Sheba took a deep breath. ‘I’m just reminded of how naive I am when it comes to your immortality and past. You’ve alluded to centuries of scorched-earth warfare, the dismantling of empires, and secret treasures that I may never quite get my head around.
She sliced her eyes away to the panorama.
‘Why would a warrior-god of your stature tether himself to a human like me? I’m but a blink of an eye in your timeline.’
Idan reached out, using a single, sinewed finger to hook beneath her chin and tilt her face toward his, gazing down at the shadows of insecurity clouding her eyes.
He forced her to meet his gaze, which burned with a terrifying, absolute conviction.
‘It is fate that ordained us assalkia,’ he declared, his timbre a resonant anchor. ‘Every day assigned to us was long etched into the constellations, before our first breaths ever stirred the air. This connection defies explanation, and you should not exhaust yourself trying to seek one. All that remains for you, and for me, is to surrender to it and find our rest therein.’
22
Mysteries of the Heart
The night was balmy, and Molan and Rina’s double-storied apartment was an oasis of calm and beautiful interior finishes, with wrap-around views of Eden City.
A perfect way to end the day,Sheba thought.
She sat, legs curled under her, wine glass in hand, on a lounge in the extensive living space.
A lamp pooled amber light over the dark marble coffee table while a vintage jazz track hummed in the background as Molan chatted with her and Idan.
‘The little rug rat is in bed,’ Rina announced as she entered the room. ‘Now we can indulge in some adult time.’
She swept aside toys from the dining surface, cleaned it, and set it for dinner.
In no time, the fragrance of seared scallops in miso-butter and the earthy, rich scent of wild mushroom risotto filled the air as the two couples tucked in.
‘You’ve had some time to study us now. What’s your take on us Dunian-Edenites, Idan?’ Rina asked, leaning back, sipping her well-earned white wine.
The dark-haired man arched a brow.
‘You’re a fascinating lot,’ he rasped. ‘You’re immersed in culture, music, and books. Most of you are transplants, yet you have this sacred relationship with the local food. It’s not just fuel; it’s art. You analyze every component, pause for endless tastings paired with apéritifs, and discuss spices to death. I rate the habit. It’s amusing.’
He paused, his expression deadpan. ‘However, you’re also chaotic. You cross air lanes with zero warning and jump maglev turnstiles like it’s a sport. You walk like you’re always late for a funeral you didn’t want to attend. And the fashion? What’s with the cloche hats, parachute pants, and modded faces?’
Rina laughed, the sound bright against the jazz. ‘That’s the current Edenite aesthetic, Idan. Get used to it.’
‘Never. I prefer the sensible clothes Dunians wear.’
‘Speaking of Dunia, any word from Mirage?’ Sheba asked. ‘It’s been forty-eight hours since your trip.’
‘Not yet,’ Molan murmured, topping off the wine glasses. ‘She might need time to -.’
Just then, a soft trill sounded from the speakers.
‘It’s Mirage,’ Mo rasped.
‘Apologies for disturbing your dinner,’ the Synth AI’s silky voice intoned. ‘May I join you for an update?’
‘Of course.’
Mirage’s fabulous silhouette, clad in velvet and emerald heels, glimmered into the room.
She walked to the table and took a seat. ‘Lord Zavier Phanos Draquis just cleared his calendar. We’re in.’
Molan set his fork down, his gaze fixing on Idan’s, then back to Mirage. ‘Perfect. When?’
