Gaia's Champion Ch. 59 - Teaser (Patreon)

The afternoon air was heavy with the mingled scents of exhaust, perfume, and roasted coffee beans. Carman sat quietly at a small café table outside a narrow corner shop whose chipped sign read La Pomme Véritable. The name amused her, as it was a pretentious title for a humble place, but she stayed for the pie. The apples were cooked and simmered properly, not drenched in artificial syrup, and the crust was flaky in a way only mortal patience could achieve.

She lifted a forkful to her lips, savoring it slowly as she watched the street. Humanity moved around her in an endless rush: mothers pulling children along, businessmen pacing furiously into their phones, delivery bikes whizzing past like swarming beetles. The chaos of the modern world had its own rhythm, a heartbeat of industry and ambition.

‘So much noise,’ she thought. ‘So little purpose.’

Yet beneath the chaos, there was something comfortingly familiar. In every age she had walked among mortals, they had scurried the same way—trading gold for bread, bread for survival, and survival for status. In ancient Greece, she had seen them in flowing robes and sandals, gossiping in marble forums about gods and glory.

Among the northern tribes, they had bartered hides and meat beside smoky fires, measuring power by strength of arm and courage in battle. Now, they bartered attention and validation on glowing screens, selling their souls for the illusion of connection. Carman smiled faintly at the thought, swirling her still hot coffee.

“Empires change,” she murmured to herself, her accent soft and lilting with echoes of forgotten tongues. “But human vanity endures.”

The café was nearly empty at this hour, save for a pair of students arguing about art and an older man reading a newspaper he clearly didn’t care about. She could feel their emotions brushing against her consciousness like ripples on still water. Carman sensed boredom, ambition, yearning, and regret… all of them small, mortal things. She didn’t need to reach far to stir them if she wished. A nudge here, a whisper there, and she could turn a life upside down before finishing her coffee.

But today, she didn’t, as today was for silence.

She leaned back in her chair, feeling the city’s pulse flow through her—the hum of electricity, the distant thrum of engines, and the faint static of millions of unspoken thoughts. Her magic simmered quietly beneath her skin, the faint scent of ozone and nightshade following her wherever she went, though no one noticed. She had cloaked herself well, blending seamlessly into the mortal throng.

In the centuries since her first death, the world had rewritten itself dozens of times. She had read about how kingdoms rose and crumbled, how gods faded into myth, and how knowledge was twisted into dogma. Yet here she was again, sipping coffee in a world that called itself enlightened, still chasing the same vices under brighter lights. Humanity’s resilience, arrogance and refusal to learn still fascinated her.

Across the street, a woman in a sharp gray suit barked orders at a trembling assistant who could barely keep up with her notes. The scene made Carman laugh under her breath as she took it in, eating another slice of her pie.

“How familiar,” she mused, eyes glinting. “A queen and her servant, dressed in different skins.”

Her amusement dimmed as she gazed upward at the skyline. Steel towers reached for the heavens like the temples of old, but they were not monuments to gods, only to ego. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Once, humans had built altars to beings like her; now they built them to themselves. And yet, they still prayed… though now they called it manifesting.

A breeze rolled down the street, carrying the scent of rain and cinnamon. Carman closed her eyes and breathed deeply, savoring the sensory overload of mortal life. It was so alive, loud, messy, and fleeting. She had missed it more than she cared to admit and that was saying something.

She had no attendants today and no apprentices shadowing her steps, as they weren’t needed. Her name still carried weight in certain dark circles, but few living witches or warlocks had ever seen her true face. Those who had were either dead and buried or long gone. Like the coven that called itself The Sons of Anubis, which had vanished weeks ago, along with their leader, Ismail.

‘Good,’ Carman thought as she smiled to herself. ‘They know who this city belongs to now.’

She took another bite of pie, letting the sweetness linger on her tongue. This quiet afternoon, this tiny slice of human normalcy, was a luxury she rarely allowed herself. No schemes, summoning circles, or blood pacts were to be made today. She was just enjoying the sunlight, the sweet pastry, and watching a world that thought itself beyond her influence.