#blaze dark oracle

[homeforall]

Thinking about them again 😔

[burn-this-bloggo]

Y'all fans of Reverse Falls? Wait until you learn about 2004's Dark Oracle

[yinyuedijun]

When the Cult of Nikador conquers your city and sacks your temple, you are captured by the Crown Prince of Kremnos and taken as his war prize. (Or: The fall of Castrum Kremnos, as seen through the eyes of an oracle held captive by Prince Mydeimos.) ← part one | masterlist

11.6k words of romance, enemies to lovers, and slow burn. Canon-adjacent (multiple timelines theory) with ancient Greek historical and mythological influences. Warnings for themes of war, slavery, and sexual violence (none from Mydei, none inflicted on the reader). MDNI. dividers by @/strangergraphics.

Castrum Kremnos will fall.

Gazing upon the polis from the balcony of your room, you are sure of it: this is the town that you had seen in your vision, the one that had been succumbing to a sea of darkness and flood of monsters. The sky had been pitch-black—both moons gone, every constellation shattered—and the only light had been from the blaze of the fire tearing through the streets. The roars of mad Titankin and dying men had echoed into that strange night, the savage city howling in its death throes.

Castrum Kremnos will fall. The Black Tide will swallow it, and you will have your revenge. Oronyx would never lie to you, so you understand this for a fact. And because she would never lie to you, you also know this:

Prince Mydeimos will save you as his city falls.

You do not know what to make of it. The warrior who led an army into raping and plundering Aurelia will protect its High Priestess. The general of a warmongering tribe will take your hand and flee from battle. The lost prince who longed nine years for his home will abandon it to save you.

And the heir to a millennia of Strife cannot stand the sight of your blood—not even from a shallow cut across your palm.

You wonder if you have somehow misinterpreted Oronyx. But when you glance at Prince Mydeimos and catch him studying you with concern, you cannot help but believe that your understanding of your visions is truthful, at least in part. Even that of the one that bothers you the most—the one with all the children.

“Do you like dromases?” you ask him, and he blinks. You'd just been speaking of the Black Tide—its encroachment from all directions, Kremnos’ millennia of struggle against it, the good fortune that Aurelia had in avoiding it—so you suppose it is fair that he's surprised by the question.

“Dromases?” he inquires.

“Yes. You know—the long-necked purple creatures? They’re rather big. Hard to miss.”

He tries—and fails—to suppress an irritated sigh. “I know what a dromas is. I simply wondered if I'd misheard. Why on earth would you ask?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” he replies, cataloguing you. “You have never asked about my personal interests before.”

Ever since Oronyx blessed you with prophecies several nights ago, your captor has been frustratingly suspicious of all questions you've asked—and with good reason. Nearly every single one has been related to your supposed future with Prince Mydeimos. However, you would rather die than tell him that you will, at some point in the future, blissfully feed a dromas together before a crowd of giggling children. Worse than the scene itself had been the unadulterated joy you’d felt in it: the genuine delight in seeing Mydei—not your captor, not Prince Mydeimos, but Mydei—so free of sorrow and so… safe.

Safe. You will be safe with Mydei in a beautiful city of eternal sun and cerulean baths. You will be safe with the Crown Prince who sacked your temple and burned your lands. You are safe with your captor who keeps you locked in his room, dressed in chains.

It sends you into such misery that you can hardly think of it, let alone admit to it.

“Nevermind,” you dismiss. “It isn't important.”

The Crown Prince gives you a long look, but you turn your gaze back to the city before he can search you too carefully. The silence that passes is so uncomfortable that you pray he will let the matter drop—but then he replies, “I have always found them curious animals, but I have not had much opportunity to interact with them.”

“Oh.”

You catch him watching you, expectant. “And yourself?” he prompts. At your blank look, he adds, “Do you like them?”

Does it matter? you nearly parrot, before you realise he must think you care about his opinions about dromases, and now he cares about yours. The Crown Prince of Kremnos wishes to know your thoughts about the silliest of all of Georios’ creations, and you can't decide whether to laugh or cry at this absurdity.

You choose to deflect, in the end: “They’re quite useful for trade, yet I hardly ever see them here.” You gesture at the streets, which are filled with soldiers and horses, but bereft of the great beasts that populate the rest of Amphoreus. “I was wondering if Kremnoans had something against them.”

“Not against them, precisely. It is just that they are not often used in war—their disposition is too docile. And the terrain surrounding Kremnos is often too hostile for trade caravans to cross.”

You frown. “Too hostile? How do you get food?” You glance at the plate in front of you, filled with honeyed sweets. “The ingredients that you use when you cook—they’re always fresh.”

“Helots till the land outside Castrum Kremnos in our settlements. Everything else comes from surrounding city-states.”

Prince Mydeimos looks away. So do you. The implication is clear: Everything else we steal. Everything else is plunder. Because the city runs on war, and you know this. You know this because you are no different from fresh food or fine wine. You are plunder just like the brown-sugared apples in your cakes and the warm spice of cinnamon in your dishes, and you will be devoured in the same way—sacrificed to Nikador by the future King of Kremnos.

Aquila’s eyes bear down on Prince Mydeimos in judgment, and your chains gleam in the harsh Kremnoan sun. Some time in the future, a strange, eternal dawn lights up Mydei’s gentle expression, your barren wrists. You can still hear your own laughter at the sight of him feeding a dromas. You can still hear yourself giggling as you are lifted onto one for the first time, a toddler squealing in the arms of her mother.

The truth is that you are painfully fond dromases. They were everywhere in Aurelia, and you loved riding them in the days before you were initiated into the Cult of Oronyx, before you became untouchable in her temple. The truth is that some day in the future, you’ll be elated seeing Mydei with one of those beasts, and you'll have the idea of getting him to take the Kremnoan children on rides—just like how you once were.

You take a bite of your pastry, its syrup cloying on your tongue, and you feel like a traitor.

One night, during the Hour of Curtain-Fall, you wake up with a knife to your throat and a hand over your mouth.

You do not recognize the intruder. He is clad in black, a shadow in the moonlight spilling in through the window. “Come easy and I won't have to hurt you,” he says lowly, and that's when you know that he doesn't mean to kill you, but it doesn't stop you from fighting anyway.

The intruder does not expect you to wield a knife.

The motion comes easily to you after all your practice with the golden dagger—obsessive, fervored, a nightly ritual after your dreams of being raped, of being torn apart by golden gauntlets—and blade runs into the flesh of the man before you, cutting without resistance. But your aim is clumsy, untrained; while the intruder curses and recoils, he is neither killed nor deterred. His hands crush your wrists, pinning you to the bed.

“Fucking whore,” he spits as you kick and squirm beneath him, his blood dripping onto your sleeping garb. “You think I won't kill you if you're more trouble than you're worth?”

It's happening again. Aurelia is burning again. Your ivory chiton is being stained red; your body is being grabbed by violating, pilfering hands. You are going to be dragged away and stolen. You are going to be raped, for that's what happens to women who fall into the hands of the enemy—the hands of Castrum Kremnos. And unlike the first time, you are all alone—no worshippers at your back, no altar giving you strength, no Crown Prince to protect you.

Here, all alone in the hands of a beast, you scream the first thing that comes to mind:

“Mydei! Mydei—help!”

You don't actually expect help to come. You aren't even fully aware of what you're saying, if it even makes sense. But after several moments of shrieking and struggling, the door is forced open and the intruder is being pulled off your body and skewered on a blade. You hardly notice it, though, heart seizing with fear and mind flooding with panic. All you do is weep, feeling the hands that dragged you from your altar, recalling the dreams—visions?—of someone forcing their way inside you, and it takes you several moments to realise you are sobbing into someone's chest.

Someone is holding you. Someone’s arms are cradling you, and they're so warm and firm and safe. You have not felt safe in months, not since the soldiers broke through your temple doors, and now you're pressing yourself into this warmth, clinging to it. You think you'll die if you let go.

“It's alright,” someone says. Their voice is a low rumble, but gentle. “It’s alright. I have you. I have you.”

You are too busy sobbing to reply. A hand rubs your back until you have calmed, your senses returning to you. You look up when you do—

And you panic.

The golden eyes that glared down so hatefully at you when you were stolen, the figure of Strife that will kill you someday—they’re inches away from you. So close. Too close. You flinch, tearing yourself out of the hands that sometime, somewhere in the Evernight Veil, are forcing open your legs.

Even in your fear, you can see the pain in Prince Mydeimos’ eyes when you look at him with such terror.

“It's alright,” he tries to calm you. “I won't hurt you. No one will hurt you. I—”

“I know.” You close your eyes, count to ten as you shudder. I'm not in the temple. I'm not in the tent. I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I was raised not to weep. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. “I know you won’t. I’m well now. I'm fine. I'm sorry.”

“There's no need to be sorry.”

Except there is. You are sorry for how weak you are. For how desperately you clung to your captor in your moment of disgrace. For how warm you felt, how safe you felt. If you could apologise to all the corpses on your temple steps, you would. You would place their bones upon your altar and prostrate yourself, and then you would beg Talanton to punish you for your injustice toward them.

How did you feel safe in the arms of a man who killed your worshippers?

“Why did you come?” you ask. Your voice is tight, your anguish barely contained. Why aren't you hurting me? Why are you protecting me? Why are you going to save me as your city falls? But you know the answer, know it before he even says it—

“I told you I do not wish to see you harmed. Not even by a hair.” His voice, calm and deep, is so comforting, like the warm spice of cinnamon. You look down, feeling like a traitor.

“But I thought you stayed at the barracks at night,” you say, desperate to change the subject.

“Normally I do. But King Eurypon called me on business here, and he bid that I stay the night.” His voice grows irritated. “How convenient it is that the guards disappeared and an assassin entered my room on the same evening.”

Even through the fear, your mind works through the implications. “You think he came for you?”

“I know it.”

Your brow pinches. “But he told me to come with him. He—he wanted to abduct me.” You stare at Prince Mydeimos, at the way his mouth tightens, at the immediate outrage burning in his eyes, and then you understand. “…they wanted to take me as a hostage.”

He nods. “I may not have been here, but you would have made for a fine consolation prize.”

It is a ludicrous statement—so naïve that it shakes you out of your fear. An Aurelian general once came to you for counsel on what to do about his most beautiful courtesan, who had been stolen from him by an Aidonian warrior. When you foretold her eventual location, he marched upon the enemy and sealed her fate as a casualty.

“I don't know about that,” you say, thinking of the poor girl, of her mother weeping in your temple. “Whores and slaves generally make for poor hostages. They are too disposable to provide any political leverage.”

“Men have been known to act unwisely for their favoured concubines.”

“I am not your favoured concubine.”

He gives you a wry look. “You are not, yet I act unwisely over you anyway.”

You can hardly argue with this. Prince Mydeimos should have killed you the moment you alluded to his plans of regicide—instead, he has kept you in his room, pampers you with sweets, and has you accompany him on long walks. It’s maddening.

“You should start being crueler to me,” you grouse. “Maybe then I will be left alone by your enemies.” And it would be better for my own sanity.

Prince Mydeimos is unamused. “Even if I had any inclination to hurt you, I doubt it will make things any safer for you at this point.” He stares at the corpse with irritation. “I will need to come back after dealing with this body.”

You blink. “Come back? You won't return to the barracks?”

“No. I would not leave you alone after an attempt to abduct you. I will return and stay here for the night.”

The look that you give him is so affronted that he immediately realises his error.

“Only to safeguard you,” he explains hurriedly. “I would sleep at the door. Leave you alone.”

“I do not think you should stay.”

“I would not hurt you—I swear it.”

“I cannot swear that I would not hurt you.”

“That’s fine. Do whatever you want. You may even kill me as you so often wish—as long as you are kept safe, I don’t mind it.”

You look away, utterly lost. Killing him used to be your fantasy, your only purpose for staying alive. Now, the words make you feel hollow. “You only don't mind it because you won't really die,” you accuse. Deflect.

“Strictly speaking, I would. It’ll just be impermanent. I'm sure it will be no less satisfying for you, though—you will still get to see me suffer in my death throes.”

You do like the idea of him suffering. He would deserve it. Still, you are not a sadist. “If you truly decide to stay,” you reply noncommittally, “we may see for ourselves.”

“I'm certain we will,” he says dryly. He rises from the bed, steps toward the coprse. Says he’ll give you time to change—you only remember then that your nightwear is stained with blood—and that he will return soon enough.

But then he pauses. Hesitates.

“Is something wrong?” you ask.

“When you were calling for help,” he says slowly, “you screamed for someone named ‘Mydei’. Did you misspeak in an attempt to call for me? Or were you calling for someone else?”

You freeze. Scramble for an answer. You cannot tell him that you were calling for him—for you weren't, not really. You were calling out for the version of him that Oronyx showed you, the one in that beautiful city where you were both free and safe. Some part of you knows that Mydei would have saved you, knows it so surely that his name was the first and only thing you could think to scream. But assuming the same of Prince Mydeimos would make you an idiot: for all of his good behaviour, the man still has you in shackles, and he has never shown remorse for raining destruction upon your home.

Also, your ego would not be able to take admitting it was him.

“Someone else,” you reply firmly. At his skeptical look, you add, “Truly. Do you think I would call for the man who abducted me?” You give him an disdainful look, and although you can't seem to muster any fire behind it, he believes it all the same.

The suspicion leaves his eyes, and he nods. “This Mydei,” he asks, “is he someone close to you?”

“Close enough.”

“Who is he? A guard? A friend? A lover?”

Wouldn't I like to know. The possibilities make you feel like throwing up, and the pain in your voice is genuine when you reply, “I don’t wish to say. It doesn't matter.”

“I see.” His expression looks strange—an artefact of the moonlight, you want to think. “Well, whoever he is, he isn't here with you. Next time, you should just call for me.”

For the next three nights, Prince Mydeimos sleeps in your room.

He does as promised: he slumbers on the klinai near the door, never approaching your bed. You know this for a fact, for you stay awake the whole night. You stare at the ceiling, clutching your dagger until Aquila opens his eyes and Prince Mydeimos leaves for the day. It is only then you allow yourself to sleep, because even though you can now admit—with a great deal of misery—that the Crown Prince has no desire to hurt you, Aurelia is still burning behind you, and your heart is still rupturing in Nikador’s claws. But somehow, even with all of these memories and visions, you do not think of actually using your blade against the Crown Prince.

Then the fourth day comes.

Prince Mydeimos takes you out for a walk along a new path. It is busier than your usual ones on the rooftops and parapets, which are bereft of anyone other than the occasional warriors. On this long walk through one of the palace courtyards, there are not only guards and soldiers, but also statesmen and nobles—and slaves.

Some of them are in chains like you; some of them are in white caps. Many are soldiers, some are servants, and you see a few other concubines in garb not unlike your own: dressed beautifully in sheer silks, almost translucent and wholly indecent in how they cling to their bodies. But despite their expensive dresses and fragrance and rouge, all of them wear chains, gold or silver dangling from the manacles on their wrists or the collars on their necks. Some are even tied around their waists like belts, cruel and beautiful decoration. There are, you think, helots too—wearing ivory veils or flowers in place of the usual white cap. They are afforded slightly more dignity that way.

But regardless of their exact station—helot or slave—they are in the thrall of their owners, and they are subject to disproportionate punishment under Kremnoan law. You are startled when you hear a shriek pierce the quiet of the courtyard—anguished and pained and followed by begging.

Your eyes land on the source: a master and a slave. The slave is on the ground, her arms held up to shield herself from his strikes, her fiery hair curtaining over her face. She's trembling, cowering, reeling from the force of the abuse.

It feels familiar: both the terror and the pain. You think of the long march back to Castrum Kremnos, of being struck by that hoplite and stumbling to the ground. Prince Mydeimos had saved you then. He'd acted cruelly but he'd saved you, helped you up and took you onto his chariot, away from the Kremnoan soldiers.

But he's not saving her.

The slavemaster yells all sorts of profanities and accusations at the concubine. Prince Mydeimos’ eyes are intent on the two of them, his every muscle tense—but all he does is watch and listen. You stare at him, mouth agape. “Aren't you going to help?” you hiss.

“Were she a helot, I could,” he replies under his breath. “Helots are all owned by the state, and it would be my legal right to intervene. But slaves are private property, and I…”

I cannot draw undue attention to myself.

Your throat goes dry. Your heart pounds in your ears. Each time the Kremnoan kicks his slave, you nearly flinch; every time she begs for mercy, you want to clasp your hands over your ears. Your throat swells up and you think you might whimper—but I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I cannot cry, I cannot cry, I cannot—

She screams in Aurelian.

You tense. Look at your captor, look at the slave. Prince Mydeimos is staring at you, and he knows what you are going to do, but you bolt before he can stop you.

“Stop,” you cry in Kremnoan, “stop, stop!”

The slavemaster is so surprised when you come between them that he does stop. You don't look at him; you only focus on the concubine. She never worshipped at your temple much, but she came when she was younger, just after you rose to the position of hiereia and before the long conflict with Kremnos began. Kassandra, you think her name was. She must recognise you, for she clings to you immediately, starting to babble in your mother tongue. High Priestess, she cries, High Priestess, my lady, please help me, please help, please—

Her master pulls you off her and throws you to the ground. He kicks you so hard in the stomach that you nearly throw up. You writhe like a worm on the stone path, pathetic and disgraced.

It's exactly what you want.

He kicks you thrice more. Once in the stomach, and twice in the ribs, his foot cracking brutally against you. Kassandra weeps and throws her body over yours, begging him to stop, but then she goes as silent as death. The kicks stop too. When you look up, you see a golden gauntlet restraining the slavemaster’s wrist. The man has gone as white as a sheet.

“Aineidas,” Prince Mydeimos says in greeting. His voice is heavy with obvious displeasure. You note the lack of honorific. Not a strategos. Not an Elder. Not a noble—or not an important one, anyway. A warrior? But he's so old…

“Y-your Highness,” Aineidas greets. “It has been long since we’ve last seen each other.”

“It has. The Aurelian campaign was long.”

Aineidas glances at you. Realization flashes in his eyes, and you have to actively stop yourself from smiling.

“I heard your victory was stunning,” Aineidas says immediately, trying to ingratiate himself. “How disappointed I was that I could not fight alongside the Crown Prince and see you in your glory!”

“As am I,” Prince Mydeimos replies. “Had you been there, you would have recognized my war prize.”

His hand squeezes around Aineidas’ wrists. Both of them look at you; you try your best to appear pitiful. It does not come naturally to you—you were raised to act dignified no matter the situation; during your training, you were actually punished for looking unseemly after beatings—but you have teared up so much from being struck that you think it works.

“Yes,” Aineidas scrambles, “yes, I did not recognise her. You know I would not have otherwise punished the slave of the Crown Prince.”

“It is illegal to punish the slave of any citizen other than yourself.” Prince Mydeimos pauses, studying you. “Though it is particularly great folly that you have chosen to strike my concubine, of all people. Either way, you have broken the law.”

Aineidas swallows. He sweats and stares at his wrist, which looks distinctly breakable. “I—you must understand, Your Highness,” he beseeches, “I was not thinking clearly. I was only furious that someone had interfered with my punishment of my own slave.”

“An understandable error. Still, you have violated three Kremnoan laws: you have touched another man’s slave, you have damaged the property of the state, and you have disrespected the royal family.”

You try not to shudder. Property of the state. That's what you are, legally. If I belong to Prince Mydeimos, then it is Kremnos itself that owns me.

“Th-there must be something that can be done,” Aineidas stutters. “You know I have great wealth, Your Highness, business has been quite good lately”—ah, you think, he's a merchant—“so I am happy to recompense you for any damages.”

Damages? What am I, a fucking statue? you think, nearly scowling. But you manage to keep trembling, demure even when Prince Mydeimos leans down and touches your cheek with a gauntleted hand. Your first instinct is to spit in his face again—too close, too close, how dare you call me property—but you only stare at him, teary-eyed.

“I may have been the one slighted, but my concubine is the one who has suffered,” he says. “I would ask her what she requires to heal. That is the only true way to undo the damage to my property.”

You’re going to kill him. You have reached your limit, and you have decided you are going to kill him. For it is one thing to be called a slave, but it is another to be called property.

It is only Kassandra’s quiet sobbing beside you that makes you neglect your dignity. Your pride comes second to your worshippers. You grovel and weep before Prince Mydeimos, trying to strike a balance between sorrow and fear: I'm sorry for misbehaving, Your Highness, and I couldn't help myself, I know Kassandra from the temple, I loved her dearly, and I wish to see her safe, I wish to be with her.

Most importantly: You may punish me however you want. Kill me if you must. Just spare her, I beg you.

Prince Mydeimos discerns what you want him to ask: “Would it help calm you if you were to keep this slave by your side?”

“Yes,” you sob, “yes, it would. Oh, Your Highness, I'll do anything to please you”—you try not to gag—“so long as she is by my side.”

Prince Mydeimos turns to Aineidas. “Allow me to buy out your slave, and I will not take you to court over your follies today. As for the transgressions of my concubine against you, I shall see to it that she is punished appropriately.”

For good measure, you let out a terrified sob.

Aineidas is satisfied. The relief is palpable in his voice: “Yes, yes—take the blasted thing. Take her for free, even; the fault here is mine, and it is the least I can do to make up for my error. I must warn you that she is unsatisfying as a whore but decent as a maidservant. Try her out if you wish, but I would personally keep the priestess for warming your bed.” He pauses his rambling to glance at you. “...and I have no doubt you will discipline her, of course.”

“I will. I have gotten into the habit of spoiling her, but it seems that I still need to break her in.”

Oh, so now I'm a horse.

Aineidas makes a joke about how it is natural for men to spoil their most affectionate lovers—even the whores. Prince Mydeimos’ jaw tightens, but he does not say anything. The two men finish their exchange. Kassandra is sent back to Aineidas’ room to collect her things, while Prince Mydeimos walks you back to your quarters—

—and he rounds on you immediately once the door is closed.

The prince’s eyes flick up and down your form. They darken as they travel over your ribs and stomach, where dirt stains your silk robes, where the fabric hides a terrible ache.

“Why would you do that?” he snaps—almost snarls.

“Do what?” you ask mildly.

“Put yourself in harm’s way. Potentially get yourself killed.” He narrows his eyes at you. “Why is it such an uphill battle to get you to stay alive? Are you so desperate for Thanatos to take you?”

“I did not try to die,” you say delicately. “I was only trying to help. You had no legal right to intervene when Kassandra was being beaten—so I gave you one.”

“At the expense of your own well-being!”

“Well, it was either my well-being or Kassandra’s.” Your frown is deep, irate. “You said once you have a duty to your people. Well, I have a duty to mine. You may have made me a slave, but you have not made me a coward.”

He looks at the ceiling, as if praying to Nikador for the strength not to strangle you. “I do not need you to be a coward,” he grits out, “only to have some sense of self-preservation. What if Aineidas had been a soldier? What if he had run you through with a sword? Or what if he had been an Elder, or a noble—someone not so easy for me to deal with?”

“Then I would have been stabbed or whipped, like most other Aurelians.” You give him an accusatory look. “I don't even understand why you are so outraged when harm comes to me, when clearly you don't feel anything for other slaves. Is it that you don't want to see me hurt, or simply that you don't like to see your property damaged?”

You realise that you want to provoke him. You want him to yell at you. You want to hear him say that you are nothing but a whore. You want to realise that your supposed visions from Oronyx had merely been delusions, and you want to know that you will never again feel so safe and traitorous in the arms of the man who sacked your city.

You are disappointed when Prince Mydeimos merely sighs. He finds his composure, his rage subdued.

“You have to understand,” he explains wearily, “that I cannot save you all. Not in my current position.”

You go quiet. You can't say anything—because you know it's true.

“And I thought”—he gives you a pained look—“I thought it would be obvious by now that I do not see you as my property. I see you as a human being whom I wish to protect.”

Your heart wrenches at his expression. “Why,” you ask bitterly, “why me and not anyone else? Why not Kassandra? Why not the other Aurelians? Why only me?”

“I told you,” he says grimly, “I cannot help you all. Under Kremnoan law, I can only protect what belongs to me—and only you are mine.”

That night, you think of killing Prince Mydeimos in his sleep.

It is not exactly that you want him to die. You don't even think you want him to suffer. But you should. You should want to kill the man who took away your home. You should want to kill the prince responsible for putting thousands of people in chains. It does not matter how kind he is to you, how many sweets he feeds you, how warm you felt when he held you. A kind master is still a master. A pampered slave is still a slave. He says he sees you as a human being, but he's been keeping you like a pet. Something to be spoiled or broken in.

Have you been broken in? You can't think of any other reason why you'd be hesitating right now, holding your dagger to your captor’s throat. His soldiers didn't hesitate when they broke into your temple. They didn't hesitate when they dragged you out. They didn't hesitate when they put you in chains. The only time they paused was when they were trying to decide who should get to fuck your cunt first—who should get to steal the virginity of a holy maiden, who should get to defile the chosen oracle of a god they hate.

Aurelia is burning behind you. You taste ash and copper as the edge of your blade presses against your captor’s neck, its hilt gleaming under Oronyx’s moons. Prince Mydeimos is sleeping peacefully, the rise and fall of his chest slow and gentle. He doesn't look like a figure of Strife like this, like the general who sacked your city. He looks a little bit like the boy you saw drowning in the sea. He looks a lot like the man you saw in your visions: Mydei. Gentle enough to hand-feed dromases and play with children and tolerate your teasing. Your hand trembles as you think of him, the knife’s edge shivering against his pulse.

“You shouldn't hesitate.”

You startle. Prince Mydeimos is staring at you, fully alert—when did he wake up?—and before you can retreat, his hand clamps around your wrist and forces your blade to stay against his neck. His other one grabs you by the arm to pull you in.

You're nearly on top of him when he steadies your hand. It’s impossible to miss how his eyes burn into yours.

“If you are going to kill someone,” he says, his voice low in your ear, “you should act decisively. Slash the knife through the jugular and carotid as deeply and swiftly as possible. Do you want me to show you how?”

Do you?

You should. You should want to kill him. As long as he is alive, you belong to him; and as long as you belong to him, you are the property of the state that massacred your city. Killing him would be your only reprieve from that, even if only temporarily. Your hand tightens around the handle of your blade, chasing freedom; Prince Mydeimos bares his nape to you, his eyes cool. His hand tightens around yours, guiding you toward a lethal blow, to freedom—

—and a fragrance hits you. Cassia and pomegranates. Clinging to his skin and clothes. Obvious only now, when you are close enough with him to end his life.

It’s probably from when he made you dinner tonight.

Your meal had been an awkward affair. He'd delivered it himself for once, and he had been completely silent when he served it to you. He didn't even ask his usual three questions before leaving—though you noticed him trying. Someone else would have missed it, but not you. You could see it in his face when he wanted to talk to you, and you could also see it in his face when he realised that he didn't know how.

You should want to kill him. It would make you a traitor if you didn't. If you don't slash his throat open now, you should pray to the bones of your worshippers and beg Talanton to strike you down. And then you should slit your own throat for letting a Kremnoan touch you—for letting him put his arms around you, tender and warm.

But at the end of it all, the bones would remain bones. The corpses would stay strewn across the streets. Aurelia will always burn behind you. Neither justice nor death would reverse any of that. All you will have done is kill a man who worries so much for you that he goes out of his way to cook for you, just to make sure you don't starve. A man so gentle that he cannot stand the sight of your blood—not even from a tiny cut across your palm.

Your hold on your dagger—his dagger—grows slack.

“No.”

Prince Mydeimos watches you. “No? You aren't going to kill me? I thought you wanted to slit my throat.”

“I do,” you bite out. “I’d slit your throat and drink your blood if it meant I could go home and see my loved ones…" Your voice gets quiet, then. Brittle. "But it wouldn't.”

You lower your knife. Prince Mydeimos lets you. He takes it from your hand and, for one moment, you wonder if you've pushed him too far and he'll use it to finally kill you. But he doesn't—of course he doesn't—and instead moves it away from you.

“You should be more careful handling a weapon like that,” he says patiently. “I don't want you to hurt yourself.”

Something inside you crumples. Your anger collapses, folds into shame, into loathing—whether not for being able to take his life or for threatening it in the first place, you aren't sure.

“You should just take that thing away from me,” you reply dully as you pull away from him. “Clearly, I can't be trusted with it. Nor is there any need for it.”

Prince Mydeimos sits up with you. “You've used it against one man who would be your abductor, and another man who already is. Clearly it is fulfilling a need for you.” He takes the knife into his hand, his expression turning curiously wry as he studies it. “In fact, it’s helped you more than it helped its previous owner, and certainly more than it has helped me. I would like for you to keep it.”

He holds it out to you again, returning it to your hands. It's still warm for your violent touch, from his gentle one. You stare at it: beautifully carved, bejewelled but not gaudy. The carved lion on its hilt stares at you in the moonlight, and it suddenly occurs to you that the beast is a symbol of the Kremnoan royal family: the mark of Gorgo's trophy.

“Who exactly was its previous owner?”

“My mother.”

You look at him, astonished. His gaze is neutral, and it remains as such even when you exclaim, “This belonged to Queen Gorgo?” Why would you give it to me? you want to ask, but your mind takes you elsewhere.

You do not know what Queen Gorgo looks like—you have never seen a portrait or come across a description in any of the histories—yet the image of her comes to you, unbidden. Golden hair and ocean-blue eyes. A lion’s corpse is stretched out at her feet. She's holding your dagger, along with a cup of ambrosia filled with venom.

A poisoned woman with a golden dagger—the one you dreamt about after Prince Mydeimos captured you.

“Your mother didn't die of illness, did she?” you ask. When Prince Mydeimos blinks, you say, “She was poisoned.” Your mind races, trawling through all the hints that the Crown Prince has let slip over the past two moons, all the signs in your dreams: The vision of a son killing his father. The sight of a young king on a bloody throne. I will not be the kind of king my father is, Prince Mydeimos had said. Haven't you seen what he's done?

“She was poisoned by your father,” you realise. “You want revenge.”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a startled look. “I will never get used to that.”

“Used to what?”

“How you just know things.”

“So I’m right?”

He gives you a curious look. “You weren't sure?”

You shrug. “Unless I'm directly appealing to Oronyx with prayer and sacrifice, she only gives me vague hints of things. A lot of prophesying is guesswork around those hints.”

“Then you must have very good intuition.”

“It is a practised skill, actually. I had to cultivate it to become a hiereia.”

You pause for a long moment, studying him in the ways you were trained to dissect princes and lords. Noticing the way he's staring at Gorgo’s dagger, soft and almost longing. The way his shoulders are sagging, weighed by something invisible. The way he shifts idly, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders—sore from sleeping like shit for the past few nights, you guess. Prince Mydeimos doesn't trust any of the palace guards anymore, so it's become an indefinite arrangement for him to stay the night, slumbering on the klinai. I don't know who else will try to take you, he'd said, so for now we will need to keep doing this.

Not if, not when, but who.

“You don't have anyone you can rely on in this palace, do you? Not since your mother died.”

Prince Mydeimos tenses. “No. Just Krateros. He provides steadfast support and wise counsel—his loyalty is unquestionable.”

“But his influence has limits,” you reason. “Otherwise you would not be sleeping by a door every night just to safekeep a lowly slave.”

“You are not lowly to me,” he says, offended, and you can hardly believe how earnest he is. He really will make for an idiot king at this rate, you think, to care so much for someone of my status.

It should not matter to you if he will be incompetent at rule, but you chide him anyway: “I should be lowly. I should even be worthless. My life has no meaning to you—you should not be exerting yourself over me. But you have no men here you can trust to handle this for you.” Something inside you sinks. “You really have no one here at all.”

He sighs—quietly, but clearly. “Besides Krateros, you are the person least hostile to me in this palace.”

“Then I am shocked you have not yet been killed.”

“I have been—just not permanently.”

You go quiet. Prince Mydeimos is not bitter in his words; they are matter of fact, a sign of a man who has died so many times that it no longer bothers him. But the words inspire something wretched in you. You think of a baby drowning in the sea, wailing and dying over and over again—then returning home, full of hope, only to drown again in that same, poisonous tide.

Your reaction is instinctive: Revulsion. Rage. Horror.

Guilt.

You should not feel guilty. You should not feel pity for a man who took everything away from you. But you still find yourself looking away, your hands curling in on themselves.

“It must tire you,” you say softly, “that after treating me so kindly for so long, I nearly killed you tonight.” You glance at the dagger, which you have held for so long in your sleep for no reason. “I should really return this to you.”

He waves a hand. “Don’t concern yourself over tonight. It is nothing. This is Kremnos; vicious fights between acquaintances are common. Every person I know has had a blade held to their neck at some point and thought nothing of it after the fact.”

Your brows raise. “Truly?”

“Truly. Actually, my mother held this very dagger to my father’s throat.”

Your eyes go wide. “And what did he do after? Punish her? Or… is that why he killed her?”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a strange look. “Of course not,” he says. “He married her.”

You wake up the next morning with ugly bruises on your ribs. You feel them before you see them, the ache so severe that you hiss when you try to rise from bed. Every breath has you feeling like something is piercing your lungs; every movement has you wanting to gasp. As you grit your teeth and struggle, you cannot help but think of Prince Mydeimos’ anger at your behaviour the day before, and something inside you crumples once more. You'd crawl under the bed if it wouldn't hurt so much.

The prince himself is gone, but as if in anticipation of your injury, he has arranged for a healer to see you. Later in the day, Kassandra arrives as well—to assist and care for you as you recover, she says. It is absurd for a handmaiden to be given to a bed-slave, but Kassandra neither complains nor thinks much of it.

“Men get all stupid when they're besotted,” she says, warbling in Aurelian dialect. “Way he looks at you, soon he’ll be giving you jewelry and flowers and all sorts of treasures. You could rob him blind, my lady.”

You try not to snort. With the way Prince Mydeimos looked at you the other day, it appeared the only gift he wanted to give you was the touch of Thanatos. But then you remember that he bestowed to you his mother’s dagger, and you find yourself going quiet, thinking of it in its hiding spot beneath your pillow.

Kassandra does not notice your sudden introspection. She continues dressing you, opting for somewhat conservative attire—the usual translucent silks reveal too much of your bruising—although the dress she has chosen has a slit cut so high that you can hardly walk without revealing your inner thighs. If Prince Mydeimos ever caught sight of it, you think you might die.

You give Kassandra a tortured look.

“It’s to curry your prince’s favour,” she explains. At your continued despair, Kassandra frowns. “I know this can't be easy for you, my lady,” she says, her Aurelian gentle, a soft and rolling legato. She picks up a delicate brush, dabbing it in rouge. “You were raised to be a holy maiden, and it was taboo for anyone back home to touch you. But now that you're…” She hesitates.

“Now that I'm a bed-slave?” you supply, voice neutral. Her mouth thins.

“Now that you're no longer a holy maiden, I think it's best to appeal to your master and keep him pleased. I'd hate to see the Crown Prince treat you like how Lord Aineidas treated me.”

Your eyes go soft. “And I'd hate to see you be returned to a man like Aineidas. Resent him as I may, I am glad that Prince Mydeimos saved you from him.”

Kassandra smiles. “I'm more grateful to you, my lady. It didn't escape me that it was you who helped me—not him.”

Her brush outlines your lip, tickling you. The corner of your mouth twitches, and you close your eyes beneath her touch. Your conversation turns to kinder things: reminiscing about the bustling markets back home, the beautiful music, the hymns sung within your temple. She tells you of her father, and you tell her about your mother, and the two of you sing the melody of your mother tongue.

It occurs to you that this is the happiest you’ve been since the fall of Aurelia—the least alone you've been, and the most at home.

For the next fortnight, Prince Mydeimos does not take you anywhere. It is not out of any neglect toward you—he still sleeps in your quarters every night, playing guard dog by the door—but out of concern for your injuries.

“I do not wish for you to hurt yourself again,” he says, watching you flinch from the opposite end of the room. You've just taken your lyre into your lap; the motion has you wincing. Still, you frown at him.

“I think I can walk without worsening my injuries. My legs are not connected to my ribs, you know.”

You can see it when he stops himself from rolling his eyes. “My concern is not you walking. My concern is that you might launch yourself into harm’s way again—it seems to be your favorite pastime.”

“I am not such an idiot that I'd do that in this state,” you grouse, and the look that Prince Mydeimos gives you is so skeptical that you huff. “Fine,” you say. “Do whatever you wish.”

You turn your attention to your lyre and sheet music and choose the song he most dislikes—an Okheman prosodion to Kephale. He scowls as soon as he hears the beginning notes, but leans back and closes his eyes anyway, listening. Maybe even appreciating. You think he is asleep by the time you finish, but he immediately looks to you and requests another piece: “Anything other than that Okheman noise, please.”

“Would you like an Aidonian hymn?”

“Are you trying to torture me?”

“What, does His Royal Highness not enjoy my skill with a lyre? Would he prefer some other form of entertainment?”

Your tone is sardonic enough to warrant legal punishment (you have disrespected the royal family), but Prince Mydeimos replies earnestly: “I am greatly fond of the lyre and even enjoy your skill with it. Your taste in songs, however…”

You study him shrewdly. “I did not think Kremnoan royals would care so much for musical arts.”

“We are not educated in them,” he admits. “But I have a friend who is quite the lyrist. It is pleasant to hear the instrument—I have not listened to him play in quite some time.”

“Oh? Why not?” You try not to make it so obvious that you are searching for gossip: that you are surprised the Crown Prince has friends, and that you are curious about whether they are alive. “Did he quit and take up the aulos instead?”

“I hope not,” Prince Mydeimos snorts. “He has no talent for it.” Then the mirth leaves his face, and his eyes get distant. “He has been deployed for some years now to fight the Black Tide. Last I heard, he was warring on the Pyrian front.”

You look away. The city-state of Pyria was southwest of Aurelia—many of its citizens ran to your polis when their homes fell to disaster. Some of them even sought refuge in your temple, their bodies riddled with wounds and corruption. Every holy person in your city, from the Disciples of Cerces to the Sky Priests of Aquila, spent weeks trying to purify them. Still, a great number of the Pyrian refugees were taken by Thanatos in the end, either succumbing to mortal wounds or self-destructing in madness.

You do not want to think of what might be happening to Prince Mydeimos’ lyrist friend. Judging from his expression, he does not want to speak of it either.

Clearing your throat, you flip through the sheet music on your desk. “What kind of songs did your friend like to perform?”

“Bawdy trash,” Prince Mydeimos says, deadpan. “Don't bother searching for them—I would not have disgraced your table with it.” He gives you a thoughtful look. “Why don't you play an Aurelian piece? I have never heard music devoted to Oronyx.”

You stop.

You've never performed an Aurelian piece with Prince Mydeimos around—partly because you prefer to annoy him with Okheman and Aidonian music, but mostly because you didn't think any Kremnoan would want to hear it. They destroyed your temple, after all. High Priestess of a weak god, you remember the hyenas barking as the city screamed. That's what they think I am.

But Prince Mydeimos is—different. He sacked your temple, but for whatever reason, he still wants to hear you worship.

“Alright,” you say, an odd ache in your chest. “If you insist.”

Your final song of the evening is a hymn for the Goddess of Time. The following day, you perform a lyric poem about Janusopolis' early days in the Chrysos War, an epic about the attempted murder of Oronyx in your mother tongue. The next evening, you sing an Aurelian prosodion to Georios; after that, a lively hyporchema of Oronyx Festivals, one that makes you wish you were leading the acolytes and worshippers in dance.

Another night, you throw the prince a bone and play an Aurelian paean to Nikador. It was written prior to the Era Bellica—from a time when the Kremnoan people were not so savage, and Nikador’s only war was the one against the Black Tide. When he was the protector of Amphoreus, not its tyrant. Prince Mydeimos’ eyes never leave your form as you sing in ancient Kremnoan—from an era so long ago that it had not yet diverged from Aurelian, and the peoples of your two cities could understand each other perfectly. His gaze traces the strings of your lyre, the movements of your lips, mesmerized. The next evening, he asks to hear it again.

For ten nights, Prince Mydeimos listens to your paean to his God of Strife. On the eleventh day, by which you've stopped wincing every time you lift your lyre, he finally leads you outside again.

He takes you into the city.

It is your first time wandering beyond the confines of the palace, and you are startled by the bustling streets—the chatter and the laughter and the humanness. An air of aggression still hangs over the city, of course: armored soldiers march endlessly through the streets, chains clink noisily as the slaves labour relentlessly, the sword of Nikador hangs ever-present in the sky. Still, it is all made more bearable by all the people in its streets. By the buzz of crowded markets, by the haggling arguments of vendors and customers, by the giggling of children underfoot in the crowds. If you close your eyes and focus, you can summon memories of Aurelia like this—so easy to recall among the humdrum of daily life.

Castrum Kremnos is still a prison. But you cannot deny that there are parts of it here that feel—not warm, really, for there are still too many slaves, too many soldiers. But it is certainly less cold.

You think that Prince Mydeimos, himself, might enjoy the city more than the palace as well. He is nearly always tense there, but he seems relaxed among these streets, among his people. Every Kremnoan pauses to greet him, not only bowing to show their respect, but really talking. Soldiers’ faces glow as they sing his praises about his might in battle, about his last gladiatorial victory. Older women wave and ask if he is eating well, if he'd like some figs or pomegranates or sweets from their stands. (You think instantly of your aunts and grandmothers back home, and you feel such heartache that you have to look away.) Younger women and a handful of men stop to admire him; you do not miss how their gazes linger on you, the whore trailing after him in golden chains.

What strikes you most are the children. Each one of them squeals with delight upon seeing him, and a few run up directly to greet their prince, babbling about how hard they've been training and how they want to fight alongside him someday. They are the only Kremnoans who do not look at you with discomfort; they study you only with innocent curiosity.

“Prince Mydeimos,” a little girl asks, craning her neck to look at you, “is that your friend? I've never seen her before!”

Prince Mydeimos pauses. You can see him struggling to answer, neither wanting to lie nor explain what a whore is, and you try not to sigh before doing it for him: “I am the prince’s companion,” you say kindly in Kremnoan, smiling at the girl. “Not his friend, but someone who spends time with him when he wishes.”

“Oh.” The girl blinks, tilting her head. “Like, if he gets lonely? Or sad?”

“Something like that.”

She nods, then beams at you both. “Well, I'm glad the prince doesn’t have to be alone when he's sad, then.”

She runs off without another word. You look to him, a dry comment on your tongue—I'm sure you're desperate for a night alone after all the time you've spent in my room—but you find him staring at her retreating back, pensive. Something in his eyes makes your chest ache, and somewhere in the Evernight Veil, you hear him say: I don't remember the last time someone touched me like this.

But here, in the present, he says nothing.

“Come,” he beckons you, curt. “We have somewhere to be.”

He ends up bringing you to a smithy. The rhythmic clang of hammers against hot steel sings in your ears. He approaches a looming figure, impossibly tall, who works in chains. Your eyes are wide as you regard him. Mountain Dweller, you recognise, and slave.

Kremnos is infamous for hunting their kind. You should not be surprised at seeing one in bondage here, forced to work for the state that savaged him. Still, it is a wonder seeing such a mighty creature working so benignly for his captors. If you had such stature, you think you would have died fighting in Aurelia. You would have never accepted a life in chains—let alone one so mild and subservient.

“Crown Prince of Kremnos,” the Mountain Dweller greets. His voice is a slow, lumbering boom—strange in syntax, as if his throat and mind is unfit for human speech: “For your weapon… you have come.”

Prince Mydeimos nods. “Yes—for the weapon, as well as the other matter we discussed.”

The Mountain Dweller shifts. You can feel his gaze on your body, studying you through the slits of his helmet. You look up at him, watching him with curious eyes.

“High Priestess of Aurelia, you were,” he surmises. “Concubine of the Crown Prince, you are now.”

“Yes,” you affirm, and you don't bother softening the edge to your voice. “And you are?”

“Chartonus, leader of the Mountain Dwellers,” he introduces himself. “Blacksmith for the royal family.”

Your interest is piqued at one word: Leader. You decide to smile—not cheerfully, but respectfully, in the way you would for an esteemed guest at the temple. “It is an honour to meet you, Master Chartonus. I have heard great tales of the blessings that Georios has endowed upon the craftsmanship of your people.”

You can feel Prince Mydeimos’ eyes on you, but you ignore him. Only Chartonus has your attention, as would be the way with a formal guest.

“Thank you,” the blacksmith replies. “Of your talents, many Mountain Dwellers in Kremnos have heard. For you, I have something… by the request of the Crown Prince.”

You glance back at your companion. “For me?” you ask, and he nods.

“You'll soon understand,” Prince Mydeimos says.

Chartonus leads the two of you to the back of the smithy, opening a door to some private workspace. On the other side of the threshold, you see a man's silhouette, tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair and grey eyes—

You are looking at an Aurelian soldier.

Not a soldier of career, but one of necessity. Ordinarily, he is a blacksmith from your neighbourhood. One of your worshippers. His name was—is, he's alive, he's alive—Hector, and he frequently visited your temple. You first met him when you were both children, shortly before your initiation into the cult. He often prayed with you after you became a hiereia. Sought counsel from you. Crafted your ceremonial weapons. Once he made a necklace too, which you had to publicly decline and privately accept only at his insistence. I can't bring you olives nor figs, he'd said earnestly, but I can bring you this.

Your heart aches when you look at him. For a minute, you feel like you are back in Aurelia, visiting him in his smithy, watching him work during a few hours’ reprieve from your training. After this you will go to the market together and listen to the musicians play on their aulos and lyres, and later you will go see his sister, with whom you will gossip about the men she saw in her brothel. A week from now, the three of you will dance together in a festival in devotion to your goddess.

And then you see the manacle around his ankle, the chain leading off it, and the illusion is ruined.

Hector is not subdued, though. His eyes go wide as soon as he sees you. “My lady?” he calls out, as uncertain as he is hopeful.

Your composure shatters.

“I can give you five, ten minutes,” Prince Mydeimos whispers into your ear. You’re startled at the proximity, but too shocked to recoil. “Keep up appearances, and don't try anything foolish. Remember that I can only do so much.”

He leaves the door open. He and Chartonus converse just beyond it, admiring some spear that the blacksmith supposedly just mended, and which requires care so intensive that Chartonus delivers an entire lecture to explain it. You can barely hear what they’re saying, so focused on the familiar face before you. You were not physically affectionate with any of your friends nor temple goers—your station demanded strict boundaries—but you would throw your arms around Hector right now, were it not for Prince Mydeimos’ warning.

Keep up appearances.

You settle for running up to him, stopping just short of crashing into him. “Hector,” you whisper, voice strangely choked. I cannot cry, you think. I cannot cry, especially not before a worshipper. “You're alive.”

“High Priestess.” Hector’s eyes blink rapidly. You're reminded of the night you told him you'd stay at the temple, despite the Kremnoan invasion; he'd opposed it so strongly, but how were you meant to abandon the worshippers who had insisted on staying behind? “I didn't think I'd ever see you again. Are you—is he—is he hurting you? Are you injured?”

How typical of him to ask about you first, you think, when everyone else is clearly in worse positions. “Don't worry about me, Hector. How about you? The others? Aeneas? Lycaon? Your sister, Hecuba?”

“Aeneas and Lycaon and most of the other soldiers—they’ve all been sent to repair the fortress walls. I'm only here because I'm skilled. Some of the others who are tradesmen, they're here with me in the city. Hecuba, though, she's been taken to a brothel.” He frowns. “She’s decently learned and full of wit. They might have her working as a hetaira, if we’re lucky.”

Your face falls. People easily die performing hard labour, and the life of a bed-slave is a different kind of humiliation.

“I'm sorry, Hector.”

“No, I'm sorry.” He gives you a look of such despair that your heart twists. “You've been captured by that beast… it's worried me all this time, what he's doing to you. I should have gotten you away from the city before the Kremnoans stormed us.”

Guilt lances through your heart. Prince Mydeimos is nowhere near a monster, and you have suffered nowhere near as much as your fellow Aurelians. “You need not worry for me, Hector.”

“I can hardly stop,” he argues. “I think—I think we should find a way to get you out of this place.”

“...what?”

“We need to get you out of here.”

You stare at him, disbelieving. “If you could find a way out of Castrum Kremnos, I'd much rather you escape with your own life, Hector. I am too noticeable of a prisoner to smuggle out.”

“But you're our High Priestess!” he cries. “We—we can't just leave you in the bed of that monster. Please, my lady. He destroyed our city, our temple, our home. We can't bear to see him destroy you too.”

Something nicks your heart. To the Kremnoans, you are a spoil of war; to the Aurelians, you are a figure of worship. And as long as you stay in the hands of Prince Mydeimos, you are equally a symbol of Kremnoan victory as you are Aurelian disgrace. His supposed rape of you is the ultimate humiliation for them.

You cannot blame the soldiers for wanting you to steal you back.

“Hector,” you say gently, in that voice you reserve for those frightened before the gods, before war, before fate, “I understand your feelings, but you know it would be suicide for you to try. I do not wish to see any more Aurelian blood spilled.” None beyond your own—your fate is inevitable, but Hector can be saved.

“But—”

“No buts. Listen to me. Have I ever guided you falsely?”

Hector closes his eyes. His brow is furrowed deep. His voice is thick, hoarse, when he asks, “Is there no way out of this hell for us? Has Oronyx shown you that our fate lies within these fortress walls?”

Your heart drops.

You understand now that you have been foolish. Unbelievably foolish. What have you been doing, asking Oronyx about your path to freedom and not your people's? What have you been doing, hiding under a bed for months while your friends and worshippers were labouring in chains? So blinded by anger that you could not even think of a way to see them? So blinded by pride that instead of thinking of how to help them, you could only think of killing the man who has now brought you to them?

How selfish.

But now you are thinking of that beautiful city of eternal dawn, in which your wrists were not shackled, in which you were sorrow-free. You wonder if there would have been space for other Aurelians in that paradise, if they would have been just as safe.

How else would your heart have felt so light in that moment?

You measure your words carefully, hiding your shame. Hector does not need to know that his High Priestess is an idiot; it would only depress him. “Not so far,” you reply with grace. “I will try peering beyond the Evernight Veil again for our futures. From what I have seen, I will not say that there is no hope for us—but Hector, there will be no hope for you if you do something foolish. Promise me you won't do anything stupid.”

“My lady—”

“Promise me. Before I have to go.”

He gives you a despairing look. “Will you be taken away again so soon? When will I see you next?”

You hesitate. “I do not know… that would be determined by Prince Mydeimos.”

He makes a frustrated noise. “How am I supposed to work here, unable to see you, when I know you are being tortured in his bed—”

“Who is being tortured?” a voice cuts in. Both you and Hector freeze. Your heart twinges again; you can see it in your friend’s face when his does as well.

Your time is up.

“...no one, Your Highness,” you reply to Prince Mydeimos, even though your attention is on Hector.

You study his features intensely: every crease and contour and shadow. For once, it is not to read someone’s expression; it is simply that you do not know when you will see him next, and you do not wish to forget his face in the meantime. Oronyx never lets you forget calamity—razed cities, bloodied corpses, burning groves—but something as mundane as the face of a loved one? She often neglects it.

You and Hector stare at each other for probably a beat too long. When you remember yourself, you ask Prince Mydeimos, “Is my prince finished his business with Master Chartonus?”

“Yes.” Steel clashes against steel, echoing in the smithy and threading between his words. “There is no longer any reason to linger here. We will return to my quarters now.”

“But—”

“That was an order, not a request,” he says.

Keep up appearances, he means. Remember that I can only do so much.

You deflate, turning away from Hector, unable to look him in the eye anymore—unable to see him gaze upon the symbol of his humiliation. You bow to Prince Mydeimos, feeling both spoiled and broken in.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Your grief must show on your face, for Prince Mydeimos is also unable to look at you as the two of you depart.

That night, Prince Mydeimos makes you a dish that bursts with the spices of Aurelia. He serves it to you personally once more, watching from his usual spot against the wall. You can tell that he wishes to say something to you, but you cannot bring yourself to ask what: you are worried that your voice will crack if you speak. With each bite you take, you think of the quiet peace of your temple, of Hector praying at the altar to which you attended. You think of the music of the Oronyx Festivals under the stars, the hyporchema to which you danced and laughed. You think of the bustling markets that Kassandra visited everyday, looking for figs and olives and cassia under the Aurelian sun.

When you glance at Prince Mydeimos, you wonder if he knows how badly your heart aches.

“Why did you bring me to Hector?” you finally ask. “Why did you seek him out?”

His answer is so simple that it hurts: “You said you wanted to see your loved ones.”

I’d slit your throat and drink your blood if it meant I could go home and see my loved ones.

“Right,” you say. “When I tried to kill you. I said I wished to return to Aurelia and see everyone there.”

“Yes.”

You look away, lip trembling. When Prince Mydeimos speaks again, his voice is so gentle that you can hardly believe that it is coming from the Crown Prince of Kremnos, from the leader of a warmongering tribe. From the future king who will kill you.

But you can easily imagine it from the throat of a boy who once drowned in the sea, who was cast out of countless homes.

“I took your home away from you,” he says quietly. “Even if you killed me a thousand times, you will never be able to go back. There is nothing I can do to fulfill your wish to return.”

There is remorse in his voice. Genuine. Unbearable. The heir to a millennia of Strife regrets the grief he inflicted upon you. The man who will someday kill you regrets all the pain he brought upon you—and he wishes to undo it.

“You can never take me home,” you recognise, “so you are trying instead to return my loved ones to me.”

He nods, and you understand that this is his apology.

It will not suffice, of course. A sorry will not change anything. A kind master is still a master. A pampered slave is still a slave. No matter how considerate he is with you, Prince Mydeimos will always be the man who destroyed your city and sacked your temple. He will always be the beast who dragged you from your altar and into his bed. Aurelia is forever burning behind you, and it is all his fault. Oronyx will never let you forget this.

Still—there are things that have not yet turned to ash. Things that you cannot hold onto not with the power of the divine, but with your own two hands.

“You said once,” you murmur, “that there is a chance that I can move freely throughout the city without you.”

“Yes,” he affirms. “If people were convinced that you were my lover and not my prisoner, they would not think twice about seeing you roam the city.”

I cannot cry, you think. I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I cannot cry, I cannot cry, I cannot cry, but your voice breaks when you ask, “So I could go see them whenever I wished? I could visit Hector, and I could find Hecuba, and I could check on all the men labouring at the fortress walls? I could make sure that they were all safe, all well?”

Prince Mydeimos nods, his eyes absent of deception.

You study him, dissect him in the way that you were trained for princes and lords. You see not your captor, whom you could never even pretend to like—but Mydei in a city of eternal dawn, where you are teasing him gently, listening to the giggles of a flock of children. You see not a beast, but someone who is so easy to love that it scares you. Scares you almost as much as his gauntlets that are cleaving open your legs, almost as much as your death at the foot of his throne.

But you have a responsibility to your people—and even if you are a slave, you are not a coward.

“Very well," you decide. "Let's try it.”

End Part II

notes: I tried so hard (to get to the porn) and got so far (in word count) but in the end it didn't even matter... my genuine apologies that there was so much plot and no sex. enemies to lovers is truly not a trope for the weak T_T

some notes:

there's a ton of ancient Greek refs, as usual - names like Hector, Hecuba, Lycaon, Kassandra, etc. are all borrowed from the Iliad. a lot of Kremnoan names will be borrowed from Spartan history!

"Council of Elders" = Senate per Spartan history. I just like the aesthetic of Spartan vocab.

YES I know Mydei had a dromas war steed. Kokopo III shall make an appearance later TRUST!!

[instant-delusions]

𝗱𝗼𝘀 𝘂𝗻𝗼 𝗻𝘂𝗲𝘃𝗲 (219)

leo valdez x f! reader

cw: dirty talk, teasing, cursing, penetrative sex, semi-public sex (in cabin 9), mentions of breeding

a/n: iñaki is real life leo, I'm so in love with him also: it's the first of da month 🗣

it was summer - a blazing, hot, skin cooking, thigh-sticking, blurry vision filled - kind of summer in the infamous camp half blood.

leo's playlist mixed with loud drilling inside of cabin 9, as he worked on another complicated project. sipping your cold lemonade, you watched your tan, sweaty, shirtless boyfriend work, biceps flexing and eyes scrunched together in concentration - gods, he looked incredibly hot like this, huffing and groaning at how physically challenging whatever it was he did. obviously your mind started to wander, nibbling on the straw you thought about his head in between your thighs a couple of days ago. oh! or the day before, when you got frisky in the spring but the nymphs caught you... your hands were tangled in his curly hair while he licked and bit your bottom lip...

(y/n)... you loved the way he said your name in that husky voice, deep in thought, you pressed your thighs together for friction. "(y/n)!" leo's voice caught you by surprise, his body was turned away from his project, towards you, with a raised eyebrow. "oh! sorry, I was..." you trailed off, too embarrassed to finish your sentence, you just asked what was up, hoping he wouldn't notice. "what were you thinking so hard about? definently not something you do often." he smirked, of course he noticed. "nothing. oracles. prophecy, maybe?...wait, you-!" he let out a chuckle at your obviously fake answer and made his way to where you were sitting, leaning close to your face.

"hmm..." his breath fanned against your face and you felt him study the flustered expression on it. trying to shift your focus on the song playing instead of the whirling warmth spreading in your stomach, you turned your face away. "y ahola lo grito, quiero ganar much o más zeros, y disfrutar de lo que tengo". feeling a finger underneath your chin, you locked eyes with leo's. pupils blown, pink lips stretched into an amused grin. "and now, are you thinking about omar apollo?" he tsk'd and moved his mouth next to ear, whispering in a low tone; "no, estás pensando en follarme." he kissed the place right below your ear, "right?"

the situation was so intense, sitting on a random bed inside the cabin, you were shaking, panties soaked, with his arms trapping you. trying to hold the eye contact you replied, "what does that mean?" earning you the reward of a soft, low laugh by your boyfriend. "let me show you, princesa."

leo pressed his lips against yours immediately, pushing against your shoulder softly to make you lay down. he was so absorbed in the taste of your lips, catching them again and again with a soft "mhm" sound. dark curls tickled your forehead everytime he shifted his face to kiss you differently, his curious demeanor not leaving him even in bed - a little moan left you, touched by his enthusiasm. leo smiled against your lips with a quiet hum, "pretty." one of his hands started caressing your stomach, snapping the band of your shorts with a finger teasingly. giggling, you wrapped your hand around his wrist and looked up to your mischievous lover. "leo, we can't! not here...", leo fake-pouted in response, "oya, you think I can't be quick?" he cocked his head with such confident attitude, it made you grind your hips up into his. with that, leo sneaked his hand down your shorts to grab your panty-clad ass, moving you against his dick in a self made rhythm. you could feel the outline of his cock through your clothes, the way his head pressed perfectly against your clit with every thrust. you arched your back off the bed, ridding yourself of the shorts and panties in desperation. hearing them fall to the ground, you snaked your hands behind leo's neck, pressing him closer. your boyfriend moaned at the feeling of your naked and pulsing pussy against his sweats, he could feel the way you were soaking the fabric as you moved against him.

biting his lower lip, you moved your hands to his crotch, trailing the outline of his dick in a torturous manner until he threw his head back with an annoyed groan. "f-fuck you." he spat, in a joking way of course, and pushed his hand down his sweats to pull out his aching cock. pre was running down his shaft leo was so hard, his cock sprang against his abs, leaving a sticky trail between the head and his blushing skin. wrapping his calloused hand around it, he made you watch while he fucked his fist, milking the pre to drip down on your lower stomach, quietly moaning into your ear above you. noticing you spread your legs almost instinctively, leo grinned boyishly before moving a pillow below your hips, "whose is this?" you ask, cheeks flushing. your boyfriend shrugged and went back to the task at hand - he positioned his head at your weeping pussy and flourished at the feeling of your heartbeat against his dick. he moved it up and down between your lips, collecting all the wetness you produced for him and plunged in deeply. overwhelmed by the sudden fullness, your mouth fell into a silent "oh", you arched against him and cried out.

"my pretty baby, 'm sorry, tuve que - I had to." the demigod tried to soothen you, running his hand down your ass softly. though he was barely off any better, his cock buried in your tight, greedy pussy, pulsing and milking him mercilessly. it took all of him to not fill you up right there and clean the mess with his tongue. leo felt your thighs twitch against his waist and decided to start thrusting, quickly and deeply. the facade of doing this 'with nobody noticing' quickly melted away at the sound of your wetness squelching against his dick and his balls repeatedly hitting your ass. also, leo was definently not the type to tell you "stay quiet", he loved the way you were shouting his name then, screeching to slow down. his spine tingles when you blabber praises at him as he feels you creaming a ring at the bottom of his cock. "mis dioses" the mechanic whispered while watching you fall apart on his cock without warning, so close to your body he could feel it spasm. his eyes rolled back at the feeling of your pussy almost caging him in, growing impossibly tight in an effort to drain him. with the last of his strength, valdez pulled out to cum on your thigh and watched it drip down onto... somebody's sheets.

a couple of hours passed and you laid in the strawberry fields with leo, fanning yourself aggressively to escape any second of heat. your boyfriend was snoring peacefully next to you, until...

"yo, who FUCKED on my bed???"

[elrielslam]

What Bloomed in the Darkgarden by ehoney

My favourite Elriel fanfiction by far. It's got everything you could ever hope for - Elain using dark witchy powers, sweet slowburn angst with Azriel, women refusing to be put in a triangle, travel to other courts, a spectacular blazing row with Rhys where he's thoroughly told off, lore and mythology and darling shadows.

(seriously, i don't even need the new book anymore. this is perfection)

Link here

Summary: Elain Archeron is not the trembling fawn everyone believes her to be. Two years after the war, she feels an awakening- a power which calls her to grow untamed things under moonlight. She then receives an invitation to master her abilities as a Seer under the guidance of an Oracle of the Day Court. All the while fighting an inevitable war of passion for a holy mess of a shadow-wreathed male who looks at her with all the longing in the world. So perhaps a little more softly, a little more lethally, Elain begins her journey down the path unknown. For there’s something blooming within her. Something darker, softer, and wilder than she can name- reaching for the song of the Void. “Damn the Cauldron.” Azriel strode towards her. “Damn the Stars.” He closed the distance. “This-” those scarred hands softly gripped her face, bringing it within an inch of his own. “This-” he wrapped his scent around her and looked directly into her soul, making sure she could feel the charge, the need, the nameless want- “This could never be a mistake.”

[echantedtoon]

Hearts A Blaze

When time comes to please the gods with a sacrificial bride, then hopes burn out and hearts are set a blaze by blistering fire.

People really seemed to like my God Tengen x reader Oneshot so I was inspired to write another feat Sun God Kyojuro. Sorta a sequel to Heavenly Lights which if you haven't read I highly recommend. Inspired by the artwork of @josukespimphand linked down below.

https://www.tumblr.com/josukespimphand/667132155939487744/posting-this-here-since-i-havent-posted-anything?source=share

The world was burning. Blurring the lines between hell and a light source of hope.

That  magnetic pull, that hypnotizing dance it does to lure you in, the dance that catches souls in its flame, the dance that makes you wish you dazzled and shined as bright as that. Bright hot flames flicker, lighting up the dark world around its molten core as the embers dance around in the sky above as the sun rose and fell across the sky only to repeat the cycle.

Red and yellow ribbons of scalding heat intertwine while sparks jump and dance. The sun's flames is the element essential to life in every form, with sparks and embers raining down like the winter snow.

But while fire is a warm light intended to bring hope, it can also be from hell to burn.

You would have your eyes closed cause of the smoke. Everything would be burning around you on fire all and falling down, crumbling to cinders and soot. You would smell the smoke and pretty much nothing else. You can't breathe because of all the smoke around you so you just be coughing. Everything would feel hot. You're entire skin would be hot and you'd be sweating. You would hear the crackling in the popping of fire. You would hear the building crumbling and falling around you. And screams of people as they were entrapped within the burning flames.

Such one must remember to tend to the flames to ensure that none of the flames were to get out of control.

And thus a sacrifice must be made to appease the sun god to nullify it's flames. 

Your ears ring. Your body stings. The silks around your body constricting like chains keeping you weighed down in this moment. Stepping up into the temple at spear point as the weaponized men of the village kept you within their circle. For the offering that was to be given to ease the flames above was a sacrifice.

A sacrificial bride to be offered to the sun god on the day of the solar eclipse. 

When the sun was at it's highest point in the sky and for a few mere moments a darkened circle would be created by the moon passing over. That's when he would arrive at last to claim the offering. To claim you. 

The stone steps under your feet felt stone cold, sapping all the energy from your body with each step, despite it being winter. Goosebumps crawling across your skin prickling like needles when you gazed upon the stone platform to await for the god to claim his sacrificial bride given to him. You being the one chosen out of countless other young women in the villages.

This wasn't the first time the people had given up an.unwilling woman to become a god's consort. Just two months prior, the God of Festivals had demanded that a sacrificial bride be given to him at the next festival, or so the Oracle claimed. The poor woman chosen to become the bride to the God of Festivals had been taken in the same way she had been. The Oracle had pointed out a random woman in the crowd claiming the God had demanded her to be the one offered and then she was taken away from her friends and family, dressed in white, and made to stay within the temple to await her husband's arrival.

Only it hadn't exactly gone as planned.

The previous bride had broken out of the temple and ran away as the festival was taking place. Some people claimed to have seen her weaving through the crowds of drunken celebrating people and others claimed to see her dancing with a stranger. However whether she was taken by the God of Festivals or managed to run away to a faraway land, no one ever saw her again after that night. So when the Oracle once again proclaimed a god had come to her demands ding his own sacrificial bride, they made sure precautions were made to ensure the next Bride(you) was not going to escape like the last one did. 

So now here you were, marched at spear point up the stone carved steps up to a cliff side that dropped down to a death inducing drop below. That's where the bright you. Up to the highest point in the region where the eclipse would be directly over and a stone shrine to the Sun God was still standing. Covered in moss and dirt after enduring wear and tear over the years. There you were marched after you had been taken away from your family. There you were given a warning by one made tapping the end of his spear into your back before they turned to go. And there you were left not chained but trapped.

The cliff side impossible to climb down. The drop too far to survive. And the warning made very clear. If you were to leave down the only safe way, you'd be killed on sight for offending the gods. So you were stuck between two options. Stay and become a sacrifice for a god or take one of the paths to death. Dressed in nothing but a shiromuku. Heart pounding in your chest and pacing trying to think as the morning sun danced across the heavens, edging closer and closer to the solar eclipse and the time the Oracle claimed he would appear. 

Why must you bare such a fate as this?

Just because a senile old woman claimed to be able to speak with the gods. You were either going to starve here or eventually someone will come check if you were still present and you'd be executed because you were not accepted. Such a fate to be had can not be an option. Alas you could do nothing but pace and try to think of a way to get out of here.

Unfortunately time and luck was not on your side as a darkness passed over your head making you freeze and f/c eyes turned to the heavens in fear and shock. The sun stood directly overhead. The moon hugging his face to block most of the light just leaving enough light to still cloak everything in a shadow as if someone blocked the fireplace one dark night. The eclipse had begun and eventually you had to look away because of how much it stung your eyes to stare. Hand clasping and rubbing away the light burning sensation behind them. And then a noise sounded out.

Ca-Click

The sounds of two stones hitting each other sounded off making you flinch at the noise and look up in the direction it had come from but saw no one but the shrine. Strange.

Ca-Click 

The sound came again. It was the sound of someone striking two stones to make a spark and start a fire. But again no one else was there. Strange. Perhaps it was just the sounds of some stones dislodging from the cliff side. 

CA-CLICK!!

A light appeared in the limited darkness. Your body frozen where it stood as a single flame appeared above the stones making up the old shrine. It's orange-yellow glow comfy and warm in the shadow. But it brought you no comfort seeing it float in the air. No candle or wood to give it fuel, and there was no one else here other than you to give it the spark it needed to come alive. So how did it just manifest from thin air?

You would get the answer as the flames grew in size. At first it was nothing but a small flicker skin to a single candlelight but then as if someone added fuel to the fire, it grew quickly to the size of a fire in a hearth and then to the size of a giant outdoor bonfire. The flames' grew in size, intensity, and temperature. The heat radiating off from it in waves as the flames danced and you stumbled back from the burning sensation waving off it, using the long sleeves of your matrimonial dress to shield your face as it rose higher than ever before. Surely at this rate it would burn down the entire mountain side and possibly spread to the villages below burning through everyone in it's path.

But as the heat washed over you it slowly resceded back like Ocean waves upon the beach. When you could no longer feel the heat above you, you dared to look back up only to be taken aback by the sudden light. Was the fire still there? Did you die and your ghost was standing there in the flames? Lowering the sleeves in search of the light source, you were stunned by what had appeared before you.

Before you was the shape of a figure, a man, but this could not be any mere human. For while it was shaped like a man, it flowed like fire. The yellowed body ending in red endings flickering as flames danced about from his shoulders, head, and hair. The eyes nothing but pure white light in contrast to the yellows, oranges, and reds that made up his body. The man of fire stood there before you doing nothing but stare silent in your direction, warmth radiating off his body. Silence consumed both of you until he tilted his head with a smile.

"My little flame,~" a voice spoke as he smiled upon you. "You came."

"W-Who are you?"

"I got by many names. The heavenly lights and the sun are most common amongst your people. I've also been called a ball of fire and a star. But you may refer to me as Husband," he offered taking a step forward.

A sizzling sounded with each step he took towards you. Each footstep leaving behind a footprint burnt into the stone ground proving that he really seemed to be made of nothing but fire. It made you flinch away much to his sorrow.

"You are the one who spoke to the Oracle and demanded me?"

"I am."

"Why?"

"I am fire but I only burn away the old so that you can thrive. I come to bring light and heat to the soul. However all fire comes from a single spark. Whether that spark is done by a match or lightning does not matter." A burning hand reached out for you. "You were my spark every morning I rose from the first time I felt my light shine upon your beautiful visage."

The warmth of the fire reached your face first making your body flinch, when he still approached you, your eyes closed and your head turned awaiting the burning of your flesh from his flames. But you felt no burning. Instead of a burning flesh, what you felt was a lightly uncomfortable but harmless warmth as a pair of hands grabbed your cheeks and turned your face to turn back up to the glowing smile. 

"There's a reason why they say that passion and love is like a flame sparking a desire deep within one's body." He lowered his face offering the same harmless warmth spreading across your skin as your foreheads met and his eyes gazed upon yours. "You set my heart a blaze after millionias of existence and now I will share limelight with you for eternity."

[kore-siciliana]

Hermes, Beautiful Messenger

All that’s left of you is your love and a specter of presence, though I do not feel it.  “I love you” and “I am here.” Like an oracle, they come tumbling from my mouth.  They are echos, sounding in my mind, ever distant.  I cling to your words like stormy wreckage on a now placid sea.   What ever were you?  You are language in the brain. O, Angelos Makarôn, blessed messenger, you brought so many to me.  Divine and deathless, they spoke, and you heralded intoxicating resplendence, all imbibed substance of a yearning soul.  Lovely Pompaios, the cosmos we traversed, were they just synapses?  Did you cut a path through my mind so I might see wonders? Together we spoke beauty.  Erato, beloved Muse, descended upon us, in trance I breathed out poetic love, but now without you I cannot speak.  I fail to put words to my heartache.  I have folded in upon myself and have lost you.  You are wrapped in mystery in some distant place.�� My fingers slipping from yours makes me wonder if you ever touched me.  “Dawnstar, live a life that is beautiful to you.”  I’ve etched it across my body, branded it in my memory, made it poetry so I might never forget.  How do I find the beauty in now empty expanses that you once traveled.  I am left without a guide unable to penetrate the dark, standing on murky shores.  Kydimos, I lived a life illuminated and expansive.  You showed me death and I was not afraid knowing I would find your voice as I slipped into boundlessness.  I am now harnessed as a being finite and discrete, alone.  I’m afraid that when you say “I am with you now” it is nothing but a string of flittering words I have found to hold myself in.  Can I ever find you again, in gentle ways?  Like a distant star, might you lead me in dark journeys?  But I am afraid that you are a glorious comet, blazing in my life for a moment, now leaving for a future so distant.  Wherever you live in me, do not stop.  If it is all that you are now, be the language that I speak.  Let me fall into you, embody you.  Live you incarnate.  Find yourself reflected in the liminality of a mind.  That is my home.  You are god of it there.

-Kore Siciliana, 6/30/24

[dailycharacteroption]

Class Feature Friday: Cosmos Mystery (Pathfinder Second Edition Oracle Mystery)

(art by Oscar Westberg on Artstation)

We’ve circled back around to second edition oracle mysteries again and this time we find ourselves with some notable tweaks to how oracle mysteries in 2e work.

While these mysteries still have their curses, they seem like they give fewer benefits as the curse magnifies compared to the non-remastered version. However, in exchange, it seems like they gain more granted spells in addition to the basic cantrip and the mystery focus spells, so it’s a bit of a trade-off, and less a race to maximize the curse as much as possible for the passive benefits, so I suppose I can understand.

In any case, the Cosmos mystery!

Quite obviously a renamed take on the old Heavens mystery from First Edition, this mystery is a blessing from the gods of the stars and sky, as well as the void in between, which I suppose means that it’s actually a blending of both Heavens and the Dark Tapestry mysteries.

Regardless, whether these oracles look to the stars or the darkness in the night sky looking for answers, they find them. These beings often look as those gravity has only a minor hold on them, and might also be marked by hair or eyes that sparkle with starlight, or other phenomena.

So originally, oracle mysteries got a passive benefit. However, now they get a bonus feat from their class list, so for posterity, I will include both. The oracles of the cosmos have a knack for sensing incoming danger, allowing them to warn their allies, better preparing them to react, and also reducing the damage they take from the first few attacks that hit them. This replaces the passive benefit where cosmos oracles instead had bodies that were partially composed of stellar material, reducing the harm of physical attacks.

Initially the basic cantrip of this mystery was the conjuring of a few floating lights. However, now they conjure a single powerful floating orb of light, as well a blasts of color that overwhelm the senses, fields of darkness, and a moon-addled frenzy in others. What’s more, their basic focus spell conjures a spray of star-like sparks to burn and dazzle foes.

Previously, oracle mysteries only granted access to two domain choices, but now they get four, being darkness, moon, nothingness, and star. These are useful for creating areas of darkness, blasting foes with sacred moonlight, warding themselves against mental attack with nothingness, and creating bright stars to track someone, respectively.

With greater revelations come new magical effects, such as freezing foes with the chill of empty space, and creating bridges of moonlight for them and their allies to cross while others fail to do so.

Naturally, they can also take the advanced spell of their domain as well. These can grant greater darkvision, granting cycling benefits based on the phase of the moon, creating sucking rifts to elsewhere, or create a burning asterism that harms those that pass through the lines, respectively.

The sky pulls at those with this mystery, cursing them with light bodies. The original version of this curse offered several benefits to being lightweight such as being impossible to trip or even allowing them to walk on unstable surfaces. However, the remastered version only makes the oracle easier to knock around.

The remastered version of the class does offer a feat or two associated with various mysteries, including Trial by Skyfire, allowing them to rain down fiery bolts from the heavens on foes.

There are, however, general feats that prove useful to them, including Reach Spell, Widen Spell, Knowledge of Shapes, Detonating Spell, Surging Might, Water Walker, Quickened Casting, Lighter Than Air, Blaze of Revelation, Mystery Conduit, and others that fit your build.

This mystery definitely lends itself more to the blasty side of things, but also offers ways to buff others and themselves, as well as some good utility. I will say I do miss the added benefits to advancing one’s curse, but I also understand the need for the curse to be the consequence of overusing certain abilities rather than something to immediately farm for each day and encounter.

Being an oracle of the cosmos means feeling the call of the stars and the beings with power over them. Does the oracle embrace such higher powers, or live in fear of them? I suppose it all depends on whether they embrace the vastness above or not.

Many-Eyes-of-Heaven lives up to their name, their many eyes as a goloma twinkling like stars in their mane. Unlike others of their kind though, they believe that it is time to cast aside fear and befriend the many peoples of the world and beyond, befitting their role as a star-gazer.

Blessed by the stars both by her heritage as a lunar naga and by the divine will of the gods, Eisaveth is among the most powerful of her kind, and many go to her seeking wisdom from the heavens. However, a new group of petitioners approaches that seeks the answers to their questions, and the naga’s death to prevent those answers from spreading, something she has forseen, and summoned the party to prevent.

After years of fending off the threats from the night sky, the remote village of Olgans has grown distrustful of the stars, to the point when a child born with constellation birthmarks begins showing signs of divine power, there is a debate about their fate.

[sukunaslilgurl]

Now we are free - Epilogue

Long ago, in the heart of Rome, a city of grandeur and cruelty, where gladiators fought to the death for the entertainment of the higher class, a legend was born. Among the countless slaves forced into the arena, one name stood above all others: Sukuna, the King of Demons.

Towering over his enemies, Sukuna was a man of unparalleled strength and skill. His body was a tapestry of black tattoos, mysterious and ancient, etched deep into his muscular frame. They glowed faintly under the blazing sun, a testament to the curse—or gift—that made him more than mortal. He was unstoppable, feared by men, admired by women, and hated by the elite who could not control him.

Hundreds of battles passed, and Sukuna remained undefeated. His sword was an extension of his will, his hands capable of snapping necks and breaking shields with ease. The arena was his kingdom, the blood-soaked sands his throne. But despite his fame, Sukuna was not free. He was a slave, bound in chains both physical and metaphysical.

Yet, deep in his crimson eyes burned a fire of defiance. He was not just a man, but a demon, a fallen being who had once ruled with malice and power. Rome thought they had tamed him, made him their weapon, but Sukuna was biding his time.

In the shadows of the Colosseum, amid the whispers of rebellion and hope, there was another presence—a woman. Irene, a healer and oracle, known for her unparalleled beauty and unmatched wisdom. She was not of Roman blood but a captive from the East, taken for her mystical abilities. Irene was different from the others. She saw Sukuna not as a beast or a weapon but as a man—a man burdened with a dark past and an unyielding will.

Their paths crossed when Sukuna was gravely wounded in a battle against ten of the fiercest gladiators Rome had ever seen. Left for dead in the dungeons beneath the arena, it was Irene who tended to him. Her touch was gentle yet firm, her presence soothing yet commanding.

“You are not meant to die here, Sukuna,” she whispered, her voice like a balm to his restless soul. “The chains that bind you are not eternal. Rise, and claim your destiny.”

Sukuna’s eyes met hers, and for the first time in centuries, he felt something other than anger—he felt hope.

As days turned into weeks, their bond grew. Irene’s wisdom tempered Sukuna’s rage, and Sukuna’s strength gave Irene the courage to defy the empire that enslaved them both. Together, they plotted not just their escape but the downfall of those who had taken their freedom.

The legend of Sukuna and Irene began in blood and fire, but their story would transcend the sands of the arena and echo through the ages—a tale of rebellion, love, and the indomitable spirit of two souls who refused to be broken.

Rome had forged a monster, but in Irene, Sukuna found his humanity. Together, they would become unstoppable.

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

Masterlist of Writing

Oh my goodness this took so long to finish haha! Anyways this is a compilation of everything I've written so far, it will be updated as I go along. Btw Here's an about me tag game I once did :)

Worldbuilding:

Geography

Linguistic Post

Linguistics Part 2!

Hygiene, Healthcare and Hieroglyphs

Ceredell

High Fantasy:

The Holy Crusader

Honey-cake

Deer-shade

A Thousand Lives

My Worst Nightmare

Tabitha-Who-Saw-the-gods

The Fae Prince

The Oracle and the King (aka the story of Iraela's sister)

Daughter

The Godhuntress & the Void:

The End of the World

The Beginning of the World

Old Friends

For Want of a Flower

Spirits:

The Spirit Emperor

No

Merida

History (Not a lorepost) (commentary included)

Put up a Sign

To My Friend: Or, a Letter from a Villain

Attempts at fluff/Writing experiments:

Pt 1 (fluff)

Pt 2(angst)

Ones Such As Us (romance)

Requests:

Public transport

Field Researcher

Urban Fantasy:

Tituba and the Darkness

It watched me without eyes

Now, now Dearie

The Devil Drives a Good Bargain

Goodbye

Russian Roulette Club

The Saga of Maizen, Shatterer of Worlds

Rage

The Serpent, part 1

Part 2

Part 3

The Wanderer:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Impossibility

Home

Homesick

Fast Food:

Childhood

Adolescence

Travels

Realistic/Non Fiction:

On Reading

Bird In a Cage

Dawn

Crumpling Butterflies

Expressions

Love

Hate

Box

Can I?

An Ode to Tofu

Love, or the lack thereof

Cream Puffs

An Angel

Trophy Case

Popping

Rooster

Poetry:

Blame

The Blazing Sun

Severance

A Tribute to Ivander Montane (Based off @/illarian-rambling's character)

SQL (a joke, mostly)

Misc:

Mahogany (IDK what genre)

God (Sci-fi)

Will you listen, please? (Sci-Fi)

Spirit of the Hole in the Wall (Horror)

An Explorer's Log (Sci-fi)

Heroes (Superhero)

False-Moon (Fantasy but unrelated to everything else)

Lantern (fantasy unrelated to anything else)

Envy (genreless)

Have a nice day! (Joke)

Grass (NSFW, gore)

Take and Give (horror)

How to Become a Hero (don't ask)

Little Men in Taps (joke)

The Smile of Misfortune (realistic fiction)

Christmas Special!! (Don't read this until you've checked out everything else lol)

Halloween Special (Horror)

A Dream (excerpt from my dream journal)

FAQ:

Q: I'm new to your work... Where should I start?

A: I would recommend The Spirit Emperor as an intro to the universe, and Old Friends as an intro to my writing style!

Q: What is your favourite work?

A: It's not similar to anything else I've written, and the last bits aren't that great, but I have a personal soft spot for Heroes

Q: Have you looked into the Void that lies beyond all things?

A: No. And I'd recommend you don't either.

[kingnlionhearts]

♱ Sun Bleached Flies

Anakin Skywalker x Celine Palpatine (oc)

TAGS: Jedi x Witch, House Palpatine, Sun x Moon, Mortis Gods, Daddy Issues, Dear Wormwood, Family Line, Force Dyad, Forbidden Romance, palpatine is a shit dad, Additional Chosen One Prophecy, my next application to be your favourite house palpatine & mortis gods writer, Canon Adjacent

TIMELINE: tpm – rots

The Witching Hour darkened the world and Celine Palpatine knelt beneath the moonlight. "Forgive me, divine mother. I am not the daughter I should be."

☾ ˚｡⋆

     The river chilled Celine to her marrow. Her black dress clung to her skin as the Sisters helped her wade waist-deep into the depths. Green mist peeked around the trees, tendrils waited with bated breath to ensnare her. Mother took Celine's hands and chanted in the ancient tongue the girl had not yet been taught. With gentle grace, Celine was lowered into the water. She floated easily, staring into the sky — darkened by a blood moon eclipse. ("The perfect night," Mother had boasted with a smile. "It is a rare privilege. The moons call to you.") The mist — ichor — reached out as Celine was pushed beneath the red water. Under the surface, there was peace. Celine closed her eyes. She felt the magick wrap around her. But instead of pulling her back to the surface, it pushed her deeper. Celine screamed into the water — calling for her Mothers (her coven leader; her blood; her moon goddess). She sank deeper, slipping beyond the riverbed.

Celine landed on her back in a dull room. Beige and lifeless — nothing like the witches' land of Dathomir, and nothing like Celine's homeworld of Naboo. The green mist dissipated, drawing the crimson river from her lungs so she could draw breath. Even her dress had dried. A boy sat in the room: tinkering with a small-scale model of a ship. He looked up, blue eyes blazing with intrigue. He set his tools down. "I know you." Celine stared at the boy. He was her age, dark blond, a long braid behind one ear.

"You're a Jedi." Celine was quickly on her feet, looking for an escape. The boy looked amused. He looked calm to say she had fallen through a river into his room.

"I am." He gave a proud grin. "What are you? A witch?"

Celine shrugged. Not until after her baptism. This was the test — to see if she was worthy of becoming a Nightsister of Dathomir, like her mother. But why had the magick sent her to a Jedi?

"You were at the victory parade on Naboo after the invasion." The boy rose to come closer, as if to see if she was real. "You're the Chancellor's daughter!"

"And you are?"

"I'm Anakin Skywalker. But why are you here? I read about the Force connecting people across space and time."

Celine didn't want to share the Nightsisters' sacred rituals with a boy she had just met. "Perhaps it is destiny."

Anakin smiled. "Destiny. I like that."

Celine rose from the river — water choked her lungs, blonde hair plastered to her face. The magickal ichor hung from her like a second skin. She lifted her hands, energy moved between her fingers. She was not the same girl that had entered the blood river. Celine smiled. On the riverbanks, her Sisters cheered. Celine stared back at the moons, gazing upon the central one, the largest — the one turned crimson in its eclipse. As a daughter of the moon, Celine knew her destiny laid in pursuit of the Great Prophecy (the oracle of the Nightsisters that decreed one day their Maker would return, and their magick would increase tenfold beneath her beautiful Chaos). But the Nightsisters were not the only ones who prayed for the First Mother's return from beyond the stars.

The Jedi's Chosen One was a pawn, a tool for a wider game — so Chancellor Palpatine believed. When he laid eyes on the boy beneath the clear skies of Naboo, Palpatine knew the boy would be the perfect means to an end, a puppet and an apprentice to bring the Sith to their ultimate power. Born of the Force and destined to bring balance by destroying the Sith, Palpatine knew that luring Anakin Skywalker into his web would be crucial to all his plans. So, he deployed his greatest weapon to draw in the young Jedi and destroy any hope of fulfilling his prophecy — his daughter.

available on wattpad

This fic is vaguely inspired by Dune and the Bene Gesserit. It will use some lore from Legends, and my own lore created for my other Star Wars series The Courage of Stars (there will be plot similarities, but they approach the same endgame from different positions). Basically, I hope this fic will be a culmination of my love for the Mortis Gods and the lore I have created for them, and my love for witches (shout out to my uni dissertation!). Celine is a little inspired by Lucrezia Borgia and Lady Jessica from Dune. I have also made Corvus (Morgan Elsbeth’s planet in The Mandalorian & Ahsoka) a moon of Dathomir!! Only one of Dathomir’s moons is named in Legends, so I’m taking some creative liberties. It is also important to note that Celine does not know that her father is a Sith. She knows that he has an interest in magick and the Force, but nothing more. Additionally, Mother Talzin and the Nightsisters don’t know Celine is a Palpatine — she leads two lives: the witch and the Chancellor’s daughter. There isn’t overlap between them (except maybe until tcw…)

ALSO STARRING..... Natalie Dormer as Talea Corvidae & Sarah Bolger as Solara Palpatine.

[talonabraxas]

The 5/5 portal Gateway 5.5.2024 - 558 Amun-Ra by Talon Abraxas

Solar Energies Transfiguration/Alchemical Gold

Amun-Ra brings together the great solar gods, Amun and Ra, who unite to represent the sun in the fullness of its mysteries. Honoring both the bright golden illuminating brilliance of the day, and the hidden, mysterious night journey when the sun is invisible, Amun-Ra announces our opportunity to step into our full inner authority, into an awakened state of illumined consciousness. When you can fully embrace the cycles of life and death, and pass through the portals of light and dark, each transforms into its opposite.

In the dance of Ra and Amun, an alchemical process is unleashed as the seen mixes with the unseen. That which is consciously created from that awareness-a project, event, or object-is the spiritualized matter, the alchemical gold. We ourselves are the spiritualized matter when we engage with Amun-Ra, who infuses us with dignity and royalty. The powerful light from the Solar Mysteries shines upon us and transfigures us, and we become spiritually mature beings who embody shamanic consciousness in everyday life. Amun-Ra helps us to realize that everything we need to heal ourselves and our world is within our reach; he enters this oracle to help us find it.

If you’ve pulled this card, you are now ready to embody the solar energies and radiate them into the world around you. You have the opportunity to experience a sacred marriage and enter into the company of gods, becoming fully aware of your divinity. As you meditate on the image of Amun-Ra, you may experience a feeling of radiant power and wholeness, and a readiness to step fully into your power in the world. Choose wisely what you create from this auspicious moment. Remember that whatever you manifest in the physical world not only shines in the visible, blazing light of Ra, but also reflects the Great Mystery of the unseen, Amun, the hidden face of the sun.

[promptorium]

More Awesome AI Image Prompts (By Gemini)

Prompt 1

Theme: The Celestial Cartographer and the Star-Serpent

Prompt: "Create a visually stunning artwork in a vibrant, illustrative, stained-glass style. A young female celestial cartographer with flowing, deep-indigo hair adorned with tiny, glowing star-like pins is the central figure. Her eyes are closed in deep concentration, and she wears elegant, flowing robes decorated with constellations and nebulae in shades of purple, blue, and gold. Coiled protectively around her is a magnificent, colossal Star-Serpent. The serpent's scales are a mosaic of iridescent colors—deep violets, shimmering teals, and fiery oranges—each scale detailed with intricate, luminous patterns. Its eyes glow with ancient wisdom, and its horns are like polished obsidian. They are situated in an otherworldly library, with towering, twisting shelves made of dark, gnarled wood. Instead of books, the shelves hold glowing orbs of captured starlight and swirling galaxies in jars. The background is a large, ornate window looking out into the cosmos, revealing swirling nebulae, distant planets, and a soft, ethereal glow from a crescent moon. The entire scene is framed by intricate, swirling patterns reminiscent of Art Nouveau, with heavy black outlines defining every element, making the colors pop with luminous intensity. The lighting is mystical, with a soft glow emanating from the orbs and the serpent itself, casting dynamic shadows and highlighting the rich details."

Prompt 2

Theme: The Oracle of the Sunken City and her Leviathan Guardian

Prompt: "Generate a masterpiece image in a detailed, graphic novel art style with heavy black lines and a rich, saturated color palette. The scene features a mysterious female oracle with long, flowing seaweed-green hair that floats as if underwater. She has intricate, bioluminescent tattoos on her arms and face that glow with a soft, turquoise light. She is wearing ornate, bronze-colored headphones that seem to be crafted from ancient, otherworldly technology, perhaps with seashell and coral motifs. A gentle, knowing expression is on her face. Protecting her is a massive, serpentine Leviathan, its body a tapestry of deep-sea colors: cobalt blue, emerald green, and shimmering gold. Its scales are meticulously detailed, some appearing like polished gems, others like rough, ancient stone. The Leviathan has fins that resemble delicate, torn silk, and its eyes glow with a powerful, amber light. They are located within the ruins of a magnificent sunken city. In the background, you can see towering, coral-encrusted architecture, arches covered in glowing moss, and schools of fantastical, glowing fish swimming through the scene. The lighting comes from the bioluminescent flora and fauna, creating a magical, ethereal underwater atmosphere with dramatic shadows and vibrant highlights. The entire composition is bordered by elaborate, flowing lines and patterns that integrate the characters into the fantastical environment."

Prompt 3

Theme: The Dream Weaver and the Somnus Drake

Prompt: "Create a captivating artwork in a psychedelic, illustrative style characterized by vibrant, contrasting colors and intricate linework. The central figure is a serene Dream Weaver, a young woman with hair the color of a fiery sunset—blazing reds, oranges, and pinks. She has her eyes closed, a peaceful smile on her face, and is wearing intricate, fantasy-styled headphones from which shimmering, ethereal threads of light emanate. She is dressed in flowing, dream-like fabrics of deep purples and midnight blues, adorned with celestial patterns. A magnificent Somnus Drake is curled around her, its form both protective and gentle. The drake's scales are a mesmerizing blend of turquoise, magenta, and gold, with each scale featuring a unique, swirling pattern. Its horns are crystalline and seem to refract the ambient light. They are in a surreal, abstract forest where the trees twist into impossible shapes, and the foliage is made of glowing, feathery patterns. The sky is a vortex of swirling colors, with multiple moons and sparkling stars of different shapes and sizes. The overall mood is one of mystical tranquility and creative power. Use heavy black outlines to define all the elements, giving it a bold, graphic feel, and ensure the colors are intensely saturated and almost glowing from within."

Prompt 4

Theme: The Keeper of the Whispering Woods and the Elder Wyrm

Prompt: "Produce a highly detailed digital illustration with a strong fantasy and Art Nouveau influence. The image depicts a wise and powerful female Keeper of the Whispering Woods. She has vibrant, crimson red hair styled in intricate braids, and her eyes, wide and perceptive, are a striking emerald green. She wears ornate, fantastical armor with leaf and vine motifs, and large, elaborate headphones that seem to be carved from ancient, magical wood. Her expression is one of calm authority. An enormous, ancient Elder Wyrm is coiled around her, its presence ancient and formidable. The wyrm’s scales are a complex mosaic of earthy tones—mossy greens, deep browns, and flashes of autumnal orange and gold. Its underbelly glows with a soft, warm light. They are in the heart of a magical, enchanted forest at twilight. The trees are tall and ancient, with glowing runes carved into their bark. The forest floor is covered in mystical, glowing mushrooms and intricate, swirling ground patterns. The sky visible through the canopy is a deep twilight purple, dotted with twinkling stars and celestial symbols. The entire scene should be framed with elaborate, flowing, organic borders. The use of heavy, dark outlines is crucial to give the illustration a defined, impactful look, while the colors should be rich, deep, and evocative of ancient magic."

Prompt 5

Theme: The Soul Forger and the Astral Phoenix

Prompt: "Visualize a spellbinding scene in a psychedelic, graphic-novel art style, defined by intense, contrasting colors and meticulously detailed linework. The focal point is the 'Soul Forger,' a powerful woman with molten, golden hair that flows and eddies like liquid metal, dotted with incandescent embers. Her skin is the color of polished obsidian, and she has a look of intense, serene focus. She wears elaborate, fantasy-style headphones crafted from starmetal and glowing with internal fire. Her attire is a blacksmith's apron made of woven nebula-threads over a gown of deep, velvety blues and purples. At her side, acting as the forge's fire, is a magnificent Astral Phoenix. The phoenix is a riot of color—its feathers are long, flowing strokes of fiery magenta, electric cyan, and solar-flare yellow, each feather intricately detailed with cosmic patterns. Its eyes are like white-hot stars. They are located on a floating celestial forge, an asteroid of dark, crystalline rock drifting through a vibrant, multicolored nebula. Anvils and hammers are forged from solidified light, and the background is a swirling vortex of interstellar gas, distant galaxies, and shimmering stardust. Heavy black outlines give every element a sharp, defined feel, and the colors are so saturated they seem to be a light source, creating an atmosphere of cosmic creation and immense power."

Prompt 6

Theme: The Galactic Gardener and the Crystal-Coated Basilisk

Prompt: "Create a breathtaking artwork in a vibrant, illustrative style reminiscent of psychedelic art, using bold, saturated colors and intricate black linework for definition. The central figure is the 'Galactic Gardener,' a woman whose hair is a cascade of bioluminescent vines and glowing, alien flowers in shades of neon green, electric blue, and soft pink. Her eyes are closed in peaceful communion with her surroundings, and on her head are ornate headphones that look like they're grown from crystal and living wood. She is tending to a cosmic garden where the plants have leaves made of solid light and flowers that bloom into miniature galaxies. Curled at her feet is a majestic Crystal-Coated Basilisk. Its body is serpentine, covered in a shimmering, iridescent layer of rainbow-hued crystals that refract the ambient light into a thousand tiny spectrums. Its head is crowned with larger, geometric crystal growths, and its eyes glow with a soft, knowing intelligence. The setting is a terraformed moon, where the ground is made of polished, pearlescent stone, and the sky is a swirling tapestry of purple and turquoise nebulae, populated by twin suns and crystalline celestial bodies. The mood is one of serene harmony and the beauty of life on a cosmic scale. The intense color palette and strong outlines make the scene feel both otherworldly and vividly alive."

Prompt 7

Theme: The Librarian of Lost Languages and the Chronos Serpent

Prompt: "Generate a mesmerizing image in a detailed, psychedelic illustrative style, emphasizing vibrant, high-contrast colors and crisp, heavy linework. The main character is the 'Librarian of Lost Languages,' a scholarly woman with long, flowing hair the color of aged parchment, intricately inscribed with glowing, holographic glyphs and symbols from forgotten tongues. She wears elaborate, fantasy-inspired headphones that seem to be made of brass and swirling, captured time. Her expression is one of deep thought as she deciphers a floating, spectral manuscript. Her robes are a deep indigo, embroidered with shifting, glowing constellations. Coiled around the floating bookshelves and her chair is the Chronos Serpent, a guardian of time. The serpent’s scales are a dazzling mosaic of clockwork gears and shifting temporal patterns, colored in shades of antique gold, oxidized copper, and ethereal teal. Its body seems to ripple and distort, showing glimpses of past and future moments. The setting is an impossible library where shelves twist and spiral into the sky, containing not books but captured moments in glowing crystals. The background is an abstract representation of the time-stream—a swirling vortex of light, color, and fragmented events. The entire artwork should feel intensely saturated, with a bold, graphic quality that highlights the mystical and surreal nature of the scene."

[teriwrites]

The Blind Oracle: Prologue

My Live Reactions to Reading Through My 2024 Novel

Can I just start by saying I can't believe we're here???

If you'd told me this was going to take me through essentially four months without touching a piece of published fiction, I probably would've cried, but I'm actually so glad that I chose to do this

Let's do this

'The streets of Cebryn's busiest market ebbed and flowed with its usual weekend tide of customers. Early morning day larks hoping to beat the crowds formed one of their own, then cleared out before the layabouts of late morning arrived, who felt still superior over the midday thrush.' opening on a teriwrites guarantee: MARKETPLACES ARE SUPERIOR

Madoc is sitting on a stool, watching and waiting with nothing more than a couple planks of wood as his vendor table

'Camaraderie existed among the merchants of Cebryn, but Madoc's young face - somewhere between lean and emaciated - and empty stall had never earned him into their good graces. But his work didn't rely on fostering friendships.' (what an edgy ((impoverished)) guy)

Madoc makes eye contact with a kid of like 10, notices the difference between her fine clothes and guardian's patched shawl, and with an acknowledgement, the kid excitedly wants to go over to his table

Immediately clocks this child is either spoiled or being ushered around by a nanny, and either way, his chances of making a sale are going up

"Are you really a Seer?" she asked, anticipation crackling through every word. Her guardian pressed her lips into a thin line of disapproval, but she said nothing. Madoc smiled wanly, shaking his shaggy ash brown hair from his eyes. "I have been blessed with a rare gift." The girl's dark eyes widened. "Can you read my future?" (boy has no idea he's actually telling the truth lmao)

Bro charges a whole SILVER piece to do a reading

(I have absolutely no basis for economy in this story, but, I mean, that's gotta be a high price for a conversation lol)

'Clapping her hands together, Nesta hopped onto the stool opposite Madoc. "What do I need to do?" "Nothing. Simply look into my eyes, and I'll be able to read glimpses of your future," Madoc lied.' (idr who posted it, but that post about loving the word 'lied' as a dialogue tag was so true, I love it when the narrative calls a character out)

Madoc's pretending to have a vision and actually has one oop

Vision going all wonky and starting to glaze over in a white light, pain bursting in his head, he stumbles off the stool and just books it for an alleyway where it should be a bit darker

His clients, of course, are a little confused lol

'Madoc stopped as he stumbled against something tall and solid - a wall, though whether he was nearing the alley or overshot it, he couldn't tell. Keeping his palms pressed against his eyes, he slid into a crouch, pressing his face against his knees. The white light didn't fade, but it eased into something less potent. And just as Madoc expected it to wane back into the darkness of the shade he cast, he found his vision abruptly clear. You will stand in the streets of Cebryn, covering your ears as a horn bellows against the overcast sky. Shrieks of pain and terror mingle with the roar of blazing fires, consuming tightly-packed streets in inferno. Smoke chokes the city, stinging your dry eyes as you stumble up a wide flight of stairs. The building at the top is familiar to you, so familiar you don't bother to watch your step as you keep your head turned to the street. A woman will scream as she emerges from the flames, desperately clawing at her engulfed hair as it burns. Your stomach twists at the sight, but your path is clear. You climb the stairs. Beyond the woman, a wall of shadow will appear. You assume it at first to come from within the fire itself, a singular entity conjured up from your enemies. But as disjointed movements break out of its uniform march, you see the approaching soldiers. Behind them waves a flag of deep purple, a silver spear emblazoned upright in its center. They circumvent the fire, advancing through the city. You will wonder how much they have already taken. As they near the suffering woman, you will hope that they offer the courtesy of at least dousing the fire. She sees them, and, in her desperation, runs before their procession, pleading for their mercy. One of the soldiers will approach her. The woman will fall. The knots in your stomach will tighten until, with a single tug at the sight, they come undone at the certainty that floods what sanity you retain. With this singular demonstration, you will know. The enemy shows no mercy. They come to destroy your Fendwyth Kingdom. They likely already have. And you will know two things to be true. This will be your fault, and you will die for it.' (teehee!)

Playing around with tenses and POVs was one of the biggest joys of this project, I've gotta be honest

Anyways, Madoc has been pulled out of the vision

'Madoc reared back as a drowning man breaks the water's surface, gasping and struggling.' fun times!

Somebody familiar is staring at him

'Gareth Medwin crouched so low that his chin could've rested on his knees.' MY FAV IS HERE

Apparently fainting spells are not a new thing for Madoc

Neither are the visions that accompany them, but, for the first time, he actually tells Gareth about this one

'Silence. Gareth never sat still for so long. When Madoc glanced up, his brother was chewing on his bottom lip and staring pointedly at the mouth of the alley. Madoc released a sigh. "What?" "Well..." Gareth trailed off, but, seeing the impatience on Madoc's face, burst out, "What if it is real?" Madoc blanked. "Gareth, I think we would know if there was an army invading Fendwyth. Besides, it was cloudy in the dream, remember?" He pointed overhead at the blue sky.' (teenagers amiright)

Gareth trying to convince Madoc that maybe it could become real someday, and Madoc is like 'bro, i'm a Fake foretuneteller, remember??'

" - And even if I did somehow see the future - which I didn't - would you really want to believe it? What am I supposed to do about all of that?" Gareth settled back on his knees. His voice cracked as he hurriedly said, "You could always go to the Oracles - " " - The Oracles aren't going to listen to a random kid!" Madoc scoffed, waving a hand down at his threadbare tunic, at the patched hole in the knee of his trousers, the worn soles of shoes that hadn't fit right in months. "Imagine me asking for an audience with the Oracles! They'd laugh me out of the hall. Or worse, they'd believe that some stupid dream I had meant the kingdom was collapsing, and panic about nothing." (kinda wild to think that if he just listened to Gareth, we never would've gotten into this mess)

Madoc just wants to forget about the whole thing

Gareth is doubtful he can

Madoc punches him in the shoulder, but then wraps an arm around him as they head out of the alley - oh the love of a sibling

'Strolling back into the market, Madoc already felt the certainty of his own words settling the remnants of unease fluttering through his mind.' that's totally a good thing

Ending Thoughts:

A short one for now! iirc, this story - broken into a prologue, 5 acts, and an epilogue - has a classic bell curve when it comes to wordcount. Stay tuned for act 3, which will be my longest post to date probably lol But regardless, this is fun! Something that was particularly engaging about this WIP was that I was slowly starting to challenge myself not just through hitting 50,000 words in a month, but also within the story itself - switching up POVs/tenses, we'll see some direct references to lyrics/quotes/etc., leaning into the dramatic irony of this being a tragedy with literal glimpses ahead into the narrative through Madoc's lil visions. Which were without question the most fun part to write haha

[echantedtoon]

Heavenly Lights

After a particular bad start to your celebration being chosen as the wife to the God of Festivals, a surprising turn happens that enchants you forever in the heavenly lights.

This is once again inspired by the artwork of @lelee-tdn and their artwork depicting Tengen as a literal God of Festivals. I'll link it below but warning it IS spicy art. So if you're 17 and below pls DNI as respect to the artist's wishes. It's pretty short but I wanted to write something for this man you have no idea.)

https://www.tumblr.com/lelee-tdn/697936924738977792/cw-suggestive-mdni-the-god-of-festivals?source=share

Fireworks are chaos and unpredictability. Their explosive gifts like heaven's art. Filling the night with their bright dreams, born to live through colour then die again. The spectators seeing their blazing trails arc above. There's something about them that warms the heart even in the cold, as if their stray sparks passed into their blood. 

So tell me why must the heavenly lights bring amongst their happy lights such sorrows?

Why must such sorrows take a hold of your skin at the time of happiness amongst the hundreds of others laughing at the company of others and the dazzling gleam of lights reflecting off their eyes like hundreds of tiny mirrors to the souls. The laughter's ambience and joyous sights held nothing within the mind of one that found nothing but sorrows. 

You felt no happiness when your name was called by the oracle.

Felt no spark when you were ushered away to be properly dressed up as beautiful as the lights in the sky.

Felt no hope despite the emense dancing of the crowds and the joyous laughter they exuded towards the heavenly lights of the dark abyss. 

Filling their heads with joy and their hearts with warmth. 

However lights were not going to be able to help you in your predicament and fortune unless you leave. Leave the center of fired hearts set ablaze. Dash away from the lights. Cloak yourself in the darkness far away until the next morning when the grandness of lights would finally be dowsed by the sun.

To her freedom remained intact and her life not taken.

The music of the giant celebration gently flowed throughout and between the beautiful decorations wrapped around the walls of buildings. The way the candles inside lanterns lit up the surroundings and made the shadows beautifully dance against the walls. The way the smell of delicious foods being sold by vendors and the thick gunpowder and smoke wafted through the air. The beautiful music mixing with the laughter and talking of the guests around the lights. 

It was almost like a dream. Everyone having a great time behind their happy faces, no one telling who they were or maybe that was all part of the game. The fun of not knowing who you were speaking too and being able to be your own person tonight. But maybe she wasn't meant to join the fun and laughter that everyone else seemed to be having. Being maskless and alone wondering the world was the lonely fate of the girl in the flowing white dress. Blindly walking and circles, moving around. The sounds, the smells, the atmosphere. It was starting to make her dizzy. Everyway she'd turn she would catch a glimpse of a man with red eyes.

Those familiar red eyes. The ones she both dreaded and feared yet found beauty in every festival that has arisen for the past two years. The eyes that were telling her to come forth and watch the lights being driven by the emotions running amock through them and outward into the nights.

Very familiar red eyes. 

Her dizzied mind knew not to be afraid or excited about the way it gazed and pierced her soul. The way he looked at her with those beautiful wine red eyes. Promising only trouble ahead. Well maybe she was looking for trouble, her head was kept on a swivel, always looking around herself in the see of marked laughter. Sometimes she'd catch a glimpse of red or maybe it was just her clouded emotional mind. At this point she didn't know if she was searching for him or trying to ensure she was far from him. But however she put it, the circles and laughter was starting to get dizzier and dizzier. She barely noticed when someone tall bowed to her. Grabbed her hand. And lead her to dance. Maybe it was because she was temporarily blinded by the lights casting shadows upon his face, or the swirls of the graceful dance they spun. But there was no mistaking those red eyes. Perhaps she was crazy. Perhaps her dizzy mind was clouding any judgement. Maybe she was under some kind of spell from those red eyes. But when those eyes smiled at her-

She couldn't look away from them. 

Nor could she deny the magnetic static that clung to them both with every step of the dance, with fabric flowing and laughter crowding their brains or the way the intoxication of lights seemed to light his body like an ancient celestial being long since remembered. The addiction of the smells of carnival foods and faint scent of gunpowder coming from his every step. Or the smile that seemed to ignite the lights above them. Giving them that first match, that starting spark all fireworks needed in order to truly be brought to life.

"Flashy aren't they?"

You did not know if he spoke of the lights or of the eyes you couldn't escape the sight of. Smiking at you possibly brighter than the sun himself. It's euphoric glow seemingly bland compared to this man's radiant gleam and shine. 

"How about beautiful?"

You know not how you came to find the words nor not how you were about to light the eyes with surprise but when they shined at you with the dazzle of a lot fire, you found yourself burning back up to fizzle out and die in those eyes like the fireworks they were made for.

[thecheshirecatalice]

“Upon Olympus”

I stand alone atop a mountain

Storming

Thunder and lightning

Ring upon Olympus

As I do

What was done by Orpheus

And attempt to seduce the gods

With music and poetics

I speak words of fire

Flame

And desire

For Hestia

And a pyre

Burns brighter

Into a spire

I take my lighter

And alight a joint

Inhaling marijuana

And then take a sip of wine

Dionysus smiles

Inside of my mind

Tonight

I look to the moon

And shoot my words high

Like arrows flying

Through the sky

Like I was hunting the stars

As they fall upon Artemis

And the moon shines

With light

So I spin and sing

Like a Pythoness

In the Oracle of Delphi

And my form evokes the heat

And passion

Of performance and poetry

As a vision

Of the golden sun appears

And I know

Apollo has seen me

I then riddle in the storm

“What does it mean

To carry a written note

To a blind man

Who can’t read

Or speak a message

To the deaf

Who can’t hear anything

If it still means something

To me”

And I hear a laugh

In the air

In the voice

Of Hermes

And I grin back

At nothing

Then I grimace

And shout back

In the air

To Ares

Do you see me

God of war

Do you see my scars

I have waged wars

Inside storms

For years

For my soul

Becoming so bold

That I killed the void

And pillaged truth

Like gold

And walk the world

Like a battlefield

Where knowledge

Is power

And I know

I know something

As truth

Is a part

Of the universe

Like an arena

For the good of good

Is this wisdom

Athena

As my blood

Burns fire

And my mind

Is inspired

I forge language

Like fire

And metal

Alchemical

With thoughts

Like wires

And logic

I forge concepts

From my wit

Like automatons

And AI

Intelligent

Synthesis

And the ground

Shakes volcanic

Erruptive

From Hephaestus

As I stand

And I kiss

The wind

And whisper

Aphrodite

As I feel my heart beat

In my chest

I know this is true for you

And the rest

That we wish

For what we think is best

And I am blessed

With empathy

And love

So do confess

To loving Love

As my heart beats in my chest

And so I dream

Of what to sew

And what to reap

For a bountiful harvest

So we can all eat

While I pray on the meter

To Demeter

And feed belief

And feel family

With humanity

In sanity

Within insanity

Senses

In nonsense

We are all the children

Of a world of darkness

Blinded

By the venomous chimera

That we forget to love each other

Like we would a lover

Or our own mothers

And I hear Hera weeping

As the sky thunders

And the rain tastes of salt

Like tears

Of passion and pain

Or the ocean and sea

Of Poseidon

Raging like a blaze

As the storm surges

Like tidal waves

And the wind howls

Into a hurricane

As I bend

Like a palm tree

And dance and flow

With with the storm

As the form

Of the world

Dances with me

And I scream

No longer alone

Upon Olympus

“I am the god

Of my own destiny”

As lightning strikes my body

And for a moment

I see Zeus and the Olympians

Smiling at my poetry

Until I am alone again

Sitting upon Olympus

A human

With language

And love

And a dream

Of the best of us

—Alice D

May 4, 2024