Chapter 6: The Man in the Trenchcoat

“A long time ago, in a lifetime far, far away”

Her private realm was never still.

Books drifted through the air like lazy planets, orbiting half-built machines of glass and brass that ticked and whirred without any consensus on what exactly they were building. Cauldrons bubbled with colors not found in mortal rainbows, each brew occasionally sighing as though disappointed in its own taste. A teapot hopped across the floor, shrieking at a broom it claimed had insulted its handle. In the far corner, a wardrobe opened and closed by itself, exhaling storms whenever its doors creaked — sometimes hail, sometimes cicadas, once a flock of startled pigeons.

And at the center of it all, sprawled across a velvet divan with a slice of strawberry cheesecake in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, lounged Sera.

Her hair shimmered like candlelight that couldn’t decide on a color. Her robe was a scandalous compromise between goddess and eccentric professor, pockets stuffed with feathers, scrolls, and at least one squeaking frog. She hummed as she worked, weaving threads of magic in the air.

The threads knotted into absurd shapes: a dragon with spectacles perched on its nose, a star with far too many arms, and a caricature of Zeus tripping over his own thunderbolt.

Sera clapped once, sending the illusions scattering into stardust. She laughed with theatrical delight, then announced to no one in particular

“Ah, existence! What a dreary little play you would be without me stomping about on the stage. I do wonder how the mortals survive boredom without me as their headliner.”

The teapot rattled indignantly.“They get by with… inferior beverages.”

Sera gasps “Sacrilege. Life without decent coffee is not survival — it's a prolonged tragedy.”

The wardrobe groaned open, coughing up a thundercloud that spat three bolts of lightning before slamming shut again.

“Dull, dull, dull. They drown in prayers and taxes. You could visit them, you know.”

Sera rolled her eyes and stabbed her fork into the cheesecake like a general claiming territory.

“Visit? And let them cage me in their little dramas? No, no, no. Mortals cling to their myths of order, while I… I am the encore they are never ready for.”

She licked the fork clean with exaggerated relish, then leaned back. “Still, I do miss the applause.”

A book swooped too close, and she swatted it aside like a mosquito.

“You there, Book! Quote me something flattering.”

The book flipped its pages anxiously. “Um… ‘She was the most luminous disaster ever to sip coffee.’”

Sera beams “Perfect! Put that on a banner. Embroider it in lightning if you must.”

The teapot harrumphed in agreement, though whether at the banner or at having its earlier insult ignored was unclear.

Sera sipped her coffee with a grin that could have outshone constellations.

“The cosmos may spin, the gods may blunder, the mortals may mourn. But here, in my little theater… the real show begins.”

And with that, she snapped her fingers, and every machine, book, cauldron, and enchanted utensil froze mid-motion, waiting breathlessly for her next line.

But even her laughter did not quite fill the silence.

When the lights dimmed and the experiments quieted, Sera felt the echo of emptiness creep in. She had gods to mock, mortals to meddle with, universes to toy in — yet here, in her private stage, there was only her voice, her laughter, her shadows.

It was on such a night that the rift cracked open.

A ripple tore through her realm, sharp and jagged, spilling light like torn fabric. The floating books scattered like startled birds, the cauldrons hissed and boiled over, and even the quarrelsome teapot squealed and hid behind a broom.

Sera sat up, her fork halfway to her lips.

 “Now that… is not in the script.”

From the rift tumbled a man, crashing onto her marble floor with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.

He wore a long trenchcoat, soaked as though he had wandered through storms. His hair clung damp to his brow, and his chest rose and fell with shallow, ragged breath.

Sera blinked once. Then her grin bloomed, sharp and delighted. “Well, well. A mortal washed up in my parlor? And I thought I had already collected all the strays.”

She hopped from her seat, cheesecake abandoned, and knelt beside him. Two fingers pressed lightly against his temple — she felt the faint flutter of a pulse, weak but stubborn. He stirred faintly, his lips parting as though to form words, but no sound came.

“No name, no memory, no manners. A riddle wrapped in a coat. How very… theatrical.”

She snapped her fingers. The room obeyed. Candles flared, drying his clothes with gentle heat. The marble floor shifted into a nest of silk cushions. A pot of coffee floated across the room, pouring itself into a steaming cup.

The man’s eyelids fluttered. His gaze met hers, unsteady but sharp, and the first thing he saw were her eyes — one red, one violet, gleaming with mischief.

Sera speaks softly like silk wrapped around steel. “Hello, stranger. You’ve wandered into my little corner of eternity. How rude of you not to bring cheesecake.”

He tried to speak, but his throat caught. A whisper rasped out — broken, uncertain:Stranger: “…Where…am I?”

“Where? Everywhere and nowhere, darling. My realm, my theater, my—” she spreads her arms dramatically. “—lonely box seat above existence.”

He frowned faintly, eyes flickering with confusion.

“No name?” she tilts her head, studying him. “How dull. Very well, I shall give you one. Names are costumes, after all. And I do so enjoy casting my actors.”

She tapped her chin thoughtfully, pacing in a circle around him like a director considering a stage prop.

“Marcus? No, too pompous. Orion? Overdone. Hamlet? Tragic waste. Hm.”

She snapped her fingers.

 “Arth. Yes. Simple. Strong. Mysterious. And most importantly, mine to define. Congratulations, dear boy — you are now Arth.”

The newly christened Arth groaned softly, struggling to sit up. His voice finally scraped through.

“…Arth…?”

Sera’s smile widened, wicked and gleeful.“Oh, darling, you’ve skipped half the act. That’s the question for me to answer. You’re the surprise guest star, and surprises are not supposed to spoil their own entrance.”

The teapot peeked out from behind the broom. “He doesn’t look very entertaining.”

Sera snapping at the teapot “Hush, kettle. Every mystery is entertaining if you season it right.”

She crouched again, eye to eye with Arth.“Now then… What storms spat you out at my feet? And more importantly… What role are you meant to play in my story?”

Arth met her gaze — weary, bewildered, but with a flicker of something in his emerald eyes that was neither submission nor fear. It was stubborn, smoldering, as if he carried a weight even he could not name.

Sera’s grin softened into curiosity. For the first time in centuries, she felt it — the tingle of something unscripted, a note she hadn’t written into her endless play.

Sera said whispering to herself, “Oh, how delicious.”

The candles shivered, the rift pulsed once more, and the stage of her solitude gained its first audience in an age.

Days bled into weeks.

Arth stayed, though he spoke little. He fetched ingredients across realms when she demanded them — phoenix feathers stolen from the last flames of dying suns, frost bottled from the first dawn of a newborn world, honey scraped from bees that hummed around the edge of black holes. He obeyed without question, his expression blank but steady.

Sera found it endlessly entertaining. She teased him like a cat with a mouse, circling as he carried armfuls of impossible artifacts.

“You walk like a man haunted by secrets. Perhaps you’re a fallen god… or a dream that escaped… or maybe”—she tapped his forehead—“my imagination grew so bored it conjured you as my butler.”

Arth never answered. He only worked, silent and dutiful.

Still, she treated him less like a servant and more like a puzzle. Sometimes she gave him “lessons”: forcing him to identify rare herbs by taste (he nearly poisoned himself twice), making him hold her spellwork steady while she juggled it into the shape of kittens, or strapping him into a brass contraption with far too many gears just to see “how mortals conduct electricity.”

Whenever he complained with a glare or a grunt, she only laughed, kissed his forehead mockingly, and rewarded him with coffee or a slice of strawberry cheesecake.

For all her chaos, her fondness grew. His presence filled the silence she had once despised. He was an anchor she hadn’t expected — silent, yes, but grounding. Even when she teased, even when she experimented on him, some small part of her was soothed simply knowing he was there.

And Arth, in turn, began to linger. He would watch her as she hummed over her cauldrons, squealed over anything “cute” she conjured (tiny rabbits made of starlight, or spoons that giggled when stirred), or argued with her teapot as if it were her equal. He did not smile, but his eyes stayed on her longer than necessary, as if memorizing the colors of her chaos.

Then, one day, something broke the silence.

As he set a book upon her desk, Arth paused. His hand lingered on the cover, his brow furrowing. Slowly, as though dredging the words from deep within himself, he spoke.

“…Why… Do I exist?”

The room froze.

The teapot stopped mid-hop. The candles flickered low. Even the books in orbit slowed, pages fluttering like breath held in anticipation.

Sera turned toward him. Her grin faltered — just for a heartbeat. His voice carried the weight of her own oldest wound, the question that had once driven her from harmony into discord.

She could have mocked him. She could have laughed, teased, or drowned the moment in absurdity. That was the role she had chosen long ago.

Instead, she softened. Her chaos quieted. She leaned forward, eyes warm beneath the mischief, voice low as a secret:Sera: “At last… you are starting to ask the right questions.”

She did not answer him. Not yet. Some truths must be sought, not given. But she reached across the desk, resting a hand lightly on his. And for the first time in an eternity, she felt… not alone.

From that moment, Arth was no longer just her assistant, her errand boy, her subject of experiments. He had become her student. She lectured him in riddles, trained him with tricks, set him impossible tasks simply to see if he would find a way through. Sometimes she rewarded him with knowledge, sometimes with cheesecake, sometimes with a flick to the forehead that sparked like a thunderbolt.

And though she played the fool and the tyrant both, beneath it all, Sera taught. Chaos was her language, but teaching was her heartbeat.

In Arth’s silent endurance, in his stubborn questions, she rediscovered herself — not only Discord, not only Mischief, not only the Celestial Witch.

But once again… a teacher.

And Arth, nameless wanderer reborn, was her first true student.

Chapter 6: The Man in the Trenchcoat End