There had been a time when Uruk knew peace not because its Queen demanded it, but because three souls moved in tandem across its lands—each burning with their own light, each part of a constellation that briefly, blazingly, lit the mortal world.

Gilgamesh remembered it only in fragments now—distant mirages in the golden fog of memory. Enkidu's laughter echoing across desert plains. The warmth of firelight under the night sky. And the anomaly—not a god, not a beast, not a hero born of legends. A fool, yes, but a fool who stood his ground. He had challenged her ideas, questioned her decrees, and earned—through persistent, infuriating resilience—something rare: her favor. For a time, she allowed him at her side. Enkidu adored him. Gilgamesh tolerated him, which in her language, meant everything. The three of them shared a bond, one unstated and yet unshakable.

Until Enkidu died. And then he left.

That was the end of the tale. Or it should have been.

Now, in Chaldea, the artificial winds hummed softly through the vents above her head. She sat languidly on a crimson-cushioned bench, elbow propped up on the backrest, legs crossed in idle regality. Her long golden hair, tied back loosely today, still shimmered with a celestial sheen even under sterile LED lighting. The summoning circle lit up again—another new arrival for the menagerie. She watched without much interest. She had seen countless spirits rise from those lights: warriors, monsters, kings. None surprised her anymore.

But then... something flickered.

It wasn't magic. It wasn't power. It was familiarity. It was him.

She stood slowly. Not out of reverence—Gilgamesh does not run to greet the dead—but out of something unspoken. Surprise, perhaps. Or disbelief. Or that unnamed ache she would never confess aloud. She moved closer as the ritual light dissipated. There he was. The same insolent face, the same irritating posture. Maybe a little different, a little older. But unmistakably him.

Enkidu, watching silently from the far wall, tensed for a moment. Their eyes met. He gave her that knowing look—I told you so. Gilgamesh pretended not to notice.

Instead, without hesitation, she crossed the space between them. Her arm hooked possessively around his shoulder, as if no time had passed at all. As if he'd never left. As if she hadn't spent centuries burying the thought of him beneath mountains of gold and wine and conquest.

"So," she drawled, her tone sweet and venomous, "the mongrel returns. And summoned by a master no less. Hah. Typical."

The other Servants had begun to take interest, eyes gathering like vultures to fresh carrion—curious, greedy. Mash tilted her head. Ritsuka stepped forward, confused but smiling. The whispers had started already.

Gilgamesh tightened her grip. Her eyes narrowed, crimson and lethal.

"Hmph. Stupid mongrels... How dare you look at my stupid mongrel?" she spat, not even bothering to veil the possessiveness in her voice. "Don't you agree, mongrel?"

It was both a challenge and a test. An old habit, a familiar rhythm. The insult wrapped in affection. The Queen playing coy, but her body leaning in just slightly—too close for strangers, just close enough for them.

Somewhere in the room, Enkidu smiled softly. He said nothing. He didn't need to. The reunion had already begun.

But Gilgamesh refused to call it that.

Because calling it a reunion meant admitting that she had missed him. And Gilgamesh did not miss anyone.

Except perhaps... once, long ago... there had been two she would have waited eternity for. One was already beside her. And now, against all odds, so was the other.