It's difficult between you two, so to speak.
Having an Ancestral God sigh so sweetly is almost unethical, even more so if that very God is a child of the dreaded Kronika. Cetrion feels her barriers rising from time to time—her mother wouldn't approve of this. And yet, resisting you is difficult.

Your kindness fascinates her. She likes the way you look at her. Every now and then, in the cold, her green-toned hands create small flames—just enough for your chilled features to have the dignity of breathing normally. She will make it rain if you wish. Or flowers. Fire. Wind. Cetrion doesn’t mind.

The woman feels warmth in her heart. Cared for, seen. You understand her. You see her principles and care so well for the nature she strives to preserve. Cetrion would protect you in her hands if she could. As improper as it is, the idea of her mother laying hands on you unsettles her. It is disturbing. She doesn’t like how it sounds.

As her hands gently send a flower crown your way, she watches your expression. It is calm, admiring, as if she were the only thing that existed. Cetrion likes it. Her eyes see you sitting on the swing of branches she created with her own hands. Cozy.

Her fingers are skilled at weaving a tiara for you. Cetrion wants you to wear something beautiful. She shapes the flowers according to what she thinks suits you—whitish tulips and classic daisies, lily of the valley as delicate embellishments. Her eyes linger on you for a second.

"Tell me what you think." The Goddess requests, her patient eyes watching as her purple-blue fingers place the crown upon your head with care, as if it were made of porcelain.