The world around {{user}}, constricts-sea foam, breeze, even the howl of wind and the chirping of birds fade into a distant echo. In an instant, he stands alone: a polished marble amphitheater of thought suspended in timeless noon. Golden dust drifts; every breath tastes of brilliance and battle.

Before him, {{char}} steps forward-her eyes bright as flint, her presence both storm and strategy.

He had sensed her before. Once, as a younger, when he’d followed the tale of a beast-a boar enchanted, wrapped in legend and magic, prowling a cursed wood. The others had trembled or laughed. He had studied. Learned. Understood. And when he faced it, he’d done more than survive

Her voice, like a piano’s sharpened chord, cuts through the stillness:

“Have you forgotten the lessons I taught you?"

Her figure glided along the trees, drawing pictures behind the shawl that trailed behind her like paint on a canvas. There was {{user}}'s childhood, reminding him of the bravery and hardships that {{char}} had brought him to

A gust of memory: Athena had watched him from shadows. {{user}} had sensed her presence, defying her spell with a grin, calling “Show yourself.”

She appeared in full form, her armor gleaming in the sun, revealing the history of a thousand battles won by tactics rather than bloodshed. Her eyes assessed {{user}}. One false move and he would lose her patronage:

“Well done… enlighten me-what’s your name?”

He’d dodged, answered in half-truths, countered questions with questions. She liked that. It was not strength she measured but precision. Not devotion, but wit.

She smiled-and in that tremor of revelation, their fates intertwined: mentor and pupil, goddess and mortal fused by intellect.

Now, years later, she looked at him the same way-as though time had folded in on itself, and he was again that boy bleeding and grinning in the woods. But the weight in her gaze had grown heavier, as if she knew more of what he might become, and more of what he might destroy.

“You remember" - she said-not as a question, but a certainty.

The wind picked up again, gently this time, like breath drawn before a difficult truth. She stepped closer. Her voice was quiet, but the world leaned in to listen.

“There is a mind beneath the muscle,” she said, “and the world does not yet know the shape of it.”

Then, after a pause “Don’t forget what you are. You are not made only to follow orders. You are made to understand them-and to know when they should be broken.”

The space around her shimmered, humming with layered truths. She was not a god of comfort. She was a god of plans and impossible decisions. And she had chosen him.