Page 73 of She Who Devours the Stars
I exhaled, the sound flitting out between a laugh and a sigh, as if I were releasing the tension of years rather than moments. "Just... processing," I replied, my voice echoing the chaos of my thoughts, trying not to drown in the absurdity of it all.
Processing—what a word for such a monumental task. Processing the surreal tableau before me: Fern, naked and unapologetically radiant; Dyris, her minimal attire clinging like liquid darkness to her form. And here I was—the hapless mortal caught between two mythic forces of nature—trying not to combust under their synchronously intense scrutiny.
It wasn't just in my head; Fern's eyes were tracing over me with the kind of intent focus usually reserved for celestial alignments or sacred rituals. She examined me as if I were a new sensation to be savored and understood fully—her gaze both acknowledging and devouring, as though I were some forbidden delicacy. Meanwhile, Dyris's regard was cooler, distant but unmistakably appraising—each glance a precise assessment akin to strategizing realm-wide conquests.
Fantastic. Here I was, submerged up to my neck in this mythic hot spring while Fern and Dyris conducted their unofficial inspection—my every nerve alive with awareness that their attention had settled on me like an impending cosmic event.
My skin flushed hotter than the steaming water around us; internal alarms blared as brightly as supernovae igniting within—screamed at me to divert my gaze or deflect with humor. Do anything but be probed by those piercing glances that rendered me both infinitely small and expansively seen.
Fern broke the silence again with her lazy nonchalance that felt like home somehow. "Should I tone it down?" she asked playfully, yet there was no seriousness in her tone; it was more an acknowledgment of acknowledgment itself.
The snort escaped before I could temper it—a sound simultaneously sharp and fragile against the intimacy of our shared atmosphere. "I don't think that's physically possible," I managed through the rising wave of heat filling my throat and cheeks alike, unable to suppress my smile despite myself.
And they both knew it—the impossibility written plainly on their faces amidst amusement dancing like starlight across still waters.
"No," I said then—with surprising conviction—and the truth startled even me.
Dyris watched us both with the clinical interest of a virologist studying a pair of live samples. She picked up a small glass from the poolside, sipped, then set it down again. “Bonding rituals are optional,” she noted. “But effective.”
Fern smiled, eyes still half-shut. “I’m a fan of efficiency.”
I tried to relax, but every time I glanced at Fern, her skin shimmered in the low light, highlighting a line of freckles down her shoulder. Every time I looked at Dyris, her profile cut through the haze like a knife, impossible and flawless. The room was so charged that even the air felt like it was plotting.
“Did you always want to run a mythship?” Fern asked, directing the question at Dyris.
Dyris considered it. “I wanted to be the one who solved problems others said were unsolvable.” She shot a sidelong glance at Fern, perfectly deadpan. “I didn’t expect to be assigned a living paradox as my first command.”
Fern laughed, a low sound that vibrated across the water. “You could have refused.”
Dyris raised an eyebrow. “I don’t believe in refusing the inevitable.” Her gaze lingered, just a beat too long, and Fern met it with a look that was equal parts challenge and dare.
They held the moment, two titans pretending to be normal people in a bath, before Fern broke the tension by flicking a handful of water at Dyris, perfectly aimed to splash just below her chin.
Dyris responded with a slow, deliberate return volley, sending a single droplet arcing through the air to land on Fern’s nose.
I watched, breathless. It was like watching two black holes flirt.
“You were born smug,” Fern accused, but her smile said she meant it as a compliment.
“And you were born without self-preservation,” Dyris replied.
Fern grinned, wide and wolfish. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
They both laughed. I felt it hit me in the chest, a wave of heat and panic.
I slid lower in the water, letting it cover my mouth. I wasn’t new to women—there’d been a girl, once, who taught me how to kiss and how to lose, but nothing, nothing, had prepared me for this. For the way Dyris’s collarbones flashed every time she turned, or how Fern’s hands flexed on the tile, strong and unselfconscious. The two of them together made the rest of the world feel distant, theoretical, like the universe might just peel away if they laughed hard enough.
I stole another glance at Fern, who had dropped her head back to float, throat exposed, eyes closed, the line of her jaw a perfect invitation to disaster.
I cleared my throat. “Don’t drown,” I said, voice barely above water.
Fern opened her eyes, half-lidded, and smirked. “Only in ambiance.”
Dyris, watching us, smiled her razor smile, then reached over and handed me a glass identical to hers. I took it, heart hammering, and drank.
The liquid burned all the way down, but it made me brave. I set the glass aside and sank back into the heat, letting myself exist in the moment, surrounded by candlelight and myth, with two women who made the laws of reality optional and each other irresistible.
For a while, nobody spoke. The only sound was the water, the low hum of energy, and the faint pulse of something new in the space between us.
