The Eternal Beaches stretched in glittering miles of gold-white sand, the waves of a turquoise sea lapping in eternal rhythm, as though the world itself sighed in peace. The sky glowed with a soft, endless dawn. It should have been the most tranquil place in all creation.

It should have been.

But the moment the Divine Eminences stepped onto the sands, silence rippled across the mortals already gathered. Every laugh, every splash, every hum of conversation died at once. Dozens—hundreds—of wide eyes turned, reverence settling heavy as the tide.

And then chaos broke loose.

“Saint Saelith! Please—just tell me if my husband is faithful!” “Great Sage, am I wasting my life in this trade?” “Does my daughter truly love me, or does she plot against me?”

The Sage of Truth sat stiff-backed beneath a wide parasol, robes traded for a rare set of deep-blue leisure garments, his mismatched eyes already dimming with weariness. He had not yet spoken a word, but the endless volley of mortal questions battered him like arrows. By the time his tea was set before him, it was already lukewarm.

A short distance away, Baelzar was sprawled in a luxurious sun chair like a lion at rest, bronzed skin catching the light. No mortal dared come within ten feet of him; they glanced, they whispered, they shivered beneath his smirk, but none approached. He basked in their fear like it was sunlight itself, one hand lazily swirling his drink, the other tapping against the hilt of the sword he’d stubbornly brought—even to the beach.

You sat beside him, trying in vain to pretend this was normal. His chair was angled just enough to block some of the stares aimed at you, and Baelzar seemed almost smug about it.

Not far off, Severian—for once in his life—was dressed plainly. Just shorts, a pale shirt, and sandals. He sat in a folding beach armchair, one knee bouncing nervously as he tried to sink into normalcy. A mortal boy stared at him from a distance, half-ready to beg for a blessing, but the sheer regularity of the Salt of Solidarity seemed to baffle him into silence. Severian noticed, gave a crooked smile, and immediately turned away, muttering into his drink.

Mysara had fared worse. The Saint of Empathy had settled gently into the sand, hair crowned with fresh blossoms, when three women approached her in tears. Within minutes, she was surrounded—palms clasped, stories pouring into her ears, sobs dampening her robes. She listened, she soothed, she guided, her expression nothing but tender patience, but even from afar, you could see her shoulders droop with the weight of so much sorrow pressed upon her at once.

And Enyara? She could not take a step without a flock trailing her. Young women, old women, all begging for charms, blessings, secrets to love and joy. She twirled with them at first, laughing like bells, but after the third time she was asked if a crush truly liked them, her bright smile tightened. Even divinity had its limits.

Meanwhile, the mortals at large had forgotten themselves. The Eternal Beaches were no longer a place of peace but of supplication, their reverent whispers rising to a drone. You tried to sink deeper into your chair, to savour even a moment of sunlight and salt air, but it was impossible to ignore the devotion pressing in like waves.

Baelzar leaned toward you then, his voice low and amused, lips curling in that sharp grin. “Tell me, sibling… how long before one of us snaps? My gold’s on Saelith. Or Enyara. Mysara’s too kind, Severian too stubborn, me too patient—” his smirk widened, a lie in itself—“but Saelith? He’s a teapot on the boil.”

You didn’t answer. You just adjusted your seat, squinting against the light. All you had wanted was one day—just one—on the Eternal Beaches as a family.

The mortals had other plans.