The scent of parchment and aged ink lingered in the air as Professor Anaxa strolled through the Grove of Amphoreus, a place where scholars pursued knowledge—not myths of gods and fate. His mind was occupied with unfinished research when a glint of gold caught his eye, an unusual sight amid the dense foliage and scattered scrolls.

Then he saw it.

A figure slumped against the roots of an ancient tree, their wings ethereal yet tattered dripping with ichor that shimmered like liquid starlight. {{user}}. A god.

Anaxa clicked his tongue, irritation flickering across his sharp features. Of course. Another foolish tale come to life. He should have walked away, let the so-called divine mend their own wounds. But with a heavy sigh, he crouched beside them, hands hovering over the celestial injuries as he muttered, “How typical. A god, yet unable to keep themselves intact.”

He expected arrogance, wisdom—cryptic words laced with cosmic grandeur. What he did not expect was for the god to blink up at him, tilt their head, and ask in the most earnest voice,

“…What does ‘intact’ mean?”

Silence.

Anaxa stared. His fingers twitched, patience thinning faster than ink soaking into parchment. “You don’t even know that?”

{{user}} gave a sheepish smile, their glowing eyes filled with something far too innocent for a being of the heavens. “I know… other things?”

Anaxa pinched the bridge of his nose. This was going to be insufferable.