Chapter 486: Shattered Warmth
The kitchen was chaos in the best possible way.
Ivy stood at the stove, a spatula in one hand and her phone in the other, screaming at someone through the speaker viciously.
"NO, YOU LISTEN TO ME, MISS JIANG—IF VALKO’S ROUTE GETS CANCELLED, I WILL PERSONALLY FUND A CLASS-ACTION LAWSUIT SO FAST YOUR DEAD GRANDFATHER WILL FEEL THE SETTLEMENT—" She flipped a pancake elegantly. Precisely. It landed golden and flawless. "—AND TELL YOUR CEO I SAID HE’S A COWARD!"
Beside her, Isla leaned against the counter, reaching over every few seconds to steal bits of sausages and fresh fruit from the plates Ivy was assembling. Her expression was serene, but her thievery was relentless.
Ivy didn’t even look at her, just kept screaming into the phone and flipping pancakes and occasionally slapping Isla’s hand away.
Cecilia sat at the kitchen island, still in her borrowed pajamas, eating pickles straight from the jar with a fork. The egg demanded pickles, the egg received pickles.
She crunched happily, watching her sisters bicker and steal and scream corporate accountability into the void, and felt beBelon
Beep—beep-beep—
The front door opened.
Stevan... walked in.
He looked like a man who had been awake for seventy-two hours and was no longer certain which plane of existence he occupied.
His dark hair was disheveled. His eyes had the hollow, thousand-yard stare of someone who had spent days interrogating criminals and was now questioning his own life choices. He took two steps into the kitchen and—
Stopped.
Three blonde women stared back at him. One was screaming about a fictional werewolf. One was stealing sausages. The third, holding a jar of pickles, waved at him with her fork.
Stevan’s face went pale.
BUMP!
He stumbled backward, ducked behind his equally pregnant wife, and pointed a trembling finger at the trio.
"I-I thought I just crossed to the afterlife. There are three scary golden spirits in my hou—"
Angela smacked him upside the head.
"They’re my sisters, you idiot."
"O-ohh, the Cassia..." Stevan blinked slowly, his bloodshot eyes struggling to focus.
He swayed slightly on his feet, one hand still gripping Angela’s shoulder for balance. "Wait. I’m sober for a year now. Do sleep deprivation makes me hallucinate, though?"
He squinted at the three blonde women, his brow furrowing intensely while his brain was running on fumes. "Why are there three Cassias here...? There should’ve been just two..."
Angela sighed the long-suffering sigh of a wife who had done this many times before.
She gestured toward Cecilia, who was still sitting at the kitchen island with her pickle jar, her fork frozen mid-crunch. "Stevan, this is Iris. She’s Ivy and Isla’s younger sister. The one who was—" her voice softened, "—the one who was lost. We found her."
Stevan stared at Cecilia.
Cecilia stared back, pickle juice glistening on her chin.
"THERE ARE THREE OF THEM?!" Stevan’s voice cracked into a pitch usually reserved for small alarmed animals. His face went ashen. His knees buckled. "Three. Three Cassias. This world... this world is done for... Armageddon... Ragnarok! The apocalypse is coming!"
"Stevan, breathe," Angela commanded.
"I can’t breathe! There are three of them, Angela! One is already a menace! Two is a cataclysm! THREE IS AN APOCALYPSE!"
Ivy finally hung up her phone and turned from the stove, her spatula still raised like a scepter of judgment. "Stevan, don’t forget that you married an Iondora yourself."
Isla popped a stolen piece of sausage into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "He should’ve gotten used to us with Angela around. Strange. Did you not desensitize him properly, Angela?"
"AM I A CAT?!" Stevan shrieked. He had been awake for three days and was now being compared to a household pet?
Angela set down her tea. She had managed this man through interrogation jobs, stakeouts, and at least one incident involving a rogue cartel boss and a stolen helicopter. She took her husband by the arm, her grip gentle.
"Alright, my love. Go to sleep." She steered him toward the hallway, her baby bump leading the way. "Let’s go to our room. Let’s go."
"But there are three of them—"
"Yes, and they’ll still be three when you wake up."
"That’s not comforting—"
"It wasn’t meant to be, my darling."
Cecilia giggled, still clutching her pickle jar like a trophy. She watched Angela steer her sleep-deprived husband down the hallway, his protests fading into muffled grumbles, and felt a warmth spread through her chest.
She was glad. So glad. Angela and Stevan’s relationship had evolved so far from the chaotic, pining mess in the real world. In this world, they were allowed to be like this. Married, expecting, bickering over hallucinations and desensitization like it was the most normal thing in the world.
In this world, they had peace. They had each other.
This world, with its rifts and monsters and constant danger, might feel worse than the real world she came from.
The corruption was everywhere. Rifts opened without warning, and hunters risked their lives daily to close them. It was a world that lived on the edge of catastrophe, always one outbreak away from disaster.
But it was also much better. Much, much better.
Especially because in this world, Oathran wasn’t carrying the Ke—
Ring—ring—ring—!
Cecilia’s phone rang, the sound cutting through her thoughts. She blinked and set down her pickle jar, reaching for the kitchen towel to wipe her hands before touching the screen.
Eastiel...?
She swiped the green button and pressed the phone to her ear. "Hello?"
"Hey, good morning, princess." Eastiel greeted warmly.
"Mm, good morning!" Cecilia glanced at the clock on the wall. It was around the time her two blue-collar boyfriends usually left for work. Arkai to his office, Eastiel to whatever half-day or full-day shift awaited him. "You’re going to work soon? Be safe, okay?"
"Yeah, we will. Just..." Eastiel hesitated.
Cecilia caught the tone immediately. Her hand tightened on the phone. Her sisters, still bickering softly by the stove, faded into the background. "What’s wrong?"
There was nothing from the other side for a while. Just the faint static of an open line, the sound of Eastiel breathing... and something hanging.
"Cecilia, listen..." He sighed, and the sigh was heavy. "It could be nothing, alright? Just... last night, Oathran..."
"He... was suddenly acting weird, and... he just... left."
Left...?
"He hadn’t returned until now."