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“Steve.”
He looked up from the control panel immediately. There was something about the way she said his name—no preamble, no steady warmth under it.
“Hey,” he said carefully. “You all right?”
Diana stepped fully into the room, boots heavy against the floor. Her hair was half-undone, as though she had run her hands through it too many times. There was dust along her shoulder, a thin cut near her brow already healing.
“‘All right’ will need to do heavy lifting,” she said evenly, “but yes.”
Steve blinked. “That is not how someone who’s all right answers that question.”
She ignored that and walked past him, fingers brushing the edge of a screen without seeing it. She didn’t sit. She didn’t remove her tiara. She just kept moving, a slow, deliberate pace that had too much energy in it.
“I requested an audience with Gaia,” she said.
Steve straightened. “Like—” He made a vague gesture downward. “Gaia?”
“Yes.”
“Like the Earth?”
“Yes, Steve.”
“The actual Earth.”
“Yes.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Shit, okay. Sorry. Continue. You dropped by to chat with Mother Earth. Yes, continue.”
“I did not ‘drop by.’” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “And it was not a chat.”
“Right. Of course not. Sorry. Formal planetary meeting. How’d it go?”
She stopped pacing.
“There was… a complication.”
“Define complication exactly, Diana.”
“A version of myself appeared.”
Steve waited.
“And?” he prompted.
“It was not a mirror. It was not an illusion. It was not a possession.” Her mouth tightened. “It was inverse.”
“Okay,” he said slowly. “Inverse how? Like evil twin situation? Goatee? Leather jacket?”
“It did not speak as it had no mouth to do so,” she said. “It did not reason too. It did not even look at me as one might look at a person. It was a construct, pure magic and no soul.”
He frowned. “So… a creature wearing your face.”
“Not exactly, it had no face, but indeed it is a creature.”
“And it just—what—showed up?”
“It manifested in my place of audience. It left destruction wherever it moved. Trees split, stone fractured. Even the ground recoiled.” Her hands curled slightly as she spoke, remembering. “It was not malicious in the way mortals are malicious. It was… absence. An absence that consumed.”
“Jesus.”
“I was able to contain it temporarily. Not destroy—contain. It did not bleed. It did not tire. It did not know fear.” She exhaled through her nose. “It felt as though I were attempting to fight a reflection cast in water.”
“Of course you did.”
“It dissolved when Gaia intervened.”
Steve rubbed a hand down his face. “Okay. So. You go to see Mother Earth. Your evil magical doppelgänger with no face crashes here in the world. The planet herself steps in. And you’re saying this like it was a bad lunch.”
“It was not a lunch,” she said automatically, then exhaled. “It was destabilizing.”
“Yeah. That’s one word.”
She resumed pacing.
Steve watched her for a moment longer before pushing off the console. “You good?”
Diana’s jaw shifted. Then she looked at him very directly, as if bracing.
“Also, I may have been cursed by a beautiful witch.”
He froze.
“You—what???”
“I may have been cursed,” she repeated, as if that were the important part.
He stared at her. “Back up. Back all the way up. You may have been cursed. By a what.”
“A beautiful witch.”
His eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly left orbit. “I’m sorry, did you just call a witch beautiful?”
Diana frowned faintly. “It would be dishonest to describe her otherwise. And that is not the crux of the issue.”
“It kind of is, Diana.”
She frowned at him like he was the unreasonable one.
“She appeared before I requested audience with Gaia. I was resting.”
“Resting where?”
“On the ground.”
“Like outside?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
“I was not sleeping. I was attempting to.”
“That is called sleeping.”
“It was not successful.”
“Okay.”
“I felt a strike of blue before my eyes. A flash. Like lightning held too long.” Her voice dipped slightly, more controlled. “When I opened them, I saw her hovering above me.”
Steve straightened. “Hovered how?”
“Floating. As though gravity were a mere suggestion.”
“Cool. Coolcoolcool.”
Diana continued, unaware or perhaps unwilling to adjust the phrasing. “Her hair moved as if underwater. Her eyes were bright. She looked upon me as though I were a riddle she had already solved. She was close, she was within my reach but when I reached for her, she floated away but not entirely gone from my sight.”
“Oh my God.”
“She spoke.”
“In English?”
“In reverse.”
He blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“She spoke backwards. The syllables twisted. It was incantation.”
“Of course it was.”
“When she spoke, I felt something tighten around me. Not physical. Not entirely.” She placed a hand over her chest, just below her collarbone. “It was binding magic. I recognized the cadence of it.”
“Binding how?”
“That is precisely the concern.” Her voice sharpened slightly. “I do not know.”
Steve stepped closer.
“She touched you?”
“No, and even if she did, I am uncertain whether I would be able to feel it.”
“Woah, okay. Left a mark?”
“None visible.”
“Energy residue?”
“Faint, it dissipated quickly.”
“And then she just—poof?”
“Yes.”
“That’s rude.”
Diana’s lips twitched despite herself. It vanished quickly. She looked even more troubled now as she heaved out a deep breath.
“I wish she’d told me her name… she seemed to know most of mine.”
Steve leaned back against the edge of the control station again, studying her.
“There’s power in names,” he said carefully. “Or so you tell me.”
“She withheld hers intentionally.”
“Yeah. Because she’s a witch.”
Diana looked at him.
“There was no malice,” she said.
Steve stared at her.
“Diana.”
“I have faced malice,” she said evenly. “I know its shape.”
“And this wasn’t it.”
“No.”
He rubbed his temples. “That almost makes it worse.”
“Why?”
“Because if she was evil, we’d know what box to put her in. Evil witch. Boom. Done. But this? Beautiful floating backwards-talking mystery binder who doesn’t feel malicious but definitely did something to you? That’s—” He made a vague exploding gesture. “Complicated.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, okay. So she binds you in your sleep. Hovers over you like some kind of glowing sleep paralysis demon. Call you by your names. Then disappears. And you’re not sure if that’s bad?”
“I am certain it is not good.” She turned away from him and resumed pacing, but it was sharper now. “If I am cursed, then it is not good. Binding magic is not singular in purpose. It can tether. It can siphon. It can compel.”
“Are you feeling compelled?”
“No.”
“Siphoned?”
“I do not feel weaker.”
“Tethered?”
She hesitated.
“Diana.”
“I feel aware,” she admitted. “As if something has been threaded through me.”
He made a face. “I don’t like that description.”
“Neither do I.”
Steve exhaled slowly. “Okay. So let’s separate the disasters. We’ve got magic clone you. That’s one thing.”
“Yes.”
“And then days before that, floating backwards-talking hot witch binds you and bounces.”
Diana turned red when he mentioned ‘hot’. “Yes.”
“Do you think they’re connected?”
“No, it is different. The timing may seem convenient, however, the witch simply bound me to her and did nothing to mess up my mind whenever I am in battle. I do not feel her presence anywhere else after that encounter.”
“Gaia didn’t say anything about the witch?”
“She did not mention her.”
“That’s weird.”
“Gaia is not obligated to explain all matters to me.”
“Yeah, but if some witch is running around binding her favorite warrior, you’d think she’d drop a hint.”
Diana shot him a look at favorite warrior, but didn’t argue.
Steve rubbed his chin. “Okay. Let’s talk about the curse again. What have you noticed?”
She went quiet, thinking.
“I have been preoccupied.”
“With?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
“With?” he pressed.
She turned back to him, almost defensive. “It is not relevant.”
“Oh, it’s definitely relevant.”
She drew in a breath. “I have thought of her.”
He stared.
“That is not unusual,” she added quickly. “To contemplate an adversary.”
“Sure.”
“But it has been really persistent.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And vivid.”
He squinted at her. “Define vivid.”
“I recall the exact shade of blue in her eyes,” she said, and immediately looked irritated with herself.
Steve’s jaw dropped.
“Oh my God.”
“This is not humorous.”
“It’s a little humorous.”
“It is not.”
“You’re telling me a witch binds you with mystery magic and your takeaway is ‘wow, her eyes were really something’?”
“I did not say ‘wow.’”
“You implied wow.”
She stopped pacing entirely now, shoulders tight. “This is precisely my concern. If she has placed a binding upon me that manipulates my thoughts—”
“Or,” he cut in gently, “you just think she’s hot.”
She stared at him like he’d suggested treason.
“That is reductive.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Diana.”
She folded her arms. “Yes, Steve?”
“I have seen you fight literal demons. I’ve seen you drag me out of Hell. I have never seen you pace like this over someone’s eye color.”
Her expression flickered at Hell, at the memory of it, then reset.
“This is different.”
“How?”
“She did not strike me with violence. She did not threaten. She did not speak plainly. She bound me and left.” Diana’s voice dropped. “Why?”
“Maybe that was the point.”
“What was?”
“Getting in your head.”
She frowned. “That would imply strategy.”
“Yeah.”
“And intent.”
“Yeah.”
“And personal interest.”
He lifted his shoulders. “Seems like she had it.”
Diana looked unsettled again.
Steve softened his tone. “Hey. Look at me.”
She did.
“You said she knew most of your name.”
“Yes.”
“That’s not random.”
“No.”
“And you were about to go see Gaia when she showed up.”
“Yes.”
“So maybe she wanted that interrupted?”
Diana’s eyes sharpened. “Or she wished to mark me before I stood before Gaia,”
“Mark you how?”
“I do not know,” she said, frustration bleeding through. “I really do not possess any proper knowledge regarding this, Steven.”
He stepped closer, not crowding her, just enough to be present. “Okay. So we find out.”
“How?”
“We track her.”
“She vanished.”
“Yeah, witches do that. It’s kind of their thing.”
“This is not a jest.”
“I’m not joking.” He held up his hands. “Okay, maybe a little. But listen. If she bound you, there’s a trail. There’s always a trail. Energy signature. Residue. Something.”
“I have searched.”
“And?”
“There is a nothing.”
“Sorry.”
“But I…” She faltered.
“You what?”
She hesitated, which for her was the loudest answer possible.
Steve let out a long breath. “Diana.”
“This is precisely why I believe it is a curse,” she said quickly. “It clouds clarity.”
“Or,” he said again, softer this time, “you met someone who rattled you.”
“I do not rattle.”
“You are rattled.”
She bristled. “I am assessing.”
“You’re pacing.”
She looked down at her own feet, like they had betrayed her.
He couldn’t help it—he laughed under his breath. Not mocking. Just fond.
“What?” she demanded.
“You,” he said, shaking his head. “You bring me stories about magic clones and planetary deities like it’s a Tuesday. But the thing that’s got you actually twisted up is some witch who tied you up and dipped.”
“That is not—”
“And you called her beautiful.”
“That is observational.”
“Sure it is.”
She pressed her lips together.
He studied her for another moment, then gentled completely. “Hey. If it’s a curse, we’ll break it.”
“Yes.”
“If it’s something worse, we’ll deal with it.”
“Yes.”
“And if it’s not a curse—”
She narrowed her eyes.
“—then maybe,” he finished, “it’s just someone who saw you, knew your name, and decided you were worth binding herself to.”
Silence.
Diana’s expression shifted—confusion, consideration, something warmer she quickly tried to smother.
“That is not how binding magic functions,” she said stiffly.
“Maybe for her it does.”
She looked at him like he was impossible.
He grinned. “What? Much more strange stuff has happened. You just told me you met the Earth.”
Despite herself, a small breath of a laugh escaped her.
“There it is,” he said, pointing.
She rolled her eyes, but the tension in her shoulders eased by a fraction.
“I do not enjoy uncertainty,” she admitted.
“I know.”
“I do not enjoy being moved without my consent.”
“I know.”
“And I do not enjoy…” She paused.
“What?”
“…being left to wonder for names I may never receive.”
Steve’s grin turned slow and knowing. “Yeah,” he said. “That part might not be the curse.”
The next time Steve found her, she had built a fortress out of books.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
There were stacks on the long table. On the floor. On a chair she had clearly meant to sit on and then forgotten about. Old grimoires, modern occult analyses, field notes from obscure magical communities, a tablet open with diagrams glowing faintly blue. The overhead lights were dimmed. She hadn’t changed out of her armor again.
“Wow,” Steve said from the doorway. “This looks healthy.”
Diana did not look up. “It is thorough.”
“You’ve been at this for how long?”
She turned a page without answering.
“Diana.”
“A productive amount of time.”
“That is not a number.”
She finally glanced at him. There were faint shadows beneath her eyes—not exhaustion exactly, but the kind that came from thinking too much and not resting enough.
“I have narrowed certain variables,” she said.
“Oh. Is that good?”
“The witch is a Homo Magi.”
Steve blinked. “That sounds like a tax bracket.”
“It is a lineage,” she said patiently. “A strain of humanity born with innate magical capacity—not learned, inherent.”
“Right. So magical nepo babies.”
She ignored that. “There are hundreds of bloodlines. Possibly thousands. Some are documented. Most are not.”
“And you’ve ruled out all but one?”
“No.”
“How many have you ruled out?”
“…Three.”
He let out a low whistle. “Hey, that’s still good progress.”
She straightened slightly, bristling. “It is not simple. Bloodlines interweave. They fracture. They vanish and resurface. Some operate in secrecy for centuries.”
“Okay, sure. So she’s a Homo Magi. That’s something.”
“It is insufficient.”
Steve stepped further into the room, carefully nudging aside a stack of books with his foot. He picked one up. “Logomancy,” he read aloud. “Weaponized language. That’s fun.”
“She spoke in reverse just to remind you,” Diana said, finally closing the book in front of her. “Fluently and effortlessly.”
“Maybe she just likes being dramatic?”
“No.” Her tone sharpened. “It was not aesthetic. It was precision. The structure of her phrasing—though inverted—carried intent, it is how she bound me to her.”
“So she’s good with words.”
“Steve, she is beyond good,” Diana corrected. “If she is fluent in logomancy, then her voice is not merely a conduit. It is an instrument.”
“Okay.”
“And that means I was not an experiment.”
He tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“She did not bind me to test her limits. She knew precisely what she was doing. She was powerful and knowledgeable enough to know what exactly might be the outcome of her actions.”
“Is that comforting?”
“It is deliberate.”
Steve watched her as she reached for another book, fingers sliding along the spine like she needed the contact.
“And?” he asked.
“And if her voice is not the limitation of her power…” Diana’s jaw tightened. “Then it may not be required at all.”
“You think she can cast without speaking?”
“It is possible. Some logomancers transition beyond verbalization. They command internally. Through gestures. Through focus. It’s possible with just a thought, they can command reality.” She paused. “And through objects.”
“Like a wand?”
She gave him a look.
“Sorry.”
“She may not need sound,” Diana continued. “Her silence may be restraint. Not incapacity. But I’m unsure, my theory may not be true. There is a non-zero chance that I’m right.”
Steve leaned back against the table, arms folding loosely. “You’ve thought about this a lot.”
“Yes.”
“I can tell.”
Diana shifted, turning to another open page filled with sigil diagrams. “I have also determined that the binding was not anchored to a location. There were no residual glyphs on the ground. No lingering imprint in the surrounding space.”
“So not tied to where you were.”
“No.”
“Object?”
“None. I have inspected my armor, my weapons, and even the soil from that site.”
“And?”
“There is nothing.”
He waited.
She swallowed, subtle but there.
“It was placed within me.”
Steve’s posture straightened.
“Directly,” she said quietly. “There is no tether to trace outward. No thread leading away. It is internal.”
He let that sit for a moment.
“So the spell lives in you.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t know what it does.”
“No.”
“And you don’t know if it’s doing anything.”
“I do not.”
He watched her face carefully. “Do you think it’s affecting you?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
“I have mentioned that I am experiencing fluctuations,” she said at last.
“In what?”
“My focus. It’s still happening.”
He looked pointedly at the books.
“My emotional equilibrium,” she added.
“Oh.”
“It may be my own self-control reacting to the violation,” she continued quickly. “Or it may be magical interference.”
“And which one do you think it is?”
She went quiet.
“I do not know,” she admitted.
“And which one would be worse?”
That made her look at him.
“If it is my self-control,” she said slowly, “then I have allowed myself to be moved by a stranger.”
“And if it’s magic?”
“Then I am not sovereign over my own thoughts.”
He nodded once. “Yeah. Both suck.”
She exhaled, a faint tremor at the edge of it.
Steve studied her for another long moment. She reached for another book again, almost reflexively.
He caught her wrist.
“Enough.”
She stilled.
“I am not finished.”
“You haven’t stopped.”
“That is different.”
“No, Diana. It’s not.”
She pulled her hand back gently, but he didn’t move away.
“I am investigating a curse,” she said.
“You are spiraling.”
Her chin lifted. “I do not spiral.”
“You’ve been in here non-stop.”
“This is necessary.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Or,” he said carefully, “is this just you trying to rationalize something that doesn’t fit neatly into a magical category?”
Her eyes flashed. “Do not imply that this might be romantic interest because I am merely curious about who had cursed me.”
He blinked. “I didn’t even say romantic.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to say crush.”
“That is worse.”
He laughed under his breath. “Are you hearing yourself?”
“I am not indulging in trivial sentiment.”
“No one said it was trivial.”
She stood abruptly, pacing again, the books forgotten for the moment.
“I do not indulge,” she insisted. “I assess. A witch bound me. She spoke my name. She left a spell within my being. It is logical to pursue knowledge.”
“You’re not pursuing knowledge,” he said gently. “You’re chasing her.”
She stopped.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
Her hands clenched slightly at her sides.
“You didn’t even rest after you got back,” he continued. “You just started digging.”
“This is prudence.”
“This is you trying to fill in the blanks because not knowing is driving you crazy.”
She looked at him, something raw flickering there before she smoothed it away.
“I simply do not enjoy uncertainty,” she said again, quieter now.
“I know.”
“She looked at me,” Diana said, and the words came slower this time. “As if she already understood something.”
Steve didn’t interrupt.
“And she did not speak my name with hostility,” she continued. “Nor reverence. Nor challenge.”
“Then how?”
Diana’s lips parted slightly.
“Like it belonged to her.”
The room went very still.
Steve exhaled softly. “Okay.”
“And I do not know why that unsettles me,” she added quickly. “Or why it does not.”
He pushed off the table and stepped closer, not crowding her, just enough to steady the energy in the room.
“Diana,” he said, careful and calm. “You are allowed to be affected by someone.”
“I am not—”
“You are allowed,” he repeated, firmer now, “to feel thrown off because someone saw you in a way you didn’t expect.”
She shook her head. “This is not about being seen.”
“Isn’t it?”
“She bound me.”
“Yeah. And you keep saying that like it’s the only thing she did.”
“It is.”
“She looked at you. She knew your name. She didn’t hurt you. She didn’t threaten you. She tied a thread to you and left.”
“That is still an act of power.”
“Yeah,” he said. “And maybe you’re not used to someone meeting you there.”
She stared at him, breath steady but a fraction too deep.
“This might just be a crush,” he said softly. “You’re normal.”
Her expression snapped back into formality like armor clicking into place.
“Do not trivialize this.”
“I’m not.”
“You are reducing a potentially catastrophic magical interference to—”
“—to the possibility that you met someone who got under your skin.”
Silence.
She turned away, but not in anger. More like retreat.
“I am merely curious,” she said, though her voice didn’t quite hold the same certainty as before. “About who had cursed me.”
“Sure,” he murmured.
“And whether the spell is active.”
“Sure.”
“And whether my mind is my own.”
“Sure.”
She stood there, staring at nothing in particular, and then added, almost to herself,
“…And what her name is.”
Steve didn’t smile this time.
He just reached over, closed the nearest book, and gently steered her toward a chair.
“Take a breath,” he said. “If it’s magic, we’ll figure it out.”
She let him guide her down, reluctantly.
“And if it’s not?” she asked.
He shrugged lightly. “Then maybe the scariest thing in this whole mess isn’t the spell.”
Diana did not open another book.
She sat there for a long, suspended second. Then she stood.
“I will return shortly,” she said.
Steve blinked. “Return from where.”
She was already moving.
“Diana?”
She didn’t answer. She walked out of the room with that same purposeful stride she used before battle. Steve stared after her, waited for the echo of footsteps, the sound of a door.
Instead there was silence.
Then a faint ripple in the air—like heat bending light—and nothing.
He stared at the empty doorway.
“…Okay,” he muttered. “Sure. Just vanish. That’s fine.”
He folded his arms and leaned back against the table. “I’m gonna assume that’s heroic and not dramatic.”
He waited another beat.
“Still dramatic,” he decided.
The ground beneath Diana’s feet split open at her will. Not violently. Not theatrically. Simply an opening where there had not been one.
She stepped through.
The air changed immediately—thicker, older. Familiar.
She landed lightly, and before the echo of her boots had settled, another presence surged toward her.
“Diana.”
Her mother’s voice carried warmth first, concern second.
Circe reached her in a few long strides and pulled her into an embrace before Diana could even speak. It was not a fragile hug. It was firm, grounding, hands pressing at Diana’s back as if ensuring she was real.
“You appear without warning,” Circe murmured against her hair. “Should I be alarmed?”
Diana exhaled into her mother’s shoulder, just once. “No, mother.”
Circe leaned back enough to study her face. “You say that as if you are uncertain.”
“I am not in danger.”
“Mm.” Circe’s thumb brushed under Diana’s eye, slow and assessing. “You are not sleeping?”
“I am resting adequately.”
“That was not the question.”
Diana did not answer that.
Circe’s expression softened. “You could have sent a word.”
“I know.”
“And yet.”
Diana glanced away, then back again. Her hands were restless—clasping together, unclasping, fingers pressing into her palms as if testing their own solidity.
“My mind has been occupied,” she said.
Circe’s brows lifted slightly. “By what?”
Diana hesitated.
“I have been experiencing recurring dreams.”
That made Circe still.
“What sort of dreams?” she asked carefully.
“I do not recognize the setting,” Diana said. “It shifts. Sometimes it is a field. Sometimes it is a shoreline. Once it was only blue light.”
“Blue,” Circe repeated.
“Yes.”
“And who inhabits these dreams?”
Diana’s fingers flexed.
“I do not know.”
Circe’s gaze sharpened. “Do you sense divinity?”
Diana was quiet.
“Answer me plainly,” Circe said, tone still gentle but firm now. “Does it feel like a god?”
“For a moment, I considered it,” Diana admitted.
Circe’s jaw tightened. “Which one.”
“I do not believe it is any.”
“Believe, or know?”
She inhaled slowly.
“It does not feel like worship,” she said. “Nor judgment. Nor decree.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Then what does it feel like?”
Diana’s hands lifted slightly, as if she might shape the answer out of the air.
“It feels intentional.”
Circe’s head tilted.
“And personal,” She added.
That was when her mother’s expression shifted—not to anger, not to alarm, but to something quieter.
“Is it a goddess?” she asked again, more softly this time.
Diana looked directly at her.
“No, mother,” she said. “It is simply a woman.”
Circe blinked.
“A woman,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
There was a brief, almost imperceptible pause.
Then Circe bit her lip—and a faint, unguarded snort escaped her.
Diana stared at her, scandalized. “Mother.”
“I beg your pardon,” Circe said quickly, though the corner of her mouth twitched. “Continue.”
Diana drew herself up, trying to regain composure. “She bound me.”
That erased the humor instantly.
“She what?”
“She appeared before me some nights past. Hovering. She spoke in reverse. She placed binding magic within me and vanished.”
Circe’s eyes darkened—not with fear or anger, but calculation. “And you allowed her to leave?”
“She did not require permission.”
“Did you pursue?”
“She was gone before I could.”
Circe studied her daughter’s posture now—the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers would not stay still.
“And since then,” Circe said, voice measured, “you have dreamed of her.”
“Yes.”
“Describe the dreams.”
Diana swallowed.
“She stands at a distance,” she said. “Not close enough to touch. Sometimes I approach. Sometimes she approaches me.”
“And?”
“She never speaks.”
“Does she bind you again?”
“No.”
“Does she harm you?”
“No.”
Circe folded her arms loosely. “What does she do?”
Diana hesitated longer this time.
“She looks at me.”
Silence.
Circe’s gaze softened in a way that was almost dangerous.
“And how does she look at you, Diana?”
Diana’s fingers curled, uncurling again.
“As if she is waiting,” she said quietly.
“For what.”
“I do not know.”
Circe stepped closer, not touching yet.
“And this troubles you?”
“Yes.”
“Because you cannot identify the spell—”
“Yes.”
“—Or because you cannot identify the feeling?”
Diana’s chin lifted slightly. “I am not confused.”
“You are unsettled.”
“I am assessing.”
“You are pacing in your own skin,” Her mother corrected gently.
Diana’s hands moved again, betraying her.
“I sought you,” she said instead of answering. “Because I require clarity. The binding was internal. There is no sigil to trace, no anchor to sever. It resides within me.”
“And you fear what it may do.”
“Yes.”
“And you fear what it may already have done.”
Diana went still.
Circe reached out then, taking one of Diana’s restless hands and holding it steady between her own.
“Have you felt compulsion?” she asked.
“No.”
“Loss of will?”
“No.”
“Alteration of memory?”
“No.”
“Then what have you felt?”
Diana opened her mouth. Then closed it.
“I have felt…” She stopped, frustrated. “I have felt awareness.”
“Of her.”
“Yes.”
Circe’s thumb brushed over Diana’s knuckles. “And does that awareness feel foreign?”
Diana’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly.
“I cannot tell.”
“Try.”
Diana looked down at their joined hands.
“It feels,” she said slowly, “as though something has been placed within me that responds when I think of her.”
Circe did not interrupt.
“It does not command me,” Diana continued. “It does not steer my body. But when I remember her face—” She stopped again, jaw tightening.
“Yes?”
“There is heat,” she admitted, almost annoyed at the word.
Circe’s expression remained neutral, but her eyes gleamed faintly.
“And is that heat painful?”
“No.”
“Is it draining?”
“No.”
“Is it frightening?”
Diana considered.
“…No.”
Circe released her hand gently.
“You have not eaten,” she said abruptly.
Diana blinked. “That is irrelevant.”
“It is not.”
“I did not come for food.”
“You came because you were restless,” Circe said calmly. “And you will think more clearly if you are not starving.”
“I am not starving.”
“You are lying.”
Diana opened her mouth to argue.
Her mother lifted a hand. “You forget who raised you.”
A beat.
She exhaled, faintly defeated.
“I have been studying,” she admitted.
“Obsessively.”
“Thoroughly.”
Circe smiled faintly. “Stay here. Read from my collection if you must. I will return in a moment.”
“I can assist—”
“You will sit.”
She hesitated.
“Sit,” Circe repeated, more softly now.
Then she obeyed.
As her mother turned away, Diana’s hands immediately resumed their restless movement—brushing over the edge of a nearby table, pressing against her own forearm as if checking for something beneath the skin.
“Mother,” she called before Circe could disappear fully.
Circe glanced back.
“If it is not divine,” Diana said, “and if it is not malignant… then what remains?”
Circe regarded her for a long moment.
“Desire,” she said simply.
Diana stiffened. “It is not that.”
Circe’s smile was small, knowing, but not unkind. “I did not say it was yours.”
She looked away first.
Her mother left her there, the faint echo of her steps fading.
Alone, Diana exhaled and pressed a hand flat against her sternum.
Nothing pulsed beneath it. No sigil flared. No magic surged.
And yet.
When she closed her eyes, she could see blue. Not lightning. Not fire.
Just eyes.
Waiting.
Her fingers curled into the fabric over her heart, not in pain, not in fear—
But in something she still refused to name.
Circe returned with food and did not comment when Diana took the plate without protest.
That alone said enough.
They settled across from one another—Diana with a book propped open beside her plate, her mother with a thinner volume resting near her elbow. The silence between them was not uncomfortable, but it was charged. She ate with the efficiency of someone who remembered halfway through that her body required maintenance.
She did not savor. She refueled.
Circe watched her for a moment.
“Since you have arrived unannounced,” she began lightly, “shall I assume you intend to remain?”
“For a short while,” Diana said, eyes skimming a page even as she lifted her cup.
“A short while,” Circe repeated. “You recall the terms of the fruit you consumed?”
“I do,”
“And that if you remain here a month, the Earth is deprived of its defender for a month.”
Diana closed the book gently, finally giving her mother her full attention. “I do not intend to remain so long… but I already am here,”
“Mhm.”
“I will leave a message for my acquaintances,” Diana added. “They are capable.”
Her mother’s lips curved faintly. “You trust them.”
“Yes.”
“You are learning.”
She resumed eating.
They let the conversation drift back to the matter at hand.
“Describe her again,” Circe said, flipping a page lazily.
She did not look up this time. “She did not appear in a physical body.”
“Clarify,”
“It may have been astral projection,” Diana said. “Her form shimmered at the edges. As though it were not entirely anchored.”
“So you are uncertain whether the body you saw was her true one?”
“Yes.”
“Continue.”
“She glowed blue.”
“Blue as in divine fire or blue as in theatrical choice?”
Diana considered. “Neither, in my opinion. It was internal. As if the light was beneath her skin. But it may just be a theatrical choice.”
Circe nodded slowly.
“Her hair was short,” Diana continued, fingers unconsciously lifting as if to shape the air. “Curly.”
“Color?”
“Dark.”
“And her clothing?”
Diana paused.
“It was…” She frowned slightly. “Modern.”
“Modern.”
“Yes.”
“That narrows it down to the last hundred years.”
“It was fitted,” Diana said, almost distracted by the memory. “Structured. Perhaps leather.”
Her mother’s brows lifted.
“Leather,” she repeated.
“It resembled… a rider’s attire.”
“A rider?”
“Yes.”
“Like a warrior?”
Diana hesitated.
“More aesthetic,” she admitted.
Circe hid the small twitch at the corner of her mouth by lifting her cup.
“And you cannot recall details beyond tha?”
“No.”
“You can recall the exact shade of her eyes, yet not her jacket.”
Diana shot her a look.
“That is not relevant.”
“Of course.”
They returned to their books for a stretch of time. Pages turned. Diana finished eating without noticing she had done so.
When she finally set the plate aside, neither of them had identified a bloodline.
“There are too many,” She said quietly.
Circe closed her book.
“Why,” she asked calmly, “are you pursuing her bloodline?”
Diana looked up. “Mother, I need to understand her capabilities.”
“You already know she is capable.”
“To narrow her potential.”
“You could assess the magic itself,” Circe countered. “And cut it.”
Her jaw tightened faintly.
“I have assessed it.”
“And?”
“It is precise.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is not crude,” Diana said. “It does not claw at my magic. It does not siphon.”
“Then cut it.”
She went still.
“I cannot.”
Circe studied her daughter.
“Because you do not know how,” she asked softly, “or because you do not wish to?”
Diana’s fingers curled against the table.
“It is bound to me in a manner that does not present a seam,” she said carefully. “There is no visible thread.”
“So you are searching for her lineage to understand her signature.”
“Yes.”
“Instead of simply tearing the root from yourself.”
Diana did not respond.
Circe sighed quietly and rose to her feet.
“Stand, Diana.”
She looked up, wary but obedient. She stood.
Circe stepped closer, hands lifting—not touching yet. Her eyes shifted, not in color but in depth, focusing beyond the physical.
“Do not resist,” she murmured.
“I would not.”
Circe moved her hands slowly through the air around Diana’s form, sensing.
There it was. Not a chain. Not a lock.
But instead, a dissonance.
“Your magic is not restrained,” Circe said slowly.
“I told you.”
“Yes.” Her brow furrowed faintly. “But it is misaligned.”
Diana’s breath slowed.
“In what manner?”
“It behaves as though anticipating interruption.”
Diana’s fingers twitched.
“Does that imply a future constraint?”
“Perhaps.”
Circe circled her once, assessing more deeply. She pressed lightly at the air near Diana’s sternum. Nothing flared. No backlash. No snap of warding.
“Call your magic,” Circe instructed.
She did. The air shimmered faintly around her hands, subtle and controlled.
Circe nodded once. “Again.”
Diana did.
It came easily.
Circe withdrew her hands.
“It is not constricted,” she confirmed.
“But?” Diana prompted.
Her mother’s lips pressed thin.
“It feels wrong.”
Diana’s gaze sharpened. “Explain.”
“It is as if your magic is listening for something.”
The words hung between them.
“For what?”
“That is what troubles me.”
Diana swallowed.
“Could it be,” she asked slowly, “a mind-altering spell instead of binding?”
Circe looked at her.
“Or something that confuses,” Diana continued, hands moving again, unable to remain still. “Something that accelerates the pulse. That disturbs clarity.”
“You believe your clarity disturbed.”
“When she spoke,” Diana said, frowning at the memory, “my thoughts did not assemble quickly enough.”
“You had just fought.”
“Yes.”
“You were fatigued.”
“Yes.”
“But?”
Diana’s jaw set.
“I cannot recall precisely what she said.”
Circe stilled.
“You remember none of it?”
“I know it was binding. I felt it take hold.”
“But the words?”
“They are… obscured.”
Circe’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“That is more concerning than the binding.”
“I know.”
“What do you remember?”
She closed her eyes briefly.
“She spoke most of my names.”
Circe’s gaze sharpened further.
“Public names,” Diana added quickly. “She could have overheard them when I fought the Tetracide.”
“She could have,” Circe agreed.
“But she did not speak them as one reciting facts.”
“How then?”
Diana opened her eyes.
“As if they were… anchors.”
Circe did not move.
“As if she were not binding me to the earth,” Diana continued, voice quieter now, “but binding me to herself.”
There it was.
Circe blinked once.
And in her mind—unbidden, abrupt—came the realization.
Oh. Oh.
She did not say it.
But she did, briefly, press her fingers to her own brow.
Of course.
Her daughter. Her steadfast, noble, earnest daughter.
Of course it would not be simple.
Of course it would not be dull.
Of course it would include a glowing, leather-clad witch speaking her name like a vow.
Circe lowered her hand before Diana could notice.
“Could it be,” Diana pressed, misreading the gesture entirely, “that it is not binding but entanglement?”
“That is a poetic word,” Circe said carefully.
“It is an accurate one.”
“Entanglement is rarely accidental.”
Diana’s breath caught almost imperceptibly.
“I did not consent,” she said firmly.
“I did not say you did.”
They stood in silence again.
Circe assessed once more, deeper this time. She found no foreign hook, no parasite, no divine brand.
Only that strange tension.
“Perhaps the binding functions only in proximity?”
Diana’s eyes flickered.
“That would imply it was designed to suppress me within her presence.”
“Or to equalize you,”
Diana stilled.
Her mother shrugged lightly. “If she could not overpower you outright, she might limit you only when necessary.”
“But why?”
Circe did not answer that.
Because that question did not feel magical.
It felt personal.
She stepped back.
“There is something wrong,” she admitted at last.
Diana’s posture tightened. “Yes.”
“But it is not the sort of wrong that rots.”
Diana exhaled faintly.
“It is the sort that waits.”
That word again.
Waiting.
Circe watched her daughter carefully. The tension in her shoulders. The way her hands would not settle. The way she kept pressing at her own sternum as if checking whether something inside might answer back.
It was not fear.
It was anticipation wrapped in denial.
Circe folded her arms loosely.
“I will continue researching,” she said calmly.
Her daughter nodded immediately. “Thank you.”
The first few days passed quickly.
Diana read. Circe read. They compared notes, dismissed theories, circled possibilities that collapsed under closer inspection. The binding remained elusive—precise enough to be undeniable, subtle enough to refuse classification.
Then the days became weeks.
And the weeks became a month.
Diana searched.
She searched in books older than empires and in newer ones that catalogued the sprawling families of modern homo-magi. Circe opened vaults of knowledge she rarely bothered touching anymore. Scrolls. Fragments. Entire genealogies.
There were hundreds of bloodlines.
Thousands, depending on how generously one counted.
Diana followed them anyway.
“House Montesi,” she said one afternoon, flipping through a worn page. “Their magic favors defensive bindings.”
Circe skimmed the text beside her. “They also favor excessive ritual. Your witch used none.”
“Then it is not them.”
“Correct.”
She turned the page.
A few hours later—
“The Castell lineage?”
Her mother hummed. “Too ceremonial.”
“Yes.”
“Also very fond of sigils.”
Diana closed the book.
“Not them then.”
The process repeated. Over and over.
Every possibility collapsed under scrutiny.
Sometimes she paced as she thought. Sometimes she sat so still she seemed carved from stone.
Sometimes she pressed her palm against her sternum again, like she was checking something.
The dreams did not stop.
They became even more consistent.
Blue light. The quiet presence of that woman standing just far enough away that Diana could not reach her.
Once, Diana had stepped closer in the dream.
The witch had tilted her head, watching her approach. No words.
Just that look.
Waiting.
The next morning Diana had woken with her pulse racing.
Circe noticed immediately.
“You did not sleep.”
“I did.”
“Your eyes disagree.”
Diana hesitated before speaking.
“Mother.”
“Yes?”
Diana’s hands moved uncertainly in front of her, fingers folding together, unfolding again.
“What does it mean,” she asked carefully, “when in a dream you wish to feel someone’s skin against yours?”
Circe was drinking.
She stopped.
She continued, oblivious.
“…And you wish your forehead to touch theirs?”
Her mother choked.
Her drink went the wrong way entirely.
She coughed violently into her sleeve while Diana blinked at her in alarm.
“Mother?”
Circe waved a hand, still coughing. “I am fine.”
“That did not appear fine.”
Circe took a slow breath, regaining composure.
“A dream,” she said hoarsely.
“Yes.”
“You wished to… touch foreheads?”
“Yes.”
Circe stared at her.
She looked entirely serious. No irony. No embarrassment. Only confusion.
Circe pressed her fingers briefly to the bridge of her nose.
“A fascinating dream,” she managed.
“What does it mean?”
Circe lowered her hand slowly.
“Diana.”
“Yes?”
“You are certain this is a dream?”
“Yes.”
“Not a memory?”
“Yes.”
“Not a prophecy?”
“I do not believe so.”
Circe leaned back.
“I see.”
Diana waited.
Her mother simply picked up her cup again very carefully.
“And how did the dream make you feel?”
Diana frowned slightly, as if the answer should have been obvious.
“Curious.”
“Only curious?”
“And unsettled.”
“Unsettled how?”
Diana hesitated.
“As though I wished it to happen again.”
Circe nodded slowly, taking another sip of her drink.
This time she swallowed successfully.
“Dreams,” she said calmly, “are complicated.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the correct one.”
Diana studied her mother suspiciously.
Her mother smiled pleasantly and turned back to her book.
The dreams continued.
And the searching continued.
Another week passed.
Diana checked bloodline after bloodline.
None matched the magic she had felt.
None matched the method.
None matched the quiet confidence of that witch hovering over her like she had known exactly what she was doing.
Eventually the process began to wear on her.
Circe noticed first in the pacing.
Then in the silence.
Then in the way Diana would stare at a page without turning it for long stretches of time.
One evening she found her daughter sitting in the corner of the cave, knees drawn slightly inward, a book open in her hands.
Diana finished the page slowly.
Closed the book.
And frowned.
“Mother.”
Circe glanced up.
“Yes.”
“I cannot identify her.”
Circe watched her carefully.
“I am lost.”
Diana did not cry.
She did not collapse dramatically.
But the expression on her face—tight around the eyes, mouth faintly pulled downward—looked strangely like a wounded animal trying not to show it hurt.
Circe rose and crossed the room.
“You have searched diligently,” she said.
“It was not enough.”
“It rarely is.”
Diana stared at the floor.
“I have considered abandoning the effort.”
Circe raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“I do not like that option.”
“No.”
“I would become miserable.”
Circe almost smiled.
“Yes,” she said gently. “You would.”
Diana rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand.
“The dreams persist.”
“I am aware.”
“They are becoming clearer.”
“Are they?”
“Yes.”
“And the witch?”
Diana’s voice softened despite herself.
“She watches me.”
Circe placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.
“Then perhaps she intends to appear again.”
Diana looked up.
“You believe so.”
“If she bound you intentionally,” Circe said, “then your story with her is unfinished.”
Diana absorbed that.
“She may return when she wishes.”
“Or when she requires something,” Circe added.
Diana nodded slowly.
The thought did not comfort her but it did not distress her either.
It simply settled.
After a moment she stood.
“My time here has ended.”
Circe knew what she meant immediately.
The agreement that allowed Diana to visit without consequence—so long as she did not linger too long.
“Yes,” Her mother said quietly.
Diana brushed nonexistent dust from her armor.
“I must return to Earth.”
“You must.”
Diana paused.
Then, somewhat awkwardly for someone who had wrestled monsters and walked through hell without flinching, she said—
“Thank you, mother.”
Circe tilted her head.
“For what?”
“For allowing me to stay.”
Circe stared at her daughter.
Then she reached out and flicked Diana lightly on the forehead.
She blinked.
“Do not thank me for that,” Circe said. “This is your home.”
Diana looked faintly startled by the firmness in her voice.
“You are allowed here whenever you wish,” Her mother continued. “You do not require permission.”
Diana lowered her gaze.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
Circe pulled her into a brief embrace.
Diana returned it immediately, arms strong and steady.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Then Circe stepped back.
“When you see the witch again,” she said lightly, “try to remember what she actually says this time.”
Diana sighed faintly.
“I will attempt to be less distracted.”
Circe smiled.
“That would help.”
Diana took a few steps back, preparing to leave.
Then she paused.
“Mother.”
“Yes?”
“If she appears again… and the binding activates…”
Circe raised an eyebrow.
Diana hesitated.
“…should I attempt to fight her.”
Circe considered that then shrugged.
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you still wish to touch foreheads.”
Diana froze.
Her mother’s expression remained perfectly innocent.
After a long moment Diana cleared her throat.
“That was a hypothetical dream.”
“Of course it was.”
Diana opened a portal beneath her feet before the conversation could continue.
And just like that, she was gone again.
Circe stood alone in the quiet space for a long moment.
Then she rubbed her face with one hand and sighed.
“A glowing witch in a leather jacket,” she murmured to herself. “Of course.”
Her gaze drifted toward the shelves where her daughter had spent the month searching.
She already knew the books would not have helped.
Whatever this was, it was not a simple spell.
She exhaled slowly.
Later, she would try to summon Hecate.
Though she suspected the goddess would only refuse to answer her.
Because if this truly was something Diana was meant to face then no one would interfere. Not even her, as her mother.
Circe could only hope that when the witch returned, her daughter would be ready for what came with her.
And probably ask for her name or get it by the witch telling what daughter had craved for so long by herself.