Chapter Text
ACT I
The smell of blood and pomegranates were one and the same to the youth sitting below the goddess's throne. Here he was used to both staining the floor beneath his feet or trickling down his spine. The fruit was his mistress's favorite food, and the other was her favorite sight.
It was her desire for the latter that had named him her bloodhound.
Bloodhound. Child. Servant. Slave. Any name but his real name. An irony considering it was his true name that had bound him to her service in the beginning. She had swallowed it and never once had it passed her lips thereafter. Nor had anyone used it since, or any name he had possessed. He himself had forgotten it.
A twist in his stomach reminded him he was hungry, but he closed his eyes and willed any sound not to betray him. She'd feed him nothing but dreams, and he didn't want them, he swore he didn't, even as he felt himself go faint at the mere thought.
He could feel her eyes on his bare back now, followed by a sweep of her fingers through his hair, and he swallowed thickly, wondering what could have given him away. But then, she was the goddess of psyche, if anyone could read minds, it was her. And she had power over his, even if he resisted her with every breath he took. A futile resistance, as the shackle binding his left wrist to the leg of her throne always reminded him. It was a powerful binding, only springing open at her thought command. It might have been more symbolic if it had been his right, dominant hand, but she could not have risked numbing the right hand that wielded the spear in her service. The shackle was merely something to keep him in check, keep him within reach, and also set him loose on any threat that entered her court.
The court was never particularly loud, but neither was it quiet. She had many human slaves always running back and forth according to her whims, a few stolen jinn, and the occasional adeptus. Some were merely servants, others battled out debates and philosophies and dreams. But none of the brimming energy was ever good. It held the tension of glass straining to break.
His breath sucked in and every muscle tightened. What was that? What was that sound? That—
Faster than he could complete his thought, faster than his senses could react, the dark sky was split by a shaft of light like a shooting star. And just as swiftly, an arrow the size of a spear plunged from the heavens and pierced the goddess of psyche through, breaking through her throne and stabbing the ground on the other side.
The air in the court sucked inwards with her gasp, and then it hung there…
unfinished...
static...
still.
The youth sat frozen, his own breath stuck in his throat. He felt every eye in the court staring at the goddess behind him, but he could not turn around and look for himself, even if not for the strain it would put on his shoulder. But he could see the shaft of the arrow above him, golden feathers glittering. His heart spasmed at the sight as that sense of loss swept over him afresh. For one moment, when he'd seen that shaft of light, a flicker of...something had flashed through his mind. Could it be called hope, when he had not entertained such a notion in decades? But that had vanished in the next split of the second when it had skewered the throne behind him.
The goddess of psyche was no more.
The very next moment, her court erupted into chaos. Some people jerked upright with a scream, as if just awakening from a terrible dream. Others began arguing, shouting. Within seconds, they were all running, some tearing away as fast and as far as possible, and others stopping to loot whatever precious items from her domain they could carry. He watched them all in a haze of confusion and growing terror as the reality slowly dawned on him—he was the only one chained. He was the only one who couldn't run.
"H-help." The whisper scraped from his throat, and he barely heard it himself. When was the last time he'd spoken—actually spoken, not screamed—in anything past a whisper? He swallowed, summoning strength as he tried to imagine the same energy he'd use in battle or in pain. “Help!”
Most didn't look his way, too caught up in their own escape. A few glanced back, but fear immediately shadowed their faces at the sight of the bloodhound, and they looked away again. One met his eyes and smiled. A cruel, cunning smile. One of her favored lords. The boy immediately regretted ever calling out. He had no desire to exchange one cruel master for another. But the man turned away and fled with the rest, reminding him that the binding around his wrist could not be undone, even if someone had pitied him.
And then, for the first time he could ever remember, the court was as silent as the corpse behind him.
He was alone.
The youth swallowed again, as if that could ever ease the dryness of his throat. He tugged hard against the shackle, straining till the veins in his hand turned blue. When he finally stopped, his arm ached. He could almost feel her gaze set upon him in accusation. He could imagine looking up and seeing her eyes staring straight into his own. But it wasn't true. He knew with every layer of his soul that two things were true—
His master was dead.
And the one who killed her was coming.