Mark moved swiftly through the house, a frown creasing his brow as he thought about the latest complication—Melisandre, the fire-obsessed red priestess, trying to smuggle herself into Eden. Another day, another crisis. The hallways gleamed, grand chandeliers casting shimmering light across the polished floors, but all of that grandeur barely registered. Right now, his mind was on fire—literally. How much trouble could one flame-wielding zealot cause before he had to intervene?
As he entered one of the many cozy sitting rooms of the house, his eyes immediately landed on Clara. She was reclining elegantly in a plush armchair, completely at ease, with a book in hand and a tower of brightly colored macaroons precariously perched beside her. On her other side sat a glass of champagne that refilled itself every few minutes.
The book title caught his eye: How to Know If Your Son is a Homosexual. Mark stopped dead in his tracks and stared at her, incredulously.
"Are you serious, Mother?" he said, crossing his arms. "If you wanted to know whether or not I'm gay, you could've just asked me. I'm not, by the way. Kind of a waste of time reading that."
Clara peered over the top of the book, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "Oh, I'm not reading this because I'm unsure, darling. I know you're not gay." She giggled, turning a page. "It's just... this book is hilarious! Some of the 'warning signs' are ridiculous. Like, 'Does your son like soft fabrics? Is he too clean? Does he refuse to spit on the ground?' How absurd!"
Mark groaned, walking over and snatching a macaroon from the towering pile. "Mother, I'm serious. I'm not gay, and honestly, I thought we'd moved past this whole thing."
Clara gave a soft laugh, sipping her champagne. "Oh, relax, darling. I'm just teasing you. Besides, it's fun to poke around in the nonsense people used to believe. Now, this book's just comedy material."
Mark sighed, popping the macaroon into his mouth. "I've got more important things to deal with than your comedy readings. I've got to go take care of the fire hag."
"Oh, Melisandre, right?" Clara raised an eyebrow, swirling her glass with a delicate flick of her wrist. "She's always such a fiery character—pun intended."
"Funny," Mark deadpanned. "I'd laugh, but I'm too busy thinking about how to prevent her from burning down Eden. You know, in case she gets a little too happy with the fire magic."
Clara waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, you'll be fine. You're more than capable of handling a pyromaniac priestess. Just be your usual charming self, and maybe throw some water on her if things get too heated."
Mark rolled his eyes, turning toward the bookshelf on the far side of the room. "Sure. I'll just carry a bucket of water with me everywhere I go. That'll solve everything."
As Mark scanned the spines of the books, Clara's voice floated over to him, laced with curiosity. "What are you doing over there, anyway?"
"Something I should've done ages ago," Mark said, his fingers brushing over the book titles until he found the one he was looking for. With a quick tug, the entire shelf shifted, revealing a hidden lift built right into the wall.
Clara's eyes widened in surprise. "Since when do we have that? And where does it go?"
Mark smirked, stepping toward the lift. "This leads to a network of tunnels. They connect all the important parts of the estate and the city. You know, because I've had enough of being ambushed by people singing my praises every time I step outside. It was getting... exhausting."
Clara laughed, setting her book down. "Oh, darling, you should be flattered! The people love you. You've built them a paradise in the middle of a desert. Of course, they're going to be a little intense."
"A little intense?" Mark shot her a look, one eyebrow raised. "They practically throw rose petals at my feet and chant like I'm a deity. Last week, someone tried to name their child 'Mark Savior of the Sands.'"
Clara's laughter only deepened. "Oh, don't be so dramatic. Besides, what's wrong with a little appreciation? You could use more of it. If you went out among the people more often, maybe they'd stop seeing you as some godlike figure and more like a regular person."
Mark groaned, stepping into the lift. "Right. Because that'll work. I show up more, and suddenly they'll stop treating me like I can walk on water."
Clara shrugged, still smiling. "You never know. Maybe they'd stop trying to canonize you if they saw you dealing with the mundane things like everyone else."
Mark shook his head, sighing. "I'll think about it—after I deal with the fire hag. That's priority number one."
Before the lift doors closed, Clara called after him. "Just don't forget to smile! It's the key to winning people over. Even fire-happy priestesses."
Mark grunted in response as the lift descended into the hidden tunnels beneath the house. The temperature dropped as he went deeper underground, the sleek metal walls reflecting the soft lights embedded along the floor. He could still hear Clara's teasing echo in his head, and despite himself, he chuckled softly. She always had a way of poking fun at the most serious situations, and somehow, it worked.
The hidden tunnels were his sanctuary from the constant praise and adulation. He respected the people's gratitude, but it was exhausting being constantly worshipped. As the lift hummed to a stop, he considered Clara's words. Maybe she was right—maybe it was time to let the people see him more often. Not as their messiah, but as someone who was just trying to help.
The lift doors slid open, and Mark stepped into the cool corridor, ready to face Melisandre. As the fire hag awaited him, one thing was certain: no matter how many tunnels he built, there was no escaping Clara's teasing.