I met with Erebus."
A sharp intake of breath was Hermes' only immediate response.
"I heard," he replied, a low thrum of disbelief and genuine alarm in his tone.
"How you slipped past enemy lines, alone, right into their stronghold… when the reports reached me, I swear, my divine heart nearly seized."
He ran a hand over his hair, a gesture not of vanity, but of deep, agitated worry that etched new lines around his expressive eyes.
The air, already taut, seemed to thicken, pressing down on them with an unspoken dread.
"Well?" Hermes pressed, his gaze piercing.
"Tell me. How was he?"
Astraea's shoulders sagged, a weariness more ancient than time itself settling upon her.
"He hasn't changed," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.
"Not an inch from the days in the heavens. His heart holds nothing but the desire to raze everything, and start anew."
At her words, Hermes closed his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of a truth too painful to bear.
He looked, for a fleeting moment, like an ancient seer burdened by visions of inevitable tragedy, yet also a dear friend, his brow furrowed with a hint of sadness.
"The Lord of the Underworld," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
"I'd always considered him akin to myself, perhaps even Loki, in a certain cunning irreverence. But this… to truly align with the Evilus, to plot our undoing? Is this truly the path you seek, old friend? Are the days of sharing an amber nectar, truly gone forever?"
Astraea merely shook her head, her silence a more potent answer than any words.
"I don't know," she confessed, her voice thick with sorrow, before falling silent once more.
Hermes sighed, a sound that carried the weariness of eons.
"Setting that aside for a moment," he said, almost as if to physically push the grim topic away. "Any word from Bahamut? The rumors spoke of her intervention, a brief, magnificent glimpse of her dragon form. I confess, I would have given much to witness such a spectacle in the mortal realm."
"It was, indeed, a sight of breathtaking power," Astraea acknowledged, a faint, fleeting light in her eyes.
"But alas, her intervention wasn't to halt the war's tide." She paused, her expression shifting to one of concern.
"That child, Draco, went berserk. He's severely injured, having confronted one of the evilus champions. Bahamut is by his side, tending to him."
"Ah, yes, Draco," Hermes muttered, a thoughtful hum escaping him.
"I saw what remained of the factory district after his outburst; it was utterly obliterated. A terrifying display of raw power, though I also heard that the evilus champion escaped with his life, albeit grievously wounded."
"While the immediate outcome was favorable," Astraea continued, her gaze turning distant, "many gods and adventurers alike are deeply unsettled by such an untamed force. There will be a divine council at dawn to discuss his future."
Hermes ran a hand through his hair, a grimace on his face.
"A positive outcome for that meeting is almost inconceivable," he muttered, his voice laced with foreboding.
He turned his head away, his internal thoughts a silent prayer: Hopefully, those pompous fools won't push Bahamut away.
We're barely holding this line as it is.