The golden wind continued to slowly drift across the green fields around the small white table, making the grass ripple like a silent ocean under the warm light of that impossible sun. The luminous petals still floated lazily through the air, while the soft scent of freshly served tea mingled with the natural perfume of the flowers scattered across the plain. After the last shared laugh about Samael drawing crowns on fish, the atmosphere sank into a comfortable silence, the kind that doesn't demand immediate filling.
Vergil remained leaning back in his chair, observing the distant horizon with slightly narrowed eyes. Although the conversation had taken on a surprisingly light tone at times, the worry within him remained intact. Lucy was still a mystery. Perhaps now an even greater mystery than before.
Because, until a few hours ago, he only suspected there was something unusual about her.
Now he knew that even Metatron couldn't properly classify her.
And worse.
