Nat 1 roll for lore nat 20???

John had never seen Jane look so small—shoulders hunched, fingers twisting the hem of her corset. The air smelled like ozone now, static lifting the hairs on his arms.

Jane’s mother tilted her head. "Interesting," she mused, plucking a floating pancake from midair before it could hit the floor. The syrupy spiral froze mid-drip. "Sub-par control. Predictable theatrics." She flicked it—*splat*—against Jane’s forehead. "But *creative* imposition of will. Your father would’ve just vaporized the house."

Emily squeaked.

Mrs. Henderson choked on her coffee. "*Vaporized—?!*"

"*Metaphorically.*" Jane’s mother waved a hand, and the stain on Jane’s brow vanished. "We’re *civilized* deities, Margaret. Now,"—she leaned forward—"whose idea was the *collaring*?"

John’s pulse stuttered. Jane’s knee knocked against his under the table.

Emily, ever the chaos gremlin, raised her hand. "*Technically* it was John’s sketchbook—"

Jane kicked her.

Mrs. Henderson pinched the bridge of her nose. "You’re telling me," she said slowly, "*my son* has been—what—*scripting elaborate BDSM scenarios* with celestial beings?"

Jane’s mother chuckled. "Oh, *please*. Half the pantheon started with worse." She snapped, and a scroll materialized above the fruit bowl, unfurling to reveal crude cave paintings of gods mid-orgy. "Exhibit A: Dionysus’ *freshman phase*."

John made a noise like a deflating balloon.

Jane grabbed the scroll and *incinerated it* with a glare. "Mom. *No.*"

Her mother sighed. "Fine. *Ground rules*: One—no rewriting reality near *mortals* without consent." She eyed Mrs. Henderson’s **** grip on the salt shaker. "*Two*—keep the *cosmic power plays* PG-13 outside your bedrooms."

Emily perked up. "*So inside bedrooms—?*"

John’s mother stood abruptly. "*I need wine.*"

Jane’s mother winked. "*Attagirl.*" Then, softer: "Jane? *Look at me.*"

Jane flinched but obeyed.

Her mother’s voice gentled. "You’re *growing into this*. But next time you want to play *dark prince*?" She flicked her daughter’s nose. "*Ask for help.*"

The room exhaled.

Emily mumbled, "*Can I keep the tail?*"

Mrs. Henderson poured herself a *very* large glass.

John, still shell-shocked, realized three things simultaneously: One—his sketchbook was *somehow* in Jane’s mother’s hands. Two—she was *flipping through it* with keen interest. Three—

"Ohhh," she cooed, stopping on a particularly detailed page. "*John.* You *do* have your father’s *imagination.*"

Jane’s scream was *primal*.

John barely registered the sound. His vision tunneled—every pulse in his temples hammering the same word: *father.* His mouth moved before his brain caught up. "*Died?*" he choked out, fingers digging into the tablecloth. "*Mom—what the hell does that mean?!*"

His mother’s wineglass hovered halfway to her lips. A drop of Merlot slid down the stem. "*Shit,*" she whispered.

Jane’s mother *tsk*ed. "*Margaret.* You *didn’t tell him?*" She flicked the sketchbook shut with a *thump*, constellations in her robe swirling faster. "*Classic mortal avoidance.*"

Emily’s claws unsheathed, shredding the upholstery. "*Uh,*" she squeaked, "*are we ignoring the* ***celestial paternity bomb?!***"

John’s mother set her glass down with *precision*. "*I*," she said icily, "*was* waiting *for his* high school graduation—*like we agreed.*" She glared at Jane’s mother. "*Which is* next month, *Eris .*"

Eris. *Eris .* John’s stomach dropped like a stone. "*As in* ***Greek Goddess of Chaos*** *Eris ?!*" His voice cracked. *Looks over at Jane* "God, that makes so much sense."

Eris smiled. Jane stuck her tongue out at John.

Jane slapped both hands over her mouth. "*Oh my GOD,*" she wheezed through her fingers, "*is this why you* ***hated*** *my mom?!*"

Mrs. Henderson’s eyelid twitched. "*She kept turning my cutlery into* ***serpents,*** *Jane.*"

Emily gasped. "*WAIT.*" She pointed at John, tail lashing. "*Does this mean* **you** *can do* ***god stuff too?!***"

Silence.

Eris grinned. "*Oh,* sweetheart," she crooned, reaching across the table to pinch John’s cheek. "*You didn’t* *think* your little *reality doodles* were just *coincidence*, did you?"

John’s brain short-circuited. His *sketchbook*. The *details*. The way Emily’s tail *always* curled just right when he drew it—

Mrs. Henderson stood so fast her chair *toppled*. "*ENOUGH.*" She gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white. "*Eris. Fix. This.*"

Eris sighed—long-suffering—and snapped her fingers.

The world *rippled*.

John’s vision swam. Something *unspooled* behind his ribs—a *weight* he hadn’t known was there *unfurling*, like ink in water. His mother’s mouth moved, but all he heard was *static*.

Then—**fire**.

Sudden. *Blinding.* It licked up his arms in gossamer threads, *hungry* but *harmless*. Emily *shrieked*, scrambling backward. Jane *lunged*—but the flames coiled *playfully* around her wrist instead of burning.

Eris clapped. "*There we go!*" she chirped. "*Just a* ***tiny*** *paternal inheritance.* Mostly *aesthetic,* really—"

John looked down. His skin *glowed*, embers swirling beneath the surface like trapped fireflies.

His mother *swore*.

Jane *giggled*—hysterical. "*Congrats,*" she wheezed, "*you’re* ***literally*** *hot now.*"

Emily fainted.

She *would* have stayed **** too—if not for the sudden, searing heat flaring along her spine. Her tail ignited like a firework, orange-gold flames licking up the fur in a crackling rush. The smell of burnt fur filled the air as she *jolted* upright with a yowl, batting wildly at the blaze. "*MRROW—WHAT THE FUCK?!*"

Jane’s mother sighed and flicked her wrist. The flames winked out instantly, leaving Emily’s tail—still intact—smoking faintly. "Teenage gods and their familiars," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "*Always* so dramatic."

John’s head snapped up. "*Familiars*?" His voice cracked. "Wait—*what*? Emily’s *human*!"

*Eris*—smirked, stirring her coffee with a claw-tipped finger. "Not anymore. Thanks to *you two* meddling." She took a sip, humming approvingly. "Though I’ll admit, you did a *surprisingly* polished job on her." Her gaze flicked to John, amused. "Wouldn’t be shocked if your father *steered* things a bit."

Emily, still panting, clutched her singed tail like a lifeline. "*Excuse me*," she squeaked, "but *what the actual hell* does that mean?!"

John felt the fire under his skin *pulse* in response to her panic—embers flaring along his fingertips. Jane grabbed his wrist before he could accidentally torch the tablecloth. "*Cool* the godly angst, Sparky," she hissed. "Mom’s *actually* being helpful for once."

Eris ignored them, leaning toward John’s mother with a conspiratorial whisper. "*Told you* he’d take after his father."

Mrs. Henderson groaned, rubbing her temples. "*Fantastic.* So now my son’s *a demi god*, his *girlfriend*"—she gestured wildly at Jane—"is *literally* divine, and his *other* girlfriend"—a sharp nod at Emily—"is some kind of *magic cat hybrid*?!"

Emily blinked. "*Girlfriends?*"

Jane choked. "*Mom?!*"

John’s flames *whooshed* higher, his ears burning brighter than the embers. "*MOM!*"

Eris cackled, snapping her fingers—and a neon sign materialized above the kitchen table, flashing **"IT’S COMPLICATED ♡"** in hot pink.

Emily, ever the opportunist, batted her eyelashes at John. "*Sooo… does this mean I get fireproof fur now?*"

Jane groaned. "*We’re doomed.*"

John buried his face in his hands—just as the doorbell rang.

Everyone froze.

Eris grinned. "*Oh good.* Your *aunt*’s here."