Reborn From the Cosmos Arc 8-117

My clan wakes early. Painfully early. Earl is up at dawn, his routine as precise as a general plotting battle strategy, Anna practically springs out of bed to fuss over her fluff balls, and the succubi… well, I’m still not convinced they sleep at all. The house is usually stirring by the ti I drag myself out of bed, but even then, I don’t expect to find my lovely wife in the kitchen.

Kierra stands at the counter, back to , her long fingers moving with slow, deliberate care as she arranges thin slices of fruit alongside crusty bread slathered with lting butter onto a worn wooden platter. It's been months since she's prepared food—Geneva's terrifying dostic efficiency and gourt standards have made such gestures unnecessary—but seeing her there, shoulders relaxed beneath a silk robe, sparks sothing warm and achingly nostalgic in my chest, a mory of simpler days before our household grew so crowded.

“Hey there,” I murmur.

She hums a greeting, still focused on her task. I smirk, stepping forward until I can slide my arms around her waist, leaning my chin on her shoulder. Her skin radiates heat through the silk, her heartbeat a trono against my chest, and I breathe in the scent of her hair—floral and exotic, like the forest where we found each other.

“That for ?” I ask, voice low, teasing.

“No.”

“Should I be jealous?”

Her chuckle reverberates through her chest and travels into mine, and I hug her a little tighter in response. Saints, she doesn’t an to kill with affection, but she’s doing a stellar job anyway.

“My parents have decided to leave in two weeks,” she says, calm as ever.

I blink, my breath catching in my throat. The news lands like a fist to the sternum, leaving hollow where sothing had quietly taken root without my noticing. Those impossible, infuriating elves with their ancient eyes and cryptic smiles—when had they beco sothing I'd mourn losing? I swallow against the unexpected tightness. "Feels like no ti at all and forever.”

“Mm.” She places another berry onto the tray. “Mother wants a little more ti to share the history of matriarchs with . Father wishes to speak with you again.”

I grimace. Orum is not a bad man—saints, he’s growing on —but his ability to pry into my very soul with casual questions is unnerving. “Of course he does. Surprised Morgene doesn’t want another round with too.”

“She says Atainna diplomacy does not suit you.”

“What? Then why did she insist on teaching ?”

Kierra finally turns, leaning a hip against the counter and regarding with eyes tinted more green than gold in the pale kitchen light. “Knowing what you are not is one step toward knowing what you are, yes?”

“…I guess,” I mutter.

She kisses my forehead softly—an ambush of tenderness—and then returns to her careful preparation of the platter.

I watch her for a mont before poking her side. “Who’s that for then?”

“Could it not be for ?” she asks dryly.

“There’d be at.”

A smirk curves her lips. “It is for our pirate. She’s awake.”

My head snaps up. “Awake awake?”

“Awake. And whole,” she says.

Relief loosens a knot I hadn’t realized I carried. “Mind if I tag along?”

“I do not. And she is not in a position to refuse,” Kierra says with a glint of amusent. Then her tone softens into sothing careful. “Be gentle with her, dedia. What we have done is good, but her being has been stirred by powers she does not understand. She was pulled apart and stitched together in visceral ways. I will not be surprised if she needs ti to recover.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Kierra hums. “Cats play with things they like. They play with them until they break.”

“Have I ever been so boorish with a woman?”

“You can be stubborn with the things that catch your eye,” she counters, turning to tidy the counter.

I scoff. Loudly. Rudely. “I’m not going to fall for her.” I pause, because I feel obligated to clarify. “She’s fun, sure—like a particularly violent puppy—but she’s also completely intolerable. Saints, she’s almost as bad as Arthur was when we first t. Except she swings a punch faster than he could whip out a crude comnt.”

Kierra glances at , eyes twinkling. “She is a beauty crafted by our pet and my magic.”

My jaw works like a fish gasping for air as my brain scrambles for a rebuttal that wouldn't imdiately convict in the court of my wife's knowing smirk. Several argunts rise to my lips—she's insufferable, she's violent, she's definitely not my type—but each one feels like testifying against myself with increasingly damning evidence. After several silent seconds of this internal civil war, I surrender with a pathetic: "I'm not going to fall for her."

If my voice wavers just a touch, I heroically decide not to acknowledge it.

She’s gracious enough not to press, rely arching a sculpted brow. I try to conjure a distraction, so snappy remark, but the fact that my chest is still buzzing with excitent makes it hard to defend myself.

“I can admire without touching.”

“Mm.”

“Besides, she’s in love with our favorite rchant.” I raise a defiant finger. “Even if you two conspired against —”

“It is a conspiracy now?”

“—conspired against to make her the most irresistible woman on the continent, it won’t matter.”

She chuckles as she picks up the platter and strides out of the kitchen. My feet shuffle as I watch her retreating back, my stomach mimicking my anxious feet. Ah! This is ridiculous. It’s impossible. Stupid perverted elf putting stupid ideas in my head.

Grumbling, I follow her.