The gentle glow of morning filtered through silken curtains, casting a muted winter light across the shared guest room where Hestia lay. Her arms were wrapped loosely around a soft, warm figure nestled against her chest, the covers rustling faintly with every rise and fall of Hel's breathing.
Hestia didn't move at first. She simply breathed, content in the silence, absorbing the delicate moment. She looked down at Hel—the death goddess, the frozen sovereign of Helheim—and couldn't help but marvel at the stillness in her face. There was no tension. No mask. No shadows pulling at the edges of her eyes. Just deep, dreamless slumber.
