"You're the only one who can hold her," Medusa says, voice low but urgent, standing before Gaia. "Don't let her go berserk."
Gaia exhales slowly, the sound deep and ancient. "I can't do anything—"
"Just once," Medusa cuts in sharply before Gaia can finish. The restraint she has carried for centuries cracks. "Just this once. I'm not asking you to tilt the balance of the world. I'm not asking you to choose sides."
Her hands tremble, fists clenched at her sides.
"I just want you to hold Aleysia," she says, raw now. "Hold her so she doesn't lose herself. So she doesn't tear through the human world in grief and rage. That's all. Just that."
Silence stretches between them, heavy as stone.
"And let you die foolishly?" Gaia asks at last, her voice cold, unmoved.
