The terrace of Fenrir's palace unfurled beneath the moon like a dream carved from silver. Tables grown from living crystal curved in a great half-circle around a fountain that shimmered with liquid starlight. Beyond the balustrade, the forest of wolves breathed in slow rhythm with the wind, leaves glowing faintly blue with mana. A dozen braziers hovered in the air, their flames tame and patient, lending warmth without smoke. Somewhere far below, a river howled softly—Fenrir's domain answering its master's joy.
"Drink, eat, laugh!" Fenrir's voice thundered through the night. "Tonight, even the stars can envy us!"
Trisha jumped at the sound, then laughed at herself. The table before her was already crowded with platters: meat that glistened as if dusted with rubies, fruits that pulsed like captured hearts of flame, and bread that cracked open to release fragrant gold-colored steam. Every scent was intoxicating; every sight half unreal.
Abba slid into the seat beside her with the lazy grace of someone who had never once hurried in his life. His crimson eyes flicked toward the dishes. "He's gotten better," he murmured. "Last time he served a roast so tough I nearly asked for a sword."
Fenrir, hearing him, threw his head back and barked a laugh. "That was artistry, Bloodlord! You just lack appreciation for texture."
"Texture?" Abba picked up a glass of silver wine and twirled it lazily. "It could have doubled as armor plating."
Trisha stifled a giggle. "So, you two really do talk like this all the time?"
Fenrir leaned across the table, his wolf-amber eyes bright. "Child, this is civilized. You should have seen us ten millennia ago—throwing mountains instead of words."
"Ah yes," Abba said smoothly, "because you kept losing arguments."
Laughter rippled down the line of seated guests—wolfkin with sleek silver hair, a few fae artisans with wings that shimmered like thin moonlight. They adored their lord's humor, and Fenrir seemed to revel in it, slapping one of them on the back hard enough to rattle the dishes.
"Sit, eat," he commanded cheerfully. "No guest leaves this table hungry or sober."
Trisha hesitated over a glowing fruit the size of her palm. "Is this… safe for humans?"
Abba's hand appeared, steady and sure, guiding hers. "You'll like it. It tastes like summer rain and starlight."
She bit into it. Sweetness burst across her tongue—cool, effervescent, almost alive. "By the heavens…" she whispered.
Fenrir grinned. "See? Even mortals can handle a little divine cuisine. Though, careful with the wine. Last time one of my warriors drank three cups, he tried to challenge the moon."
"Did he win?" Abba asked.
Fenrir shrugged. "The moon didn't show up, so technically, yes."
That earned another round of laughter. Abba leaned back, elbow resting on his chair. "So, brother," he drawled, "have you built this entire terrace just to show off? Or were you trying to lure fairies again?"
"The fairies offered," Fenrir protested, feigning outrage. "They said my palace deserved to sparkle."
Abba arched a brow. "Or they pitied your taste."
"Careful," Fenrir said with a grin that bared sharp teeth, "I could still toss you into the river."
"You could try," Abba replied lightly. "But then you'd have to explain to your guests why the moon vanished with me."
Trisha blinked, then realized they were both smiling. There was no real threat, just the ancient rhythm of friends who had crossed eternity together.
Servants floated in and out of the terrace, pouring shimmering wine into crystal goblets. The liquid glowed faintly red—fermented mana fruits from the southern isles. Trisha took a cautious sip and nearly gasped; it warmed her from throat to fingertips, as if her mana had bloomed.
Fenrir noticed. "Not bad, eh? That's a thousand-year vintage. I kept it sealed in a volcano because it sounded dramatic."
Abba smirked. "Everything you do sounds dramatic."
"Someone has to compensate for your indifference."
Abba raised his glass. "To your compensations, then."
Fenrir clinked it with a laugh. "And to your naps that last centuries."
Trisha hid a smile behind her cup. Watching them was like watching thunder flirt with lightning—wild, brilliant, impossible not to stare at. She leaned toward Abba and whispered, "Were you always like this?"
"Worse," he said, not bothering to lower his voice. "He used to bite first and talk later."
"And you," Fenrir said, jabbing a clawed finger toward him, "used to drain taverns dry before sunset."
"Efficiency," Abba replied.
The table erupted again, and the laughter rolled into the forest until the wolves howled back, a chorus of joy and allegiance.
As the first plates emptied, new ones appeared—servants setting them down with silent precision. One carried a dish of translucent petals floating in syrup. Another bore what looked like slivers of frost that didn't melt. Each bite hummed through Trisha's veins like gentle lightning.
Fenrir watched her with genuine fondness. "Aba, where did you find this one? She eats like someone who actually enjoys living."
Abba's smile softened. "She does. It's rare, these days."
Trisha flushed, nearly choking on a sip of wine. "I—uh—I just… it's all so wonderful. I didn't think gods could have such… normal moments."
Fenrir laughed softly, eyes kind now. "Child, eternity is long. Even gods need dinners."
Abba nodded. "Especially dinners with good company."
That quiet line made Trisha's chest tighten. For all his teasing, Abba's voice carried a warmth that wrapped around her like the moonlight itself.
"Tell me, Trisha," Fenrir said, resting his chin on a massive hand. "Has he been a decent teacher? Or has he only been showing off?"
She hesitated, then grinned. "He does both very well."
Abba chuckled. "Honesty. I like that."
"Ha! Finally found someone who can talk back to you," Fenrir said. "Maybe I should keep her."
Abba's crimson gaze sharpened, but his tone stayed lazy. "You could try."
That single sentence carried enough weight to make the torches flicker. Fenrir lifted his hands in mock surrender. "Joking, joking! No need to release the Blood Abyss over a jest."
Trisha's eyes darted between them, half amused, half awed. The power they both radiated was overwhelming, yet the air remained warm, playful.
The laughter finally began to die down, though the warmth it left behind lingered in the air like the fading echo of music. The celestial terrace glowed in soft hues of blue and silver, moonlight weaving through crystalline vines that swayed as if alive. Beyond the edge of the terrace, the great forest of Fenrir's domain stretched endlessly, every leaf shimmering with faint mana light — as though the land itself rejoiced that its lord was in high spirits again.
Trisha sat quietly beside Abba, her cup of pale-gold wine still untouched. Fenrir's laughter rumbled through the night like a mountain amused by its own echo, while Abba leaned lazily in his seat, fingers resting beneath his chin, that half-smile of his — neither mockery nor mirth, but something that carried the weight of ages.
Fenrir tore into a roasted beast's leg with a grin. "Do you remember, old brother," he said through a mouthful, "the time we fought over the Silver Lake? You said you'd make it your private bath. I said I'd use it to raise moon wolves. And what did you do?"
Abba tilted his head, his crimson eyes gleaming mischievously. "I froze the entire lake solid so neither of us could use it. I call that a fair compromise."
The werewolf lord roared with laughter, pounding the marble table with such force that the cups rattled. "Ha! Fair, he says! You nearly turned half the northern forest into a glacier just to prove a point. The fairies complained for decades!"
Abba shrugged lightly, swirling his drink. "Well, they needed something to complain about. They get bored when peace lasts too long."
Fenrir smirked. "Just like you, brother. You vanish for centuries, then wake up only to stir chaos wherever you step."
Abba sipped his wine. "Chaos is such a dramatic word. I prefer to think of it as… 'entertainment'."
Trisha tried to hide her laugh, but Abba caught it instantly, his gaze sliding to her with that teasing glint.
"Ah, my dear disciple finds humor in my noble pursuits, does she?" he said, voice light as silk.
She flushed, shaking her head. "N-no, my Lord. I just… I didn't expect divine beings to argue over lakes."
Fenrir grinned. "Ha! She's honest. I like her already. Tell me, little mage, do you always believe the divine spend their days meditating and frowning at mortals?"
Trisha hesitated. "I… I suppose I never really imagined what gods do when they're not being worshipped."
Abba leaned closer, voice lowering in mock seriousness. "Mostly napping. Sometimes waking up to eat, drink, or irritate each other. Immortality isn't as glamorous as the bards make it sound."
Fenrir nodded solemnly. "Truth. Eternal life is just long stretches of boredom, interrupted by my brother's occasional arrogance."
Abba chuckled softly. "You talk too much for someone who lost the last twenty duels."
The terrace burst into laughter again — Fenrir's booming, Trisha's soft, and Abba's quiet yet contagious. The night deepened with their mirth, stars glimmering above as though listening to an old story retold.
When the laughter faded once more, Fenrir's tone softened. "You know… it's strange," he said, gazing toward the moon that hung low and wide across the sky. "It's been what — ten thousand years since we were all together?"
Abba's eyes followed his gaze. His voice, though still calm, carried a note of nostalgia. "Closer to twelve thousand. The last time was when the Phoenix went mad after losing her flame."
A long pause. The name hung in the air like a whisper from eternity.
Trisha's breath caught. They're talking about the myths themselves, she thought. The ones the world believes to be stories… they were real. They knew them.
Fenrir sighed, his expression unreadable. "I wonder how the others are. The Giant must still be wandering somewhere in the west. The Fairy Matriarch… she was always too sentimental for her own good. And the Demon—"
Abba interrupted gently, "Still sulking, I imagine. He always did enjoy his solitude."
Then, unexpectedly, Fenrir laughed again. "You sound like the oldest brother you are. Always so composed, pretending not to care, but I know you do."
Abba glanced at him with a faint smirk. "And you still talk too much."
But Trisha saw the flicker of warmth in his eyes — something deeper than amusement. For the first time, she realized that these beings weren't just divine forces or legends carved in myth. They were family. Ageless, powerful, but still bound by affection, by laughter, by time spent together that no mortal could ever truly understand.
Fenrir stretched lazily, his tail flicking behind him like a contented wolf. "Still, it's good to see you awake again. The world feels dull without you stirring things up. Even the dragons behave when you're around — they remember what you did to their ancestor."
Abba's eyes glinted. "Ah yes. He tried to bite me. I bit back."
Trisha blinked. "You… bit a dragon?"
Abba looked at her as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Well, he bit first. Fair is fair."
Fenrir slapped the table, laughing so hard he nearly fell off his chair. "By the moon, I missed this! Trisha, you should've seen him — one snap of his fangs and the poor dragon fled, tail between his wings!"
"I didn't chase him," Abba added with mock dignity. "I have standards."
The two immortals dissolved into laughter again.
Hours passed unnoticed. The moon climbed high, silver and unblinking, while the air grew softer, filled with quiet conversation and music played by unseen spirits.
At one point, Trisha found herself gazing across the table, her eyes drawn again and again to Abba. He wasn't speaking then — just listening to Fenrir's stories, his face relaxed, a faint curve at the corner of his lips. The moonlight reflected in his crimson eyes, making them gleam like twin rubies submerged in calm water.
There was something mesmerizing about him — not just his beauty, but the stillness he carried. It wasn't cold; it was eternal, like the calm after a storm that had lasted centuries.
She realized she'd been staring when Abba suddenly turned toward her, amusement flickering across his face.
"Lost in thought, little one?"
She nearly choked on her drink. "I—I was just… listening."
Fenrir grinned, eyes glinting. "Careful, Abba. The girl looks at you like a priestess at her altar."
Abba leaned back, lips curving into a slow, teasing smile. "A dangerous comparison, brother. I don't think I'd survive being worshipped again. Too many offerings, too many rules."
Trisha's cheeks flushed crimson, and she turned away quickly, pretending to study the floating lanterns that drifted over the terrace.
Abba chuckled softly. "Don't tease her too much, Fenrir. You'll scare her away."
"Scare her?" Fenrir barked. "The girl followed you, the Bloodlord. If she can survive that, she can survive a few jokes."
The air rang with their laughter again, and Trisha couldn't help but smile — genuinely, warmly. She had never imagined that gods could laugh like this. That eternity could sound like music and feel like home.
The feast continued long into the night, but eventually, the plates emptied, and the wines dulled to embers of gold. Fenrir leaned back, exhaling deeply.
"Ahh… I'd forgotten what peace feels like," he said, stretching like a cat. "No wars, no duels, no divine councils. Just food, wine, and company that doesn't make me want to tear my fur out."
Abba smiled faintly. "You should cherish it. Peace is a fragile luxury — even for beings like us."
Fenrir nodded. "Maybe. But tonight, I'll take it."
He raised his cup toward Abba and Trisha. "To old brothers and new friends."
Abba raised his cup lazily, eyes half-lidded. "To idiots who never learn to stay out of trouble."
Trisha hesitated, then lifted hers with a small smile. "To… laughter that never ends."
The three cups met with a soft clink, and for that one heartbeat, time itself seemed to pause — the world outside silent, the stars watching.
The moon above shimmered brighter, as if blessing the toast
Fenrir leaned back in his chair, the weight of contentment in his posture. His golden eyes half closed as he let out a low rumble that might have been a sigh or a growl.
"By the moon's fangs," he murmured, "I'd forgotten what it feels like to simply be. No kings demanding counsel, no restless spirits asking for blessings — just this. A night that actually means something."
Abba glanced toward him, that familiar calm resting in his features. "You've always been the restless one, Fenrir. Even peace makes you itch."
Fenrir gave a tired chuckle. "And you? You make peace look like a pastime. If I had your patience, maybe I'd have ruled the world by now."
"You tried once," Abba reminded him, voice light. "Didn't end well."
The werewolf lord threw his head back and laughed. "Aye, you flattened half my army because I wouldn't share my wine!"
Abba smiled faintly, that small, dangerous curve of his lips that seemed to still the air itself. "You stole it first."
"Borrowed," Fenrir corrected with mock indignation. "And besides, I returned the empty bottles, didn't I?"
Trisha giggled, her earlier nervousness forgotten. Watching them was like watching storms trade stories — powerful, impossible beings behaving like mischievous brothers.
Fenrir turned to her suddenly. "So, Trisha, tell me — how's it feel sitting at a table with two so-called myths? Do we live up to the songs?"
She blushed, shaking her head quickly. "I don't know what the songs say, my Lord. But this… this feels different. Real."
Fenrir's grin softened. "Good answer." He leaned toward Abba, smirking. "She's smart. Don't ruin her, old man."
Abba raised an eyebrow. "I'll take that as a compliment. Though coming from you, it's hard to tell."
"Take it however you like," Fenrir said, waving lazily.
The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It was the silence of shared years, of memories that didn't need words. The moon hung low, spilling its glow across the terrace, catching in Abba's silver hair and the faint shimmer of Trisha's eyes.
After a long while, Fenrir stood, stretching. His movement was fluid and feline, yet it made the very ground tremble. "Come. I've had rooms prepared. You'll stay the night. The moon's blessing is strong tonight — even I can feel it."
He motioned toward the palace beyond — the crystalline structures gleaming with soft internal light. The paths were lined with silver moss that glowed faintly with every step, and the air smelled faintly of pine and rain.
Trisha followed behind them, the fatigue of the feast beginning to settle in. Yet every corner of the palace seemed alive — murals that shimmered like starlight, fountains whose water sang softly, and wolves of pure mana guarding each archway.
Fenrir led them to a balcony overlooking the vast forest below. "This will be your chamber," he said, gesturing to Trisha. "The view should calm your mortal nerves."
She bowed awkwardly. "Thank you, Lord Fenrir."
He grinned. "No need for 'Lord.' You're Abba's disciple. That makes you family… or at least extended family by suffering."
Abba chuckled quietly. "Ignore him, Trisha. He measures kinship by how much chaos he can cause."
Fenrir gave a toothy smile. "Guilty."
They lingered there for a moment, the three of them bathed in moonlight. Then Fenrir's tone softened again, something unspoken slipping between his words.
"Abba," he said quietly, "I meant it earlier. I'm glad you're awake again. Things… feel right when you are."
Abba's gaze turned toward the horizon, where the moon dipped slightly behind distant clouds. "Don't rely on me too much, Fenrir. I'll sleep again when I grow tired of this world."
Fenrir frowned. "Always the same. You drift away like mist, leave the rest of us to pick up the pieces."
Abba looked at him then, a rare glimmer of sincerity in his crimson eyes. "And yet, you always manage."
The two ancient beings stood there — not as gods, not as myths, but as brothers who had seen the world grow and crumble countless times, and still found reasons to laugh.
Finally, Fenrir grinned again, breaking the moment. "Next time, I'll win our duel."
Abba smirked. "You can dream."
"I already do."
They both laughed softly, the sound echoing through the moonlit halls.
Later that night, Trisha sat on the balcony outside her chamber. The forest below whispered secrets in the wind, and she could hear faint music — distant wolves howling in harmony with the hum of mana in the air.
Her gaze drifted upward, to where Abba and Fenrir still stood at another terrace, their silhouettes outlined by moonlight. They looked like they had always belonged there — timeless, unbothered, and magnificent.
She rested her chin on her knees, a small, wistful smile on her lips. "He really is something else…" she murmured softly, her heart fluttering with a feeling she didn't fully understand.
When Abba finally turned to leave, he glanced her way — just once. Their eyes met across the silver-lit distance.
He smiled. A quiet, knowing smile that spoke of centuries, yet somehow felt as gentle as the night breeze.
Trisha's breath caught — and she smiled back.
The wind carried the faint scent of wine and moonflowers, and for a moment, all of Gaia seemed to hold its breath.
Somewhere behind her, Fenrir's laughter echoed again — warm and low, like a lullaby.
And beneath the eternal moon, peace reigned — for now.