Medusa, having pieced together the key to what lay ahead, cast a deep look at Athena beside her and murmured softly,
"You really are clever..."
"Nothing remarkable—just simple observation and deduction. Basic tricks anyone could use."
Caught off guard by the rare praise from her old rival, the Goddess of Wisdom froze for a moment, visibly uncomfortable. She waved a hand dismissively.
"Aren't you going to try to talk him out of it?"
"How? Is he the kind of person who listens to persuasion?"
Medusa looked at Athena, who spread her hands in an expression that said, If you think you can do better, be my guest. She promptly closed her mouth.
From Mesopotamia to Greece, she had always played the role of executor, long accustomed to following orders rather than giving them.
Silence settled between them. Their gazes both drifted toward the figure moving busily inside the room. Thinking of the looming crisis that humanity might face, they sat on the rooftop ridge—chins resting in their hands, one leaning left, the other right—and sighed in perfect unison.
"...Sigh."
"...Tch."
Their synchronized actions made them pause, glancing at each other before breaking into quiet laughter. For a fleeting moment, something unspoken connected them, softening the tension that had always lingered between the two.
After a while, Medusa turned her eyes toward Athena again, confusion and curiosity glimmering within them.
"Why do you care about him so much?"
Her tone was faint but probing. The concern Athena showed had long surpassed what she felt for Themis, the Mother of Serpents, or even Tina. It seemed to go beyond reason—tinged with something dangerously close to attachment.
She was the Goddess of Wisdom. Such emotions shouldn't have held sway over her.
"Why? You really want to know?"
Athena tapped a finger lightly against her temple, as if thinking. Her voice carried a teasing lilt, a half-smile curling her lips as she countered the question.
"If you want to say it, say it."
Medusa's reply was calm, though her eyes flickered slightly—and despite herself, she leaned a little closer.
Curiosity was a trait no woman, divine or mortal, could fully escape.
Athena casually picked up a pebble, flicked her wrist, and sent it sailing through the window lattice, where it struck the floor by Samael's feet.
Noticing the disturbance, the ancient serpent looked up. Athena immediately cupped her hands before her mouth, her pretty face pulled into a mock frown.
"Hey! You're leaving me behind again! I'm mad!"
"Tsk. Since when have you not been mad?"
"I'm. Really. Mad!"
"Right, right. You want me to coax you, huh? So, what are you trying to get out of me this time?"
Samael recognized the childish rhythm in her voice—the deliberate pauses, the slight lift in tone. He sighed deeply, already knowing where this was going.
He'd raised her long enough to know every little quirk.
That tone alone told him her anger had mostly faded. As long as he offered some token of appeasement, she'd drop the subject entirely.
"Fine, pick a few dishes. For tomorrow's lunch, the main course will be that meat dish I loved most at my seventh birthday feast..."
"Medium-rare lamb chops. With sea salt and black pepper?"
Samael replied flatly, though inwardly he groaned.
"Your favorite since you were seven? You're still not tired of it?"
Ordering food with her always turned into a puzzle. What bad habits had she picked up from that riddle-obsessed Sphinx, anyway?
"Dessert number two. The usual."
"Milk smoothie with blueberry jam, and a handful of raisins, right?"
"Where did we leave off in tonight's bedtime story?"
"The 122nd retelling of Saint Athena? You know it better than I do—why make me say it again?"
"Also, I'm bored of this outfit. For the change, pick the white lace dress Aunt Themis gave me, the blue casual one Tina made, and the one Mother of Serpents altered."
"Hold on, the purple one? You can even wear that? I thought it was too loose in some spots. Didn't you try it once, toss it in the closet, and never touch it again?"
"None of your business! And bring me a jar of licorice olives for a snack!"
"Wait a second, didn't you always hate licorice? You only eat salted or honey-glazed olives."
"My tastes changed. Can't I crave something different?"
"Sure. Just don't blame me if you end up throwing it up."
"Tch, I changed my mind. I want them now!"
"Eat, eat—how are you supposed to sleep at this rate…"
Watching the sulky little brat deliberately making things difficult, Samael rolled his eyes. After a few grumbled complaints, he finally gathered the ingredients, picked up the jar, and headed toward the forest outside the city.
Medusa raised a hand to her forehead, her serpentine eyes following his figure as it receded into the distance. Her lips twitched as she muttered inwardly.
Go ahead, spoil her.
Let's see what kind of temper that breeds.
On the rooftop, Athena watched Samael disappear from sight. The tension faded from her pretty face as she turned toward Medusa beside her, a teasing glint in her eyes.
"Understand now?"
The purple-haired goddess nodded reluctantly, an inexplicable sense of defeat rising in her chest.
Yeah. He cares that much about you—that's why you care even more about him.
The Goddess of Wisdom rested her chin in her hand, gazing out toward the distant figure swaying among the olive trees. A soft smile curved her lips, her eyes filled with quiet reminiscence.
"You know about Tina's condition. Because her mind isn't fully developed, she needs constant care.
When I was born, I was worse. Maybe because of premature catalysis, I cried all night, every night.
I was afraid of light, afraid of dark, afraid of noise. Too hot was unbearable, too cold was unbearable. I was picky about everything—even my food had to be within a certain temperature range, or I'd throw up.
Until I was four or five, I could only fall asleep if he was with me.
Maybe because of that, from then till now, he remembers what I like and what I'm used to better than I do.
Even the snacks I don't like—he remembers them all.
No matter how unreasonable my requests, as long as he could manage it, he'd always find a way to fulfill them patiently...
But being treated too well comes with its own problems."
Athena tilted her head and chuckled softly, her tone equal parts fond and helpless.
"I can't find another one like him."
Medusa rolled her eyes and huffed.
"Alright, enough bragging."
Athena's brow arched, her expression turning competitive as she glared at her old rival.
"Bragging? You think I'm bragging? I'm jealous of you!"
Medusa blinked in confusion, pointing at herself.
"Me? What's there to envy? He's never treated me like that."
"Hmph, that's because he always sees me as a helpless child who needs looking after, while you—he sees you as an equal! If something truly serious happened, who do you think he'd trust first? You, not me!"
Athena's eyes flicked—very pointedly—toward one well-developed part of her rival's figure, gritting her teeth as she spat out Samael's long-held bias.
Hearing the Goddess of Wisdom's unfiltered envy, Medusa felt an oddly satisfying thrill.
Meanwhile, Athena only grew more frustrated.
Once an idea takes root, it's nearly impossible to change it.
"Child, child, child—do children never grow up?"
The Goddess of Wisdom pressed her hands forward from her sides, looking down at her still-flat figure. Feeling utterly defeated, she let out a low, indignant grumble.