Hail the Destroyer.”
The Attendant paused, raising her hand to touch the leather choker at her neck. The emerald gem there lay dormant, but its magic bit into her throat. Taking her voice, sealing it at birth. Never to be removed, only adjusted time to time to ensure the leather didn't choke her in her sleep.
Reflection: Memories of the Choir Mother. The Choosing of this Nameless to serve despite wrong birth. Interference at the Repurposing.
Enough reflecting.
Hands do not remember.
Hands only serve.
She limped towards the gates of the Servitor, slipping through the double doors, her broken gait slowing her pace. Yet still, she wove through rows of Attendants, not touching a single one.
Brown robes: Councilors.
Light red: So, the Companions are in attendance at the Palace.
Those Attendants bumped her shoulder on purpose in passing. One tried to trip her, but she shifted her weight below her limp. Avoided easily. One more motion, and she could have sliced his ankle with the hidden dagger at her wrist, but not today. Not this morning.
Too much commotion.
Cleaning blood from robes will hinder duty.
Her Radiance must eat. Better than the past days.
This Nameless must gather proper food this time.
None met her eyes. Attendants never looked at one another unless they chose to kill in defense of their Host’s reputation. Mornings were too full for such squabbles. Only the highest-ranked Attendants were excused from prayer at the Litany of Silence, bound to serve their Hosts without pause, without end. An honor. One not to be wasted on inefficiency.
“The Void is impartial.
The Darkness does not take sides in judgment.
The Void guides our steps.
The Darkness cradles us.
Strength is our spine.
Silence is our freedom.
Order is our mercy.
Hail the Sovereign.
Hail the Resh.
Hail the Destroyer.”
The Polis crystal in the Servitor pulsed with green light in response to the sound, growing brighter and brighter with each chant. The Attendant approached the kitchens, a wide-open chamber. Great ovens ran hot at all hours of the day, their metal spines bowed, steam rising in spirals as Cooks mixed ingredients and crafted meals by rank to give to the Attendants.
Everything from rare meats and cheeses gracing the lavish tables of the Councilors to the most sacred of nectars for the Companions, maintaining their vast mana reserves. Once, the Attendant believed she would be serving such creations to Her Radiance, but when she approached the tray with the Sokâr’s crest and lifted the lid, she grimaced behind her mask.
Saffron. Honey. Porridge mixed well with a side of dried figs, bread, and tea. But beneath the cloying scent—iron. Oxidated. And the tang of hex magic. She dipped a finger into the porridge and touched it to her tongue.
Numbness.
Not enough to kill. Never that. But enough to weaken.
