Chapter 26: Reflections
Eva's POV
The night pressed against the windows like a held breath. The stars outside were dim, veiled behind thin layers of cloud. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked—slow and steady, the sound too loud in the silence.
Eva sat upright in bed, knees drawn up to her chest. The moonlight cast soft, silvery lines across her floor, and the cold seeped in under the hem of her nightdress. She couldn't sleep.
She hadn't been able to—not since her papa's strange words.
Goddesses and mortal bloodlines. Fairytales and myths. Words she would've laughed off if not for the strange flicker she'd seen earlier while brushing her teeth. In the mirror—just for a second—her eyes hadn't been pale grey.
They'd been… wrong.
She rose quietly, padding across the cold floor barefoot. Her room felt like a dream now—books and stars on the ceiling, the worn quilt she loved, the smell of old lavender. Everything looked normal, but her heart was unsettled.
The hallway was dark, quiet. She passed by Evelyn's room without hesitation, though her heart tugged a little. She knew she should feel safest with her mother. But lately, it was her aunt Vivienne whose warmth she sought at night—whose presence made the ache in her chest bearable.
Eva knocked softly before opening the door. "Aunt Vivi…?"
The bed rustled. Vivienne stirred, sitting up and blinking through sleep. "Eva? What is it, little star?"
Eva hesitated in the doorway. "Can I stay here tonight?"
Vivienne smiled sleepily, shifting the blanket aside. "Of course you can."
Eva slipped in beside her, curling close. Vivienne's arm wrapped around her protectively, and for a moment, it was enough. The warmth. The steady heartbeat. The faint scent of peony and fresh paper that clung to her.
But she couldn't stop thinking.
"Aunt Vivi?" she whispered.
"Mmm?"
"Do you think I'm… strange?"
Vivienne tilted her head down. "What do you mean?"
"Papa said weird things today. About gods and bloodlines. Like I wasn't normal."
Vivienne went still.
Eva continued, her voice barely a breath. "And when I looked in the mirror earlier, my eyes… they weren't grey. Not really. It was like they changed. Like I wasn't even me."
Vivienne didn't speak. Her silence wrapped around them like a second blanket.
"I just…" Eva buried her face in her aunt's side. "I don't want to be a monster."
"You're not," Vivienne said at last, brushing her hair back gently. "You are our miracle. Not a monster. Not ever."
"But I don't feel like everyone else."
"There's a reason," Vivienne murmured. "But you're too young to understand it fully, starshine. One day, we'll tell you everything. And you'll see. You're not cursed. You're loved."
Eva's chest hurt at that. A strange kind of hurt, like something deep inside her had been waiting to hear those words.
Still, after Vivienne drifted back to sleep, Eva slipped away.
She padded into the bathroom, heart pounding, and stared into the mirror.
The pale grey eyes stared back—soft and luminous, not unlike a faded stormcloud. Softer than Athena's, but eerily reflective. Like glass too still. But then she blinked, and there it was.
A flicker.
Her pupils narrowed into slits. Her irises deepened—no longer grey.
Deep wine-red… no—violet. Or something between. Glowing, faintly, like the dim heat of coals that hadn't yet died. The pupils were vertical, animal-like. Not human. Not even vampiric. Something older.
A hunger stirred behind her ribs. Not for food. For meaning.
She was awakening.
Her breath fogged the glass. Her heart raced.
"What am I…?"
The world trembled.
She blinked—
And suddenly—
She stood beneath a violet sky, lit by constellations that pulsed like living things. Time had stopped. She was weightless. Suspended.
A marble pool stretched in front of her, its surface reflecting stars but not herself.
And there, standing barefoot atop the water, radiant in the silver light, was a woman.
Athena.
She was tall, poised, draped in fabric that shimmered like forged moonlight. Her presence was impossible. Eternal.
Her eyes—
Piercing grey (hence "grey-eyed Athena"), sharp and observant, like storm clouds before lightning. They always seemed to be calculating — never idle. They held a gaze that saw through centuries. Through hearts. Through lies.
"You see me now," she said gently. "My descendant… or should I say—my love."
Eva's lips parted, but no sound came.
Athena smiled faintly. "You are born from love, little one. Though your blood is mine, though your essence echoes my beloved Aira… it is love that shaped you. Not prophecy. Not war."
Eva shook. "But I'm not like you. I'm not even like them. I'm—"
"You are a child of science, yes," Athena whispered, stepping forward across the water. "But it was love that guided their hands. Your mothers' souls cried out across lifetimes. I answered."
"Why?"
"Because this world did not need a goddess… but one may be born anyway."
Eva trembled.
Athena touched her cheek. Her hands were warm, grounding.
"You're not meant to awaken yet. You're still growing. Still learning what it means to be human. Drink from me, my darling. Let my blood lull what should not rise."
Eva gasped as Athena's lips pressed gently to her forehead.
A warmth flowed into her—radiant, heavy, sweet like honey and smoke.
"You are not meant to destroy. But you can. Like Aira, you hold that choice. Like me, you will be feared if you show it."
Eva's voice cracked. "Then what do I do?"
Athena leaned close. "Live. Love. Let them believe you are simply a girl. A daughter. A friend. Let your gifts sleep until they are truly needed. No one needs a goddess right now. Let the world forget what it once feared."
"But what if it comes back?" Eva asked, voice trembling.
"Then awaken it," Athena said simply. "Awaken it with purpose. With your own will—not mine. You are not my weapon. You are my grandchild."
Eva's chest ached. Her body began to feel heavier.
She clung to Athena's warmth, to the way her presence felt like home and grief and love all at once.
"I'm scared…"
"Even gods are afraid," Athena whispered, pulling her close. "But you are not alone. Not ever."
The stars blurred.
Eva's eyes fluttered shut.
When she woke, the moon had shifted.
She was back in bed, quilt tucked around her. The pillow beneath her cheek was damp.
She rose slowly, crossing to the mirror again.
Her reflection was pale. Human. Her eyes—soft grey. Familiar.
But just before she turned away, a flicker returned—a spark of violet behind the grey, just for a breath.
Gone.
She pressed her fingers to the glass.
"…Just a dream," she whispered.
But something deep in her chest knew better.
She wasn't just a girl.
She was born from love—and something far more ancient.
And for now, that truth would sleep.