She sounded like a tour guide leading a guest, yet she possessed a frantic energy that no guide would ever show. Jibril strode through the palace with Tet in tow. Though she had never been here before, she moved with a familiarity that suggested she could navigate the place with her eyes closed.
The pink-haired Flügel spoke at a rapid-fire pace, throwing open door after door to reveal the furnishings within. It wasn't until they reached the final door that both her voice and her footsteps slowed to a crawl.
Her palm rested on the doorknob, applying a slight pressure, but she didn't turn it. Jibril seemed to be hesitating.
Yes, from the moment she entered the main gate to this very point, everything was exactly as it had been. The interior of this palace was a perfect recreation of the small wooden cottage in the ruins of that abandoned Elven city—the ruins she had once destroyed.
The cottage that man had built with his own hands had required spatial magic to accommodate so many rooms, but in this palace, magic was no longer necessary. The various rooms, expanded according to his whim, stood in their true dimensions to form this Palace of Flowers.
Even with her eyes closed, she knew how to navigate these halls. Where to turn, which door to open—it was all etched into Jibril heart. But would everything behind this door... also be the same as before?
Fragments of the past drifted past Jibril eyes like petals caught in the wind. Although she was the youngest of her sisters, three thousand years was no mere blink of an eye.
Even for the Flügel, there were many things they chose not to dwell on, and even they were capable of forgetting. The winds of time had blurred the edges of her memories, leaving behind only silent, film-like images: the moment the trees were set ablaze, the rocks scorched to ash, and the entire city turned into a burning torch of charcoal.
Burning, blackened beams had collapsed, crushing everything in that cottage. When she had stepped into that room, arriving too late, the world outside—burning until only smoke remained—seemed to overlap with the world three thousand years later.
Jibril could almost see the world behind the door. No warm sunlight, no bright world... only that eternally blood-red sky.
When she pushed this door open, what would it look like?
At what moment in time had he frozen this place?
Even though she had found no anomalies after frantically opening every other door, Jibril found herself gripped by an uncharacteristic trepidation as she faced this final one.
Should she have come here sooner? Or should she have stayed away forever? After all, three thousand years had already passed, hadn't they?
Her fingers loosened slightly, pulling away from the custom-made doorknob.
"Are you regretting it?"
Tet voice came from behind her. In the narrow hallway, Jibril couldn't turn to look at Him.
"Just open the door. As a host, it's a bit much to show a guest every other room only to leave this one as a cliffhanger..." The One True God, sounding like an adolescent youth, complained with a drawn-out sigh. "Ah~ and for the record, I liked the decor of those other rooms~."
"Well, except for that magic workshop—that place gave me the creeps. But overall, it's very cozy~. You can tell it was decorated with care. It has a real 'homey' fee—"
"Could you please shut up?"
As the One True God, Tet was scolded for the second time.
Jibril somewhat regretted coming in with this chatterbox, but once she had arrived at the palace, there was no way to escape His notice.
Though he seemed to never interfere, Jibril knew the truth: after the war, Tet had used a game as a wager to stop a certain stubborn fellow from approaching this palace. As for how she knew... that stubborn fellow was the God of War himself.
One had to admit, Tet was a master at ruining a mood. Whether He did it on purpose was unclear, but at the very least, Jibril was jolted out of her hesitation.
Shaking her head to clear the unknown doubts, Jibril turned the knob.
The iron handle clicked as it rebounded. As the door swung inward, it revealed a bed covered in a blue duvet with green patterns. There was no fire, no charred remains. Instead, bright, warm sunlight streamed through the window by the bed. The sheer curtains were half-drawn, lending the room a casual, lived-in feel.
It was a scene of peaceful tranquility, as if nothing had ever happened. But rather than being relieved by this sight, Jibril attention was caught by something else...
She didn't flap her wings to fly across as she once had in the cottage. Instead, she strode around the bed to the other side, her pace quick but measured.
On the nightstand—the one where that man used to keep all the photographs he cherished—there was now only a vase filled with vibrant flowers. Like the food in the kitchen, they had not withered despite the thousands of years; a faint fragrance lingered in the air.
The only things missing were the photographs. Of her, of that Weed, of the two of them, the three of them... they were all gone.
She couldn't describe the feeling that hit her—was it loss, or disappointment? Jibril amber eyes narrowed instinctively; the sunlight in this world felt far too piercing. An inexplicable surge of fury erupted in her heart like an unstoppable volcano... wait?
The pink-haired Flügel bent down, her palm brushing against the off-white nightstand. When she straightened up, she was holding an envelope that matched the color of the nightstand so perfectly it was almost invisible. Aside from the slight thickness that gave it away, it had nearly eluded even a Flügel keen sight and perception.
Her lips pressed thin, Jibril quickly tore the envelope open.
[Dear Jibril:]
[...]