Night had descended into a slow hush. It was a whisper dying down, the music finally coming to a halt in an upwards crescendo. The gods had left their mark with their appearance, though brief, it had lit up the ballroom in a light unrivalled, divinity pouring through each crack in the walls and stones.
She had watched them, Her Goddess, Her Lady of the Feathered Heavens, Her Immortal Guidance. For so long, Dhyana and her Sisters had been awaiting her in their isolation.
She had watched, and she had waited, and her waiting had not yet been rewarded.
But that was no matter.
It was no matter, because she knew her worship did not end with this evening. Her worship would never end, unless Nieba deemed it so, unless she was engulfed in the warmth of Nieba's wings and taken to Irkalla to be handed over to the death god.
Not yet, however. Not yet —
Her worship would never end. Her worship would know no bounds, no end, as it barely had a defined beginning. All that she was, she was for Nieba. All that she had done and all that she had been, and she would continue to prove herself to be worthy.
A lesser being might tremble at the weight of such a burden. But she was no lesser being.
The moonlight flanked her as she moved through winding pathways. The moonlight deemed it so, deemed her to be on the right path, deemed her to speak the word of Nieba.
Yes, Nieba would be pleased with her. Nieba would thank her, press her divine lips to her knuckles in a show of her favour, and she would find her place by the gods' side soon enough.
And now she was a spider moving through the night, spindly legs moving over inky shadows and silvered light. She had looked at the gods and seen the urgency in their faces, and she knew they felt what she did as well.
The slow collapse of magic, slow like a dying body might decompose, slow like the trickling of blood down a gilded blade.
Sometimes, she felt a flicker in her own, a surge of panic in her heart in fear of what it might mean.
Did it mean Nieba would abandon her?
Did it mean the blood she had spilled into the earth's giving ground had not been enough?
She refused to wait to find out. She would spill more blood if need be, coat the earth in a liquid sea of red. She would, if it meant Nieba was happy. She would, if it meant Nieba would be happy with her.
Oh, and Nieba would not be happy with her. She would not be happy with the girl who had flaunted herself to be one of them, whose arrogance and hubris was an ugly taint on a pretty mask. Already, she had shown disrespect. Already, she had angered her, and she did not like to be angered. She did not like for Her Lady to be slighted.
She moved like water, the stones unable to catch the sound of her bare feet. She was light, as she had Her Light on her side, and the girl steps ahead of her took no notice. She took no notice of anyone but herself, a realization that made her smile, her hand drifting to the blade that had been placed on the table of food for cutting. It was small, as long as the length of her hand, but it was sharp.
It was enough.
Taking the knife, she recited a prayer in her mind.
Goddess Divine, grant me clarity so that I may do what I must. Mother of mothers, protect me, your child, as I venture into this world of evil and sin. Let my work reflect your perfect love.
She stepped onto the courtyard, her feathered skirt billowing with her movements, and she followed. She reached forward and grabbed onto her hair, fingers digging tight into the long tresses of midnight black. She pulled until her back was flush against her chest, and her words were a whisper in her ear.
''You will never be above Our Lady.''
Before the other girl had time to react, Dhyana El Zarad moved the blade across her neck in a fluid motion, and Livia Thuarin's blood soiled the stones of the palace.