“Good question,” Voren says, staring at it. “It must want you.”
“Again, with the wanting. Can’t I just be me and go back to killing the bad guys?”
“The bad guys don’t stop because you’ve had a promotion, Nyssa,” Voren says, his voice like the crack of a frozen lake. “In fact, they tend to get a bit more enthusiastic when the target starts glowing.”
I scoff, scrubbing a hand over my face. My skin feels too tight. “I’m not glowing. I’m sweaty, I’m sore, and I’ve got a metal snake on my nightstand that won’t stop judging my life choices. This isn’t a promotion. It’s a cosmic stitch-up.”
Dastian’s energy flickers like a faulty lightbulb. “Look on the bright side, Slayer. If you’re the Light, and we’re the Shadows, Wraiths, and Chaos, we’re basically the ultimate power set. We’re a full deck. We can’t lose.”
“Unless the deck is rigged,” I mutter. I reach out and poke the crown. It remains cold, but a spark of static jumps from the metal to my finger, stinging. I hiss and pull back. “Why did it let me take it if it’s supposed to be for a mortal warden? If I’m... whatever you say I am, shouldn’t I have melted or exploded?”
Dreven moves closer and takes my hand. “You are still mortal, Nyssa. At least for now. You aren’t displaying overt godly powers, do you feel godly?”
I shake my head. “So, you could be wrong.”
“We are not wrong.”
“We know our queen when we are in her presence,” Voren adds.
“This is giving me massive creepy vibes about you and Aethel,” I mutter, and then remember she was Dreven’s mother. “Okay, eww. Forget I said that.”
“Please do,” Dreven says stiffly, looking like he is trying to hold onto the last thing he ate.
“But still…” I say, pulling away from him and crossing over to the other side of the room. “This doesn’t really make sense to me. How does the Goddess of Light be queen of the light and also of the whole Pantheon realm? Shouldn’t that tip the scales in favour of the light?”
“Light and Dark don’t work the same as they do here, slayer,” Dastian says. “They are not two sides of the same coin. They are the same side.”
“Good versus evil isn’t a concept where we are from,” Voren adds in plainer English.
“So, what is the difference then?”
“Not much,” Dreven says, “in respect of how you are looking at it. Everything has a god; some are created in the darkness, the night, some are created under the sun.”
“Oh.” I guess it makes sense, in some weird, very basic way.
“Morality is a human concept,” Voren explains further. “This whole light versus dark thing you’ve had going on forever is banal.”
“Banal. You are saying my entire existence is banal? Thank you for that.” I grimace and then storm off down the hallway to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.
“He didn’t mean it like that!” Dastian shouts after me.
“Too fucking late. Words matter,” I mumble and stare at myself in the mirror, leaning heavily on the sink. “Banal.”
I splash water on my face until the sting in my palm stops feeling like a brand and more like a bad idea. My reflection doesn’t glow. I don’t sprout a halo. I look like a sleep-deprived woman who just got railed into a religious experience and then told her entire philosophical outlook was a meme.
The burn in my palm spikes. The cut I opened in the crypt pulses under my skin like a heartbeat trying to escape. A thin thread of light skims along the scar. It’s not bright. It’s not dramatic. It’s worse. It’s familiar.
The snake shimmers into view on the little shelf under the medicine cabinet, and I glare at it.
“You don’t want them. You don’t even want them knowing you’re awake.”
It doesn’t answer. It tilts its head. If a metal snake can look disappointed, it manages it. Then it uncoils, slow as a threat, and curls up my arm like some goth bracelet.
I don’t move.
“You want a master?” My voice comes out flat. “Bad news. I don’t do collars.”
The snake climbs my arm, weightless and heavy in the same way a promise is heavy. It pauses at my shoulder, waiting for a second before it slips around my neck.
