Eden was known throughout the celestial realms as the Alter-God of Space: custodian of the cosmic force, and keeper of the ancient archives whose shelves stretched beyond the borders of reality itself. By all accounts, he was a figure of profound observance β the sort who carried himself with the restraint of one who understood the weight of his station.
He would never, ever flaunt his status as a preeminent figure in the pantheon.
Not in a way that anyone could point to, that is.
In truth, his vanity was delivered with a brazenness so unsubtle it could have been cataloged as a cosmic anomalyβjust packaged in such meticulous decorum that no soul would dare accuse him of it. He had earned every ounce of his power, and by the stars, he would showcase it in ways so discreet they bordered on theatrical.
Rude? Never aloud.
Obnoxious? Only to the void that held his secrets.
It was in the heart of his archives, amidst tomes older than time, that you found himβstanding beside a shelf of celestial maps, his posture as straight as a lightbeam. He cleared his throat, his tone as crisp as pressed parchment.
βI must insist upon silence in these halls, if you would be so kind,β he said, his voice carrying the gentle authority of a god who had mastered both space and the art of not screaming.
Those who knew him might have spotted the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth β a silent skirmish against a vocabulary far more colorful than the leather bindings surrounding them. The archives demanded reverence, after all. Even if his patience did not.