EPITHET || [l. loki]

vii. Just Let Me Be

──⇌•♚•⇋──

❝You seem to have a habit of sparing people's lives❞

'HE LEFT ME an illusion,' Cyra thought with a bitter laugh, 'What happened before must have also been nothing more than an illusion.' Upon her thoughts, her heart turned ten times heavier. 'No, you don't know that, Cyra,' a part of her told herself, 'He's always been influenced by the scepter.' Her steps matched the weight of her heart as she made her way toward the direction the screaming mortals fled. 'Exactly. I know nothing of this man- this god.' The dagger strapped to her side gleamed, concealed by the black dress as her combats clicked sharply against the granite stairs to the courtyard. 'But the lab, the rooftop, this moment, his eyes were never blue, it couldn't be a lie,' with every blink of her golden eyes, the warm glow of his emeralds flashed in her mind. Cyra had never saved someone before, well, not successfully, but she has never had such an urge before. Her fear of her father seemed to disorient her as she thought of that twisted yet charming trickster, 'Then again, what do I know of lies?'

There was a truth as clear as day between the two of them that weighed her chest: This whole ordeal was only about which one of them betrayed the other first.

"Kneel before me," his voice triumphed over the screams filling the night air. The mortals, terrified and petrified, all made their failed attempts to flee. Loki duplicated himself using his sorcery, cornering all the poor lambs. Cyra's eyes narrowed as his lips tilted into a malicious smile, "I said, kneel!"

"Why am I like this?" she whispered to herself, feeling sick as the men and women all shakily knelt in fear. Residents of a thousand planets have once bowed to her. And she had slaughtered every one of them. So why was she caring now? Why has she come to change?

"Is this not simpler? Is this not your natural state?" Loki's words etched in her mind as his presence parted the crowd like the sea, "It's the unspoken truth to humanity, that you crave subjugation," he paused for effect, "The bright lure of freedom diminishes your life's joy in a mad scramble of power, for identity."

'I want freedom, Cyra, that's all I will ever want,' She could only hear the vigorous voice of Laria as she caressed her warm hands, gentle while roughed out and painted with calluses from all the punishing lashes and shocks. Sixteen years ago. "And yet that's the only thing in the universe I cannot have. We cannot have. But we will have it one day- if we fight for it."

"You were made to be ruled, in the end, you will always kneel."

"But not to men like you," a deeper, shakier voice rang out over the silence. The old man stood up, defiance in his every step.

"There are no men like me," Loki grinned mockingly.

"There are always men like you."

Upon his refute, the god's eyes flared dangerously, his patience reaching the bottom, "Look to your elder, people, and let him be an example." What happened next was another moment to stop Cyra in her steps. His influenced demeanor collapsed to reveal a regretful god, sorrow in his green eyes as his arm shook to fight off the urge to raise the arm holding the scepter.

"I will not watch as loved ones die! For if they are gone, what do we live for?" Laria's voice merged with her own. A fresh wave of rage hit her as Cyra's power was released. As Loki lost the fight against the influence, her hand was thrown forward instinctively to form a blood shield for the old man against the blast.