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Talanton’s chosen finds Helektra in the shallows of Phagousa’s kingdom. Even in the face of such an imperious warlord and her dedicated troupe, she just barely lifts her head - the most modest of respects.
“Titankin, rise,” The woman says, lifting her staff. Previously Helektra might have felt obligated to return her pageantry, and to receive her with all of Phagousa’s ripe hospitality, but the chalice of plenty has tipped into the dark waves of the abyss and shattered, and taken all of their kingdom’s practices with it. Heir to an empty throne and a legacy drenched in blight, Helektra wades out of the waters to receive the delegation. “I am the Imperator Cerydra.”
“Imperator,” her eyes grace the wilted lilypads of the reflecting pools, the proud stone scraped gray and salted with Aquila’s storms, the palace and its courtyards silent, devoid of revelry, “If you’ve come to conquer I fear you’ve arrived too late.”
Cerydra doesn’t turn from her. “Daughter of the sea, I’ve come to your shores not to pillage your lands, but to offer you a deal.”
“What does a distinguished one such as yourself desire from me?” The warbling shores have no fruit left to offer, and Helektra is little more than a lone note of a long-silent symphony.
“I’ve heard that you’re a fearsome warrior who can contend with the black tide that ravages our land. Is this true?”
“Yes.” She’s spent many years trawling the seabed for fragments of her dear queen, met only with twisted abominations wearing the faces of her sisters, “My blade-wielding hand purges the darkness from the waters.”
“Lonely blade, if you were to pledge your sword to my cause, I shall grant you everything you seek. You, who forced Strife to retreat, who do you serve?”
“Nothing, Sovereign,” Helektra replies, “No one. I am a lone wanderer.”
“In that case, siren, how about letting your sword dance for me, and your violin sing my name? In return, upon Talanton’s scales, I will grant you whatever you desire.”
It is wholly too convenient to be true, but loyalty’s ripcurrents have already left her flotsam in the dead seas once - who is she to deny this call? This light upon the ocean’s dark surface?
If her sisters were here, they would surely chastise her.
What are you doing, Helektra? What of the promise you made to the queen? They would cup her face with gentle fingers, smile with fond exasperation, what did you see?
Helektra thinks, I saw a light.
“All I want… is a feast where I might belong.”
Cerydra crosses her arms with a smile, “Such a request is trivial with the sovereign’s authority. I’ll grant you a banquet worthy of conquest and comrades to toast beside you. All you must offer me in return, knight, is your heart.”
Helektra does not believe there is much left of it to give.
“A loyal heart,” She continues, “That will generate no betrayal. You were deceived by gods and drowned in the ocean’s darkness, but now, I will guide you towards new light. What say you?”
She raises her glass, allowing herself no time to consider at all. She fears if she hesitates she will drift back into those dull, mired waters, and never surface again.
“So be it, noble monarch. The Law you proclaim shall govern my every breath.”
“Tell me, nameless knight, what shall you be called?”
Helektra was the name of a loyal daughter and sister - she is neither now, and must shed this old skin to make way for new life.
“You… may call me Hysilens.”
Cerydra reaches out to touch her staff to each of Hysilen’s shoulders. “In lieu of a proper knighting, Hysilens, my Dux Gladiorum, you join the ranks of the Flame Chase journey, through which we will unite the world under my banner. Now, unsheathe your sword, and walk with me into the light.”
That first and most arduous leg of the journey brings them through the dry grasslands of Georios’ domain - too dry for her liking, and violently hostile to her kind. Phagousa was the only Titan the gentle Georios could never tolerate. Blood wets the fields of Icatus and nourishes the harvest; with the city-state subjugated to her will, Cerydra has her guide the water channels through the irrigation fields, bestowing upon them Phagousa’s blessing. Idilia, Ikaria, and Jericha fall in quick succession; Cerydra commands her melody on the battlefield, a lullaby for those fallen souls. Strife greets them on the edges of Carmitis, among the wreckage of Tretos and Loukas, and eventually their banner stands proudly in the winds of every city- state in the western hemisphere.
Okhema’s Lady Goldweaver greets her with a gasp. The little hostage clings to the edges of her silken robes, her blue eyes wide and round.
“Imperator,” Aglaea asks, her voice nearly frigid, “Do you let all of your soldiers prance indecently around the battlefield, or just this one?”
“Dux Gladiorum’s state of dress is none of your concern.” Cerydra replies. She’s elevated her seat at the negotiation table such that she towers over the rest of them.
“As a seamstress and Mnestia’s destined successor, I must disagree. Dux Gladiorum, this is hardly appropriate attire - how do you think this will reflect on your image to the Council?”
Hysilens meets her gaze over the table. “You’re mistaken, I do not ‘prance’.”
“That’s what you took issue with?” Tribbie asks.
“If her attire-”
“-Or lack thereof-”
“-bothers you so,” She continues, as if she were not interrupted. It’s very generous of their monarch; she’s had people executed for lesser infractions, “You’re more than welcome to produce a garment for her yourself. That’s what you excel in, no?”
“Is that an order?” Aglaea replies. Hysilens finds her defiance refreshing. Cerydra must agree, because she does not immediately smite her where she stands, or, worse, order Hysilens to deal with her.
Cerydra laughs. “Since when has Mnestia ever bowed to order? Do as you please, Dux Goldweaver, and do not waste my time.”
Aglaea sighs, and stands, murmuring to herself about clothing textures and needle stitches. Tribbie goes with her, one tiny hand still wrapped around the folds of her dress. A beautiful creature, Lady Goldweaver is. Mnestia in the flesh. Perhaps her beauty is why Cerydra permits her dissent.
“Had this been one of your symposiums, you would have had her executed.” Hysilens muses.
Cerydra clicks her tongue. “Now, now, let’s not be hasty. Executing our chrysos heirs would be counterproductive, Dux Gladiorum. I’ve gifted these subjects of mine the gift of independent thought and speech; how they choose to use it is a right I’ve extended to them. Dux Goldweaver is an important ally. Perhaps you should endeavor to get along with her.”
“Negotiation is not a strong suit of mine.” Neither is it a strong suit of Cerydra, who hopes to subjugate more often than compromise. “You know well, Imperator, this blade is not cut out for politics.”
Cerydra smiles like she does after a conquest: a self-congratulatory smile for another victory, one that she has been assured of ten moves prior. “Don’t worry. Remember, my knight, I’ve asked nothing of you but to cut where you’re asked. I wouldn’t burden your melodies with such tedium. Speaking of - the feast in the banquet hall is starting soon, won’t you join them?”
“What about you?”
“I’ll join in due time.”
Okhema makes merry, ambrosia in-hand. Hysilens brushes elbows with the common-folk, who would not normally even catch a glimpse of someone of her station, not that she cares much for hierarchy. Aglaea and Tribbie waylay her by the entrance, whisking her off to one of the private bath chambers before she can so much as indulge herself. In her homeland, to impede celebration was a great sacrilege - and right now, she needs celebration. Something loud and bright to hold onto lest the persistent gray take her again.
“Dux Goldweaver-” She starts, only to be rudely interrupted.
“I need your measurements.” Aglaea says. Tribbie pulls the folding door around them for privacy, despite the fact they’re alone. “Hysilens, forgive my impudence, but how does someone with such a mild temperament put up with the imperator?”
“‘Put up’ with her?” Hysilens replies. “What do you mean?”
Tribbie giggles. “Aggy, you’re supposed to be the demigod of romance, you should know these things!”
Aglaea purses her lips, pushing the strap of Hysilen’s dress back up over her shoulder. It isn’t the seamstress’ first time designing her clothes. More than once she’s attempted to get Hysilens to confess to a favorite color, or at least a preferred palette. Hysilens is unwilling to test whether her patience can extend to indecision on top of her butchery of titles.
A measuring tape cinches her waist.
“That is irrelevant to the question.” Aglaea says. “Do you never flinch in the face of her requests?”
“No.” Hysilens answers honestly. “I am Imperator Cerydra’s blade. It is my honor to dispose of her enemies.”
“I see.” She holds a swath of fabric up for her to see. “What do you think of this color?”
“It won’t hide bloodstains well.”
“Hopeless.” Aglaea sighs. “Utterly hopeless.”
“The colors compliment her eyes.” Tribbie says, trying to be helpful. Hysilens allows the first demigod to flutter around her like an overenthusiastic toddler. “Sillie, pink would look good on you.”
The Goldweaver continues with her assessment, unobstructed. There is a dedication to craft shared between warriors and artisans visible in callused hands and sharp eyes. Hysilen’s violin is no different than Aglaea’s needle. “Hysilens, what will you do when the Imperator demands something of you that you are not willing to give?”
Clutches of fabric are exchanged again - dark blue, a cerulean that matches the scales beneath her eyes, bunches of patches that are too heavy or too light or that shine too beautifully to be sullied with the blemishes of the battlefield.
“She will not.” Hysilens replies. “I trust her judgement.”
“I suppose you will accept no convincing. At what point is loyalty just blind stubbornness, you dense fish. I’ve got the measurements I need, and I’ll be retiring to my chambers. Please, go enjoy the festivities while they last. Her majesty has planned another campaign not long from now - you ought to rest while you can.”
Aglaea is a strange woman. Hysilens wishes that all things were as straightforward as Cerydra was. “If you insist. Sleep well, Dux Goldweaver.”
Cerydra spends most of her time handling logistics - food costs, labor costs, tithes of surrendered city-states, what percentage of harvest is owed, how she is going to move her footsoldiers to the next destination - but sometimes Hysilens catches her in moments of recreation.
The book she’s reading is one copied from Carmitis’ library.
Hysilens stands just outside her chambers, having dismissed the guards from duty for the night. Patrols need to be reinstated two-fold to account for the recent revolt from some of their conquered territories, and under threat of political assassination, Hysilens has assumed her position at Cerydra’s side.
“Dux Gladiorum, you are permitted to enter my chambers.” Cerydra says, one eyebrow raised. “The door is wide open.”
“As you wish,” Hysilens replies, ever her attentive subject, her loyal dog, coming to heel at her side. “But, it’s safer for me to remain by the door. If I am by your side I won’t have a clear view of the hallway.”
“Cease your handwringing.” She flips a page of her book. “I have it under control. The dissenters will be caught by the end of the month.”
The room that Cerydra occupies is sparsely furnished and plainly decorated, but it is still more elaborate than any chamber of Hysilens’. An inoffensive landscape portrait. A platter of fresh grapes accompanied by an untouched glass of wine. Her eyes linger on the rim.
“Oh?” Cerydra asks. “Does my knight wish to test the drink for poison?”
Having spent years spitting out the sludge of the black tide, poison cannot touch her now. She reaches for the wine. Cerydra watches her tilt her head back, glances down to stare at her translucent abdomen. She wonders, if one were to look, they would see the outline of her lungs behind her ribcage, if they could see the contractions of her heart, if they might see Cerydra’s fingerprints there, too.
Perhaps the Imperator is in an unusually good mood tonight.
“Sit,” She says. When Hysilens says something to the effect of preserving their propriety, Cerydra scoffs at her. “I’m free to do what I please with that which is mine.”
That fire that has burned since the day they met roars brighter. Like a deep-sea creature in pursuit of light, Hysilens cannot help but move closer. She is always close - as to fulfill her every wish - but now they are almost touching, almost knee-to-knee. In a world of cold darkness that fact is nearly scalding.
“Your scribes have already finished translating the library?”
“Yes, they were in the process of moving everything into the archives before the skirmishes started to break out.” Cerydra never burns literature of any kind, unlike the empires of old, which sought to salt the earth behind them. She’s gone to the effort to conserve the research and writings of every library they’ve come across in search for an upper hand, for information, for answers. The skyships of Aquila’s people had fascinated her for months before she’d left behind her pursuit for dominion of the skies.
“What is the book about?”
“It’s purely fiction. A young woman sacrifices her city-state to save the life of her lover. Tell me, what do you think of that?”
Hysilens hesitates only for a moment. “As a blade, I can only be impressed with her dedication.”
Cerydra hums and turns another page. “Such loyalty should be reserved for a greater authority. Dux Gladiorum, should you ever falter, turn your sword upon my heart and upend any allegiance there and then. I will have nothing less than your full, unending loyalties.”
“Of course,” Hysilens replies, knowing she has only said this because that loyalty knows no end. “Your hand guides my blade, Imperator.”
“Good,” Cerydra says, and there the conversation ends.
In their next tactical meeting, the conversation pivots to their presentation: Dux Goldweaver argues that their approach is too aggressive, Imperator Cerydra insists that rebellion must be stomped under foot before it can be allowed to germinate. Hysilens, as nothing more than her Majesty’s weapon of war, keeps her opinions to herself, should she have any at all.
“The people of Okhema would be more receptive to the regime change if you were more willing to meet them on their terms.” Aglaea says. “The virtues of Okhema are not found in the steel of swords or armor, but words and art. You would find less opposition if you were more open to debate.”
“My orders are independent from that of the democracy - as Imperator I maintain full authority over Okhema’s armed forces. To present weakness would be more damaging to our reputation than our supposed tyranny.”
Aglaea sighs, and they start instead discussing the possibility of allocating more resources to the arts. Bread and circuses, Phagousa’s domain, had kept her people happy and docile for centuries before the tide took them. The easiest way to defeat infighting was with gilded distraction.
“And you-” She says, turning back to Hysilens, though she isn’t sure when she became the topic of conversation, “-the people would not be so afraid if not for you running around half naked, covered in blood! Have you already ripped the outfits I made for you?”
Hysilens folds her hands in her lap. “Yes.”
Tribbie giggles.
“If it’s an issue of concern, simply make her more.” Cerydra replies. “You’re the one so insistent on improving her public image.”
“For the next banquet,” Aglaea vows, “I will make you an outfit that even you cannot destroy. And with that, I will need to acquire jewelry - to show up plain-faced would be an insult to Okhema’s hospitality. Do you have any preferences?”
“Pearls.” Cerydra says immediately, imperiously.
“You’ll find those in short supply.” Aglaea replies dryly.
“Then I shall order the guards to scour the seabeds.” Cerydra says, like it means nothing. Pearls were a treasure of Phagousa’s kingdom - inlaid upon their jewelry, adorning their crowns, draped around their necks. The treasury had been lost to the black tide, and Hysilens doubts that any pearls remain in her childhood home - even a siren might not be able to find any.
“What say you, Dux Gladiorum?”
“I will wear whatever the Imperator commands.”
Cerydra smiles. “So it’s settled. Pearls it is.”
Though Okhema’s dissenters have not been caught, the Imperator orders her away from the city anyways, regardless of whatever misgivings Hysilens has about leaving her unguarded. The Cleaners will surely not take this opportunity for granted, lured by her most obvious bait, but who is she to question her orders? So, away does Hysilens go, to a city untouched by conquest, underneath Georios’ protection. It is a small, unguarded place, that should know no tragedy, but it is empty when she arrives.
In this land influenced by the echoes of the Titan’s conflict, Hysilens is weaker here than she is perhaps anywhere in Amphoreus. Phagousa’s waters don’t touch the land-locked city, a week’s travel from any source of saltwater in any direction. The moisture the nourishes their crops comes only from the arid soil. It hasn’t rained in weeks, and the dryness of the air parches her tongue.
She can feel the Black Tide approaching - it’s already here. This is yet another casualty of its onslaught. Another people that Hysilens will never sing for as her sisters had requested.
An arrow whistles over her shoulder, tainted with the black tide. A dozen or so monstrosities emerge from the nearest house - a few perched on the thatched roof jump down to accompany their kin. Hysilens draws her sword and steps forward into the deluge.
Without adequate water to summon, she is left with only her sword and violin, and whatever she is able to draw out of the earth that scorns her kind. Individually weak, the tide’s danger lies not in its attacking power but in its overwhelming number, enough to fatigue any single warrior attempting to quell it. She slashes again and again, spilling blood and sickness, cleaving through the corrupted bodies of its warriors, lobbing off limbs and forcing the frontlines back until sweat gleams on her skin.
Without a priest of Kephale, there’s nothing she can do to save this place. Whatever Cerydra wanted her to find here is long gone. Then, another arrow shoots towards her from somewhere above. It strikes her shoulder, tearing a shallow cut through the skin. In the moment she takes to identify the culprit - a Cleaner, distinct from the tide - the monsters regroup again.
Parasitic vermin, she thinks, disengaging from the front line. She climbs to the rooftop after him, fleeing now that his clean kill is gone.
She chases him outside the city, lungs burning, sickness creeping in from her open wound. The assassin attempts to employ his tricks to throw her off, but Hysilens is faster - she skates along the surface of the grass, readying her sword. She tears up through his side, nearly separating his arm from his abdomen. Normally her kills would be cleaner - Hysilens does not play with her food, does not employ her song unless in the Imperator’s will - but this era has robbed them of the luxury of mercy.
She presses her knee against his throat, levelling the unflinching tip of her sword between his eyes.
“Assassin, where are your comrades now?”
“I’ll never answer to the tyrant’s lapdog-” He snarls, face turning blue. “That false King’s head will sit mounted on Caenis’ wall, she’ll even save a spot for yours beside her-”
His windpipe snaps.
Cerydra, her heart quickens. She knows that this must be something she’s accounted for. She knows that she has the Goldweaver by her side to weave threads into armor. Still, I’ve left you unguarded. What a dull-edged blade I am.
She moves as quickly as she dares, summoning the spirit waters once she’s close enough to glide along its channels. Hysilens surfaces in the Vortex of Genesis, brandishing her blade before her as she shakes the saltwater out of her hair, rushes to the evacuated bathhouse, sprints down the long halls of Marmoreal Palace, storms into Cerydra’s private baths. Against all pretenses of honor and propriety, she nearly rips the door off its hinges.
“Imperator!” She calls. She stalks into the darkened room, shaded from Kephale’s eternal dawn, and finds her Imperator sitting leisurely at her table, one heel atop the downturned face of her assailant, bleeding sluggishly against the floor.
“Imperator,” Hysilens says again, breathless.
“You’re back early.” Cerydra remarks. “The fight is not over yet. There, Dux Gladiorum, in the corner - lift your blade once more for me.”
Feverish heat carries Hysilens through the fight. By all means, the Cleaners are not anywhere near powerful enough to tire her so, but she fears the extended exposure to the black tide has chipped away at her endurance. At the first sign of approval from her monarch, Hysilens drops to her knees, head pounding.
A gentle hand on her shoulder brings her to the floor. Cerydra cradles the side of her face before she can hit her head on the blood-slick tile.
Hysilens wakes in a pool of freshwater, with fingers carding through her hair. A second hand holds steady below her jaw, fingers pressed against her pulsepoint. A tenderness she hasn’t experienced in years threatens to split open in her chest.
Instead of being propped up against the side of the bath, her head rests on someone’s lap. Hushed chatter rises above the gentle sounds of the water of the bathchamber.
“You’ve finally returned to the land of the living,” Cerydra says, “How was your trip to the shores of Styxia?”
Hysilens peels her eyes open. Her skin is no longer uncomfortably warm, and her shoulder is no longer bleeding. Her head is pillowed on the Imperator’s lap.
She tries to jerk upright, stopped halfway by dizzying light and a pain in her head so sharp it makes her head spin. Unusually gentle, Cerydra pushes her down again. Hysilens watches blearily as her hair floats atop the water’s surface.
“You nearly succumbed to the sickness of the black tide.” Cerydra says. “Have you learned nothing from your past kingdom? It would have been quite inconvenient to find another knight of your caliber and loyalty, you know. An Imperator such as myself has no need for a rusted weapon.”
“Apologies,” Hysilens croaks, “Is this a dismissal?”
“As my sword, you represent myself and our empire. You must keep your body healthy and your mind sharp. That is all I wish to convey.”
Her hand returns to her hair, pulling apart the knots. Hysilens recalls basking on the shores with her sisters, combing apart their salt-stiff hair, tying pearls and coral into elaborate braids.
“The Cleaners have been dealt with, before you ask. I learned of their plans to assassinate the both of us weeks ago. I went along with the plan to isolate you among the Black Tide, knowing you would survive and return to me. The only way to lure them out of hiding was to feign vulnerability, and I could hardly do that with you lurking in the shadows.”
Hysilens tries and fails, again, to sit up.
“Sleep,” Cerydra commands, “And when you wake again, it will be to a grand feast.”
The city is alight with life the night before their departure. The campaign for Phagousa’s Coreflame is upon them, and Hysilens weaves a beautiful song for the partygoers. Five-hundred Chrysos Heirs rejoice before they must sharpen themselves for battle. Honeydew distracts them from fate; Hysilens will be the first to admit that they are disadvantaged on this battlefield. And even still, the soldiers link arms with each other, singing along.
In the corner of the banquet hall, she spots Aglaea smiling into the rim of her glass. Only Tribbie, situated in the chair next to her, appears solemn - a strange look on her face.
Cerydra has her conceal her almighty presence from the partygoers, despite this feast being provided by hers truly.
They sit together, though to the naked eye Hysilens appears alone.
“Shouldn’t you be rallying the soldiers?” Hysilens murmurs. She doesn’t dare move any closer - almost touching as they are - to take more of Cerydra’s coveted space. “They’ll think you’ve abandoned them.”
“They’re too many drinks in to notice.” Cerydra replies. If Hysilens didn’t know better, she would assume she sounded almost… repentant. But that was not an emotion to be associated with the Imperator, who never made a choice she did not believe necessary. There was no room for grief on the battlefield. “Is this my beautiful knight’s way of saying she doesn’t wish to partake in my company?”
“Never.” Hysilens replies, just as resolute. “I go where the Imperator pleases, and if that place is here, then here we will stay.”
Phagousa’s palace reeks of blood.
By the time the sirens reach them, Hysilens knows they have lost. Golden blood paints the devout columns, sinks into the murky water, sinks into the carpeting of the floors. Her people lay slaughtered across the atrium, layers of unspeakable gore in Cerydra’s wake.
She was with the frontal assault, Hysilens thinks, dread building, why did she tell me to defend the rear?
Among the wreckage, she spots the ring that one of her subordinates wore - she had been recently married. A few sirens remain on the path, glutted on the blood of their sacrifices. Hysilens disposes of them with three slashes and no more - she does not wish to sully her clothes or her blade with such filth.
“Imperator,” She calls, and her traitorous voice shakes.
She finds her posed before the glass in wait, hands folded behind her back. Perfectly unharmed. Like she’s been waiting.
Cerydra does not look like a woman who’s just lost five-hundred of her soldiers to slaughter. Cerydra is not the type of woman to lose.
“Why,” Hysilens asks, pretending that her voice is not hoarse, “Did you not position me at your side, at the front lines?”
“I was almost surprised when you followed that order.” Cerydra doesn’t take her eyes off of the water. “Tactically speaking, it was a decision not even a child would make. But you went anyways, just as I commanded you to. Hysilens, your unwavering loyalty is worth all the golden blood in Amphoreus.”
And Hysilens, who has never once questioned her orders, who has never once generated anger or hatred in her heart, no matter how many assassinations, no matter how many battles, no matter how Cerydra ordered she swing her blade, draws her sword.
The tip of her blade, levelled at her chest, trembles.
“Is this where you find the limit of your loyalty?” Cerydra asks. “Five hundred soldiers? What of the thousand you’ve slaughtered before?”
“They were yours,” She struggles to meet her eyes now. How much blood has been shed for Cerydra’s law? Why is it different now? Hysielns has never cowered from blood and sacrifice - it is what is demanded by them, after all, it is nothing but the law - but if Cerydra expects her to roll over and allow her to turn the blade of injustice against her own people, then perhaps she’s never known her at all. “Why? Why would you do this?”
“Talanton’s trial. In exchange for the Coreflame, they demanded the blood of five-hundred Chrysos Heirs. And so, at the god’s request, I provided.” She steps forward such that the tip of Hysilen’s blade presses against her sternum. Her fingers grace the sharp end of the blade, golden blood rolling to the ground. Hysilen’s hand shakes - it shakes like she can’t remember it ever shaking, she can’t remember ever feeling anything so intense.
“Do you feel any remorse for what you’ve done?”
“I did what I must to ensure Amphoreus’ future.” That sharp light in her eyes softens. “What will you do now, Hysilens? Will this blade run me through so you can reclaim your allegiances from my chest?”
Hysilens shuffles back, but Cerydra grabs her sword, slicing open her palm. “The campaign is not over. Phagousa’s Coreflame is yet to be retrieved. Follow me into battle once more, or kill me now and battle for yourself. Make your choice, for the tides of battle are against us.”
Her hand falls from the sword, and Hysilens pulls away.
After assuming her place as Phagousa’s demigod, running Cerydra through with her blade should be easy. These hands have killed gods and mortals, and this demigod, giving her one last ultimatum, stands before her, prepared for death.
“For the sake of Amphoreus, either cast aside your devotion and kill me with your own hands, or kill yourself.”
Her eyes are gentle - so very unlike herself. She will not blame Hysilens for the decisions she makes - and as far as decisions go, she’s had very few. Her life means little, destined only to slaughter kin and foe alike, and now at the beginning and end of the world she will deliver death again.
“Do not mourn, Hysilens,” She says, knowing what Hysilens will choose. “Swim forward to greater seas.”
Hysilens drives the sword through her chest.
Hysilens did not cry when Cerydra died, and she did not cry when she spilt the libations on the gravestones of her comrades. She did not cry when the Theoros called out her loyalty - much like a discarded dog, waiting on its owner’s porch. Likewise, Hysilens guards Cerydra’s grave such that no one will ever desecrate it ever again.
She steps forward into the Vortex of Genesis, sealing off the passage behind her. That familiar mourning melody itches at the back of her throat for release. She yearns for the feasts of the past, for Cerydra by her side; she misses their companionship, their toasting. At that table, once and never again, was she accepted.
Her song brings those memories alive: nostalgia colored by sorrow. A long dining table with an infinite number of chairs, one for each of the friends she has ever and will ever meet; a taller one at the head of the table for her Imperator.
Hysilens takes her place and sings her lament in solitude.