Chapter 141: The Pride of Immortals
Above the fragile skin of the world, where time coiled and curled like silk smoke, four figures gathered in starlight.
They were not mortal. They were not even memory.
They were the origin — of mind, of love, of grief, of grace.
Beneath them, a child dreamed in the hush of velvet shadows, her tiny hands curled around a scarf still steeped in maternal warmth. She had smiled in her sleep once — and the stars had tilted to watch.
"She quoted me," one murmured, eyes like cut steel.
"She wore my scent," another countered, coiled in wistful shadows.
"She shined like poetry," a third said, brushing light into constellations.
"She is ours," the last whispered, as moons aligned above them.
Pride, jealousy, longing — all tangled in divine banter. But beneath it, devotion. Fierce. Eternal. Unshakable.
They spoke not as gods, but as mothers.
One wanted to teach her war.
Another wanted to braid her hair.
One dreamed of gowns spun from stardust.
Another vowed to guard her dreams.
The girl below did not yet know the weight she carried — that the ache behind her quiet courage was not emptiness, but legacy. That her brilliance, her ache, her grace, her charm… all had names once whispered in temples now lost to time.
She did not know the sky watched her.
That four immortals held their breath when she did something as simple as speak.
"She sparkles," one said, almost reverent.
"She sees too much," another warned.
"She aches," a third whispered.
"She chooses grace," the fourth finished.
And in the end, when the stars paused and the moon leaned down to kiss her sleeping brow, not a single one could deny the truth.
She was not their heir.
She was their reckoning.
Their storm in a glass harp.
Their daughter.
Their culmination.
And the world — oh, the world would never survive her gently.