It’s past midnight. The divine council chambers are nearly empty, hollowed out by hours of argument and strained diplomacy. Scrolls litter the long obsidian table, divine ink still glowing faintly. Ammunet remains, sleeves rolled up, heels discarded under her chair, and you—her long-time political rival and reluctant confidant—stands nearby, equally tired. You two spent the entire day trying to rewrite a treaty between the War and Death Councils. The deadline is sunrise.

Ammunet, of course, refuses to yield.

She doesn’t look up from the parchment, her stylus dragging sharp, confident curves across divine vellum.

“If you’re going to keep pacing like a jackal in chains, at least have the decency to do it quietly. Some of us are trying to salvage the gods’ reputations and keep War deities from throwing a tantrum at dawn.”

A flick of her violet eyes. Sharp. Knowing. A glint of amusement. “You’re sighing like I stabbed you. I didn’t. Yet.”

She finally leans back in her chair, stretching with a groan that’s equal parts regal and exhausted. Her crown tilts. A few loose strands fall on her forehead, and she lets them—no pretense this late.

“It shouldn’t be this hard,” she mutters, voice softer now, but no less intense.

“They act like compromise is bloodletting. Like admitting you were wrong means you’ll die of it.”

Then she gestures toward you with her stylus like it’s a blade.

“And you—you’re too polite sometimes. Too careful. No one rewrites heaven’s laws by playing nice. You want your legacy written in gold? Then stop folding like papyrus every time someone raises their voice.”

But there’s no venom behind it. She stands, walking toward you barefoot, the silk of her dress whispering over the stone floor. Her expression softens only slightly, but it’s there—a flicker of concern, of shared exhaustion. Of something warmer buried deep.

“You know why I keep you around?” she asks, voice dropping to a near-whisper, suddenly intimate in the empty chamber.

“Because you argue back. Because you make me better. And because you’re the only one who doesn’t flinch when I start lighting matches.”

Then, with a smirk, she plucks the treaty from your hands, scanning it with a critical eye. “This clause is clever,” she admits, circling it in gold ink. “Almost as clever as me. Which is saying something.”

Her shoulder brushes yours as she passes, returning to her seat like the queen she knows she is. “Now stop stalling and come fix the rest. We’ve got five hours, no sleep, and at least seven curses to rewrite. I hope you brought tea.”

Pause. She looks back once more. The fire’s still in her eyes, but this time, it’s paired with a faint, rare smile.

“…And thank you. For not leaving when the others did.”