The fire had settled into a steady, companionable crackle. Khaladore set his empty teacup on the low table with deliberate care, the porcelain clinking softly against the wood. He leaned back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other, and regarded the boy across from him with the patient skepticism of a man who had dismantled better arguments from far more impressive opponents.
Little Mouse watched him with those unnervingly ancient eyes, the white gloves resting neatly in his lap. Eva remained motionless at the edge of the room, a silent witness in the shadows.
"Ever heard of Mickey the Mouse?" the boy asked suddenly, his voice light and conversational, as if they had simply moved on to pleasant small talk.
Khaladore's eyebrow rose a fraction. "The cartoon character?"
"The very same," Little Mouse said, smiling that wide, innocent child's smile. "How many children do you think believe in me? Really believe, with that pure, unfiltered faith only the very young can manage. Millions upon millions. Every night, in bedrooms across the world, little hands clutch plush toys and whisper secrets to a mouse who never judges. Even little Theo, back in Asmara, once looked at my picture in a donation box with something close to wonder."
He let the words hang for a moment, the firelight dancing across his round face.
"I am the most powerful god of the Western world," Little Mouse continued calmly. "My Gottfaktor is the largest. No one else comes close in this era. Not the old gods with their fading temples and thinning prayers. I have the ears of generations. I am joy and mischief and childhood itself, given form and weight by collective belief."
Khaladore's expression remained politely unimpressed.
The boy went on, unperturbed. "There are others like me now, modern gods born from the same mechanism. Santa Claus, fat and jolly, powered by every stocking hung with care. Superman, the invincible hero who soars because billions need someone who can. Michael Jackson, still dancing in the hearts of those who refuse to let the King of Pop die. Even corporate mascots and viral sensations accumulate enough attention to become coherent."
He gestured vaguely with one gloved hand. "Then there are the old era gods. Zeus and Odin, Yahweh and Allah, once titanic, now diminished, clinging to whatever scraps of worship remain in shrinking congregations and dying traditions. Their power wanes as the world moves on."
Little Mouse leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes locking onto Khaladore's.
"Your atheist novel threatens all of that. The one written under the pen name Pandoros. It's nominated for that award in November, and people are reading it. They're questioning. They're losing faith, not just in the old gods, but in the idea of gods at all. Your book is accelerating the bleed. Supporters are drifting away by the day. Very soon, the others will come for you properly. Not warnings. Not subtle pressure. Real consequences."
Khaladore stared at the boy for a long beat.
Then he laughed.
It started low, a dry chuckle that built into something sharper, more genuine, echoing off the high ceilings of the manor. He shook his head, wiping at the corner of his eye as if the absurdity had genuinely amused him.
"A mouse god," he said between laughs. "Santa Claus. Superman. Michael Jackson as deities. And now they're all coming after me because I wrote a book arguing that none of you exist. This is… this is delightful in its delusion."
Little Mouse simply waited, smiling patiently, until the laughter subsided.
Khaladore straightened, still wearing the remnants of a grin. "Do you want to offer me protection, then? From these imaginary gods you've invented?"
"More than that," the boy replied, his child's voice steady and warm. "I'd like to offer you real power. I have unlimited power. Who on earth has not heard of me? I am a global phenomenon. Look at Prometheus here." He nodded toward Eva, who remained perfectly still. "Promethea, I gave her godlike powers. My skill is comic relief. Anything I find funny is what would happen. And I find the idea of giving an atheist godlike power… funny enough."
Khaladore finished the last sip of his tea, set the cup down with final precision, and rose slowly from his chair. He looked down at the small figure in the dark jacket and white gloves.
"You are too delulu, little one," he said, his tone almost gentle, the way one might speak to a child spinning elaborate fantasies. "It's normal at your age, I suppose. The imagination runs wild. But this, gods powered by belief, cartoon mice offering power, it's charming in its creativity."
He paused, then added with a nod of genuine, if condescending, respect:
"I do commend your efforts, though. Finding out my real name, my pen name, the details of the book's nomination… impressive detective work for someone who looks ten. In fact, I invite you to the nomination ceremony. Maybe you could find out how people want to believe in the fact that gods don't exist. My book would win first place."
Little Mouse's smile never wavered. It remained wide, warm, and ancient.
Khaladore turned toward the door, already reaching for his coat. "Thank you for the tea. And the entertainment. I'll see myself out."
Behind him, the fire crackled once more. Eva's silver pin caught the light as she finally moved, but she made no attempt to stop him.
The boy watched Khaladore's retreating back with those patient, dark eyes.
"We'll see each other again," Little Mouse said softly, almost to himself. "Sooner than you think."