Sequel of Enhanced (An Avenger's FanFiction).
After her supposed "death", Andromeda Johnson awakens to a new world not far from the one she was used to. She is in a whole new, dangerous world. A world on the brink of collapse. An enemy endangers thi...
The battlefield had barely settled when the ancient titan Bacab, newly unbound, met Meda and recognized in her an echo of wars long past. Speaking in the tongue of old gods, Meda offered him not command, but choice—and he chose to fight alongside the Triskelion against the Chaos Insurgency. Bacab shed his colossus form, revealing a mortal shape marked by memory, and began restoring the broken earth with reverence, not wrath. As he joined their ranks, he revealed three more like him—Alpha, Beta, and Delta—gods enslaved and scattered across hidden Insurgency sites. Meda, burdened yet resolute, promised to free them, even as the god Nahash warned that Meda alone could challenge the Scarlet King. Though prophecy never named her, fate bent toward her—a variable outside the grand design, unpredictable and infinite. As plans formed to recover the others, Meda's allies stood with her: Bacab with quiet loyalty, Kali with fire, and Nahash with unwavering memory. In the quiet that followed, held in Nahash's arms, Meda allowed herself a moment of belief—that she didn't need to be divine to save the world... only herself.
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I woke first. I always do.
The rhythms of sleep are kind to her, now that the war drums have dulled to memory. She lay tangled in the blankets beside me, skin warm with the weight of rest, her breath steady. For a long moment, I simply watched—watched the slow rise and fall of her chest, the flicker of dreams just beneath her brow. I could have stayed. I wanted to. But she needed peace more than presence, and I've never been one to steal time from those who need it. So I slipped free. With practiced ease, I untangled her arms from around me, left a whisper of warmth in my place, and padded barefoot across the cool floor. The quarters were still cloaked in early quiet, the kind of hush that exists only in homes that have known war. Down the hallway, through the quiet hum of protective wards, I made my way to the kitchen.
Cain was already there. Of course, he was. He stood like a tree rooted in patience, turning pancakes with a tenderness that belied the age behind his eyes. The scent of cinnamon and banana filled the room—her favorites. He glanced up when I entered, offering a soft smile that I returned in kind. "She still asleep?" he asked without looking up from the pan. "Yes," I replied, moving beside him. "She fought the earth and herself yesterday. She deserves the rest." He grunted in agreement and passed me the whisk. I cracked a few more eggs, added a touch of cream, and began to mix. Together, we worked in silence—the old kind, the kind that holds rather than excludes. I made the rice just the way she liked it: lightly toasted, buttered, with a hint of garlic. The mangoes were sweet this season; I sliced them into precise crescents and sprinkled them with lime and salt.
