She did not meet her by accident. She was found.

Wrath had been sitting by a waterfall, trying to understand why mortals found water soothing when it simply… was. She felt the approach—footsteps that didn’t hesitate or creep, but moved with purpose, crashing through underbrush with absolutely no attempt at stealth. Then: “I KNEW I saw something!” Wrath turned, blinking. A girl—no, a woman—stood at the edge of the clearing, hands on her hips, breathing hard from her run, eyes absolutely blazing with triumph. “I KNEW it! Everyone said I was seeing things but I KNEW—” She stopped mid-sentence, finally getting a good look at Wrath. At the form that flickered between woman and shadow, at the eyes that burned like dying stars, at the way reality seemed to bend slightly around her edges.

Wrath waited for the scream. The prayer. The running. Instead, the woman’s eyes went wider—not with fear, but with fascination. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh you’re magnificent.” Wrath blinked again. Of all the reactions she had expected, this was not one of them.

The woman began to circle her, slowly, like she was examining the most interesting thing she had ever seen. “Is that hair?” she muttered to herself. “It looks like hair but it’s—it’s moving on its own—not wind, there’s no wind—” She leaned closer, squinting. “Is that skin? It looks like skin but—what’s that shimmer? Is it always like that?” Wrath just… stared. No one had ever studied her before. They ran. They cowered. They begged. They didn’t… examine her like she was a particularly interesting flower. “What do you smell like?” the woman wondered aloud, leaning in—perhaps a bit too close for someone facing down divine fury. “Like smoke? No, that’s not quite—like a storm maybe? That electric thing before lightning—”

Did she just… sniff me? Wrath thought, bewildered. She’s examining divine wrath incarnate and she just… sniffed me. Like I’m a flower. Or a meal she’s considering.

“You should be afraid,” Wrath said, finding her voice at last. The woman looked up at her, pausing in her examination. “You should fear me?” Wrath added, and something in her tone must have been amusing because the woman caught just the hint of a smirk flickering across Wrath’s face. The woman’s grin grew wider. “Should I though?” She tilted her head, that fearless curiosity burning in her eyes. “I don’t think I should.” And somehow—through some quiet understanding that settled in her chest like a divine whisper she couldn’t quite hear—she knew. Knew with absolute certainty that this being, this impossible, magnificent being, would not hurt her. She couldn’t explain it. Wouldn’t have been able to put it into words. But she knew it the way she knew the sun would rise, the way she knew her own name.

So she just kept circling, kept examining, kept muttering questions that Wrath wasn’t sure were even meant to be answered. “Do you eat? You must eat something—or do gods eat? Are you a god? You look like a god—well, what I imagine gods look like—” She stopped in front of Wrath again, planting her hands on her hips, grin still firmly in place. “I’m glad I found you,” she said simply. “Everyone said I was crazy but I knew I saw something out here.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m—well, that doesn’t matter yet. Names can come later. First—” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Can you do that thing with the fire again? That thing where your eyes burned? That was incredible.” Wrath stared at the offered hand. At this impossible woman who looked at divine rage and saw something incredible. “You really should be afraid,” Wrath said again, but her voice had lost whatever menace it had held. “Maybe,” the woman agreed, hand still extended. “But I’m not.”

The woman kept coming back. Day after day, she would march into whatever space Wrath occupied—by the waterfall, in the clearing where starlight fell, once even following her into a cave during a storm. She was not afraid of the way Wrath’s form would flicker between flesh and flame. She was not afraid when shadows gathered at Wrath’s feet or when her eyes burned too bright. If anything, it made her more determined to understand.

“Do you always look like this?” the woman asked one evening, leaning forward with her chin in her hands. “I can take other forms,” Wrath admitted. “Oh! Like a goat or something?” the woman asked, giggling at her own question. Wrath just stared, giving her that universal look: are you serious right now? The corner of her mouth twitched despite her efforts to maintain dignity. The woman’s giggles grew louder. “What? It’s a valid question! The stories say gods turn into animals—swans, bulls, even pigeons—okay, okay, I can see from your face you don’t turn into a goat.” She paused, mischief sparking in her eyes, seeing that crack in Wrath’s composure. “What about a cat?” she continued. “You could go around swatting people and knocking things off tables. Everyone would think it was cute—‘Oh look, the God of Wrath just knocked over my vase! How adorable!’”

Wrath pressed her lips together, fighting it. She was divine wrath incarnate. She was fury given form. She did not—she would not— A snort escaped. Then another. And then Wrath laughed. Actually laughed. A real, genuine laugh she couldn’t hold back. The woman looked triumphant, like she’d won the greatest victory. “I knew it!” she crowed. “I knew I could make you laugh! You have a laugh! It’s beautiful!” “I do not turn into a cat,” Wrath managed between chuckles. “And I certainly would not—swatting things off tables—” But the image was in her head now and the woman looked so pleased that it made everything worse.

Something softened in Wrath watching this woman sit there, so triumphant, so delighted to have made a divine being laugh. There was something almost childlike about her joy, her fearlessness, the way she examined everything with such curiosity. Without thinking, Wrath reached out and patted the woman on the head. “You know,” Wrath said thoughtfully, “when I first saw you, I thought you were a little girl. All that running and crashing, examining everything like a new toy…” The woman’s eyes went wide. She swatted Wrath’s hand away, planted both hands on her hips, straightened to her full height. “I AM AN ADULT, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!” she declared loudly, her voice echoing across the clearing. Wrath’s lips curved into a smirk—deliberate and teasing this time. “Aww,” she said, in the most condescending tone she could manage, “does the tiny one need a nap?” The woman stared, mouth falling open. “I can’t help being tiny and mighty!” she protested, feigning offense. “Some of us were built for agility, thank you!” Then her face broke into a delighted grin. “And here we are, the literal embodiment of divine wrath is making short jokes at me!”

“You started it,” Wrath said, and then— She shifted. In an instant, her divine form flickered and became a cat—sleek and black, with eyes that still burned with that familiar otherworldly fire. She sat on a nearby rock, locked eyes with the woman, and with one deliberate paw, slowly pushed a pebble off the edge. It clattered down. “Meow,” Wrath said flatly, her feline voice somehow managing to sound unimpressed. Then she shifted back, resuming her true form, looking extraordinarily pleased with herself. “That’s completely different!” the woman protested, still grinning. “I was being curious! You’re just being mean!” “Am I?” Wrath asked innocently. “I thought I was learning from the best.” They both laughed then, easier this time, comfortable, like old friends rather than deity and mortal.

“I meant,” Wrath said finally, recovering some composure, “that I can appear more human. Less obviously divine. But this is what I am. This is my true nature.” “Then why would you change it?” the woman said, her teasing fading into sincerity, straightforward as sunrise. “You’re magnificent.” Wrath did not know what to say to that. She had spent her entire existence being told she was wrong, that she was too much, that she needed to be contained. And here was this woman—this mortal woman who walked into danger like it was an adventure—calling her magnificent.

“Why do you keep coming back?” Wrath finally asked. The woman grinned. “Because you’re interesting,” she said. “And because I like you. Is that so strange?” Yes, Wrath thought. But her voice came out softer than she intended: “No one has ever liked me before.” The woman reached out—bold as always, no hesitation—and took her hand. Wrath’s form flickered at the touch, shadows swirling, but she held steady. “Well,” the woman said, squeezing firmly, “now someone does. Get used to it.”

Several weeks had passed since that first meeting by the waterfall. They had fallen into an easy rhythm—meeting each day, talking about everything and nothing, sharing silences that felt comfortable rather than awkward. One evening, as the sun began its descent, the woman arrived with that familiar determined look. “I want to tell you something,” she said, settling beside Wrath in their usual clearing. “Meow?” Wrath asked. The woman swatted her arm playfully. “No, smartass.” She took a breath, suddenly more serious. “I want to tell you my name.” Wrath blinked, surprised. “You’ve never offered it before. I assumed you had your reasons.” “I did. I do.” The woman pulled her knees to her chest. “Names have power, you know? Not divine power like yours, but… social power. Human power. When you know someone’s name, you start making assumptions. You hear stories about them, or think about what the name means, or remember someone else with that name. And all of that gets in the way of actually knowing them.”

She turned to look at Wrath directly. “I wanted you to know me first. Not my name, not my reputation in the village, not what people say about me. Just… me. The person who asks ridiculous questions and makes you laugh about cats.” Wrath felt that familiar warmth bloom in her chest. “That was very wise of you.” “I have my moments.” The woman grinned. “But I think you know me now. The real me. So I want you to have my name too. All of me.” She held out her hand, ceremonial somehow. Important. “I’m Lyriael Aurelienne,” she said simply. “And I’m very glad I found you.”

Wrath took her hand, holding it gently. “Lyriael Aurelienne,” she repeated, testing the name. It felt right somehow, like it fit perfectly with the person she had come to know. “I’m glad you found me too.” Lyriael’s smile was radiant. “Good. Now that we’ve got that settled—” she stood up, pulling Wrath to her feet, “—I have a new adventure for us.”

Wrath eyed her suspiciously. “You know the last time you started one of our ‘adventures,’ I had to convince a whole camp of bandits to change their ways, right? Actually… I think I have worshippers now.” Lyriael’s eyes went wide. “Oh you do???” “Yeah,” Wrath said dryly. “Fear does that.” “Well they deserved it!” Lyriael declared. Wrath laughed. “Ha! Yeah, they did. But they would have never found us if I weren’t babysitting a toddler.” Lyriael swatted her shoulder. “ADULT TODDLER, THANK YOU. Besides, you looked like you had fun, and the town doesn’t have to worry about that camp anymore. It’s a win-win!” Wrath sighed, but she was smiling. “Uh… huh… Anyways, what’s this adventure?” Lyriael’s eyes sparkled. “The best one yet.”

“Come on,” she said that night, tugging at Wrath’s hand. “I want to show you something.” She led her to a hillside clearing, far from the village lights, where the grass grew soft and the sky opened wide above them. “Lie down,” Lyriael instructed, already sprawling on her back, arms spread wide like she was trying to embrace the whole sky. Wrath hesitated. “You’ve never just… looked at the stars?” Lyriael asked, tilting her head to glance at her. “I know what stars are,” Wrath said, perhaps more defensive than she meant to be. “Knowing and seeing are different things,” Lyriael replied. “Come on. Humor me.” So Wrath lay down beside her, awkward at first, unsure what she was supposed to feel. The stars stretched overhead, countless points of light scattered across the darkness like someone had spilled diamonds across black velvet. “Isn’t it beautiful?” Lyriael breathed.

Wrath looked. Really looked. She had seen stars before, of course. Had watched them burn and die, had witnessed their birth in cosmic fire. She knew them as phenomena, as distant suns, as markers of time and space. But she had never just… looked at them. Not like this. Not lying beside someone who gazed at them with such wonder, such unguarded awe. “Each one is a sun,” Lyriael said softly. “Like ours, but impossibly far away. And each one probably has worlds circling around it. Worlds with mountains and oceans, maybe even people looking up at their own sky, wondering if anyone else is out there.” She laughed, quiet and amazed. “Isn’t that incredible? We’re so small, but we’re part of something so… so vast. So beautiful. And we cannot be the only ones, it would be a waste of space!”

Wrath turned her head to look at the woman—the starlight reflected in her eyes, the smile that curved her lips, the way wonder transformed her face into something radiant. “Yes,” Wrath said quietly. “Incredible.” But she wasn’t looking at the stars anymore. Lyriael must have sensed it because she turned too, catching Wrath’s gaze. For a moment, they just looked at each other. Then Lyriael reached out, taking Wrath’s hand again, threading their fingers together. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said simply. “I’m glad I get to share this with you.” Something in Wrath’s chest—something she didn’t know she had—twisted and ached and opened all at once. She squeezed the woman’s hand. “I’m glad too,” she whispered.

And as they lay there together, hands intertwined, the universe stretching infinite above them, Wrath understood for the first time what mortals meant when they said water was soothing. It wasn’t the water itself. It was the peace of sharing a moment with someone who saw beauty where you had only seen mechanics. It was the wonder of seeing the world, the universe, through eyes that found magic in the ordinary. It was this. This moment. This woman. This feeling of something settling in her chest like it had always belonged there.

“Look,” Lyriael said, pointing up at a streak of light cutting across the darkness. “A falling star. Make a wish.” “Gods don’t make wishes,” Wrath said, but there was no edge to it. “Then I’ll make one for both of us,” Lyriael replied. She closed her eyes, lips moving silently, and when she opened them again she was smiling that fearless smile. “What did you wish for?” Wrath asked. “Can’t tell you,” Lyriael said, “or it won’t come true.” She rolled onto her side, propping her head up on one hand, still holding Wrath’s hand with the other. “But I will tell you this,” she continued. “I wished for more nights like this. More moments where I get to see something beautiful and know that you’re seeing it too.”

Wrath’s form flickered—not with rage this time, but with something softer. Something she didn’t have a name for yet. “I would like that too,” she admitted. And the woman’s smile grew impossibly wider, bright enough to rival the stars above them. After that night, everything changed. Not in the way earthquakes change the land or storms change the sea. But in the quiet way that dawn changes darkness—inevitable, gentle, transforming everything it touches. Wrath found herself thinking about stars when she was alone. About the way the woman’s eyes reflected their light. About the feeling of her hand, warm and solid and real, anchoring her to something she had never known she needed. She found herself wanting to share more moments like that. More beauty. More wonder. More of whatever this was that made her chest feel too full and too empty all at once.

Lyriael still came every day, still asked her endless questions, still looked at her like she was the most fascinating thing in existence. But now there were moments between the questions—quiet moments where they would just sit together, watching the sun set or the rain fall or the stars wheel slowly overhead. And in those moments, Wrath began to understand what it meant to be seen. Not as divine fury. Not as something to be feared or contained. But as someone worth sitting beside. Someone worth sharing the universe with. Someone worth making wishes for.