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✧Pyrrhus✧
The ground feels so far away. Farther away than it was in dreams. Farther away than I know it to be.
Twenty-five fifty-four. Twenty-five fifty-four-
Peasant sleeves billow like wings. I spread my arms wide, not daring to close my eyes. Servile's webs will guide me down. I won't let them bear me away, wrapping around my Fettered wrists, my ankles, my throat.
If he gets me back, it will be my corpse. But I will strive to be laid to rest in the Pyrrhic way: a king of men, not the hostage of a god.
Fetters spark against the gleaming webs, and sweet music welcomes me home. Harp strings. I hear harp strings. I hear-
Jessamine screaming.
"THIS ISN'T HELPING!" Avė shouts from above.
"IT'S HELPING ME!"
"IT'S HELPING ME, TOO!" cries Ilyas, joining the chorus of screams.
"YOU'RE ALL COWARDS!" hoots Vere, who must have been the second to jump. I smile at the sound of wind whistling through his faux-porcelain arm. "DO YOU THINK SERVILE WOULD LET US FALL?"
My smile fades. "FALLING," I sing into the void.
"I MEAN... DO YOU THINK HE'LL LET US SPLATTER ON THE COLD, HARD GROUND SOMEWHERE AND-"
Onomatopoeia makes my point. Absolutely.
"BETTER HOPE YOUR DYNASTIES DON'T FALL IN THE NEXT DEGREE! BECAUSE, YOU KNOW, ONE OF HIS ARMS MAY BE LOOSE OR SOMETHING!"
"OH, COME OFF IT, PYRRHUS," snaps Sabriya, her voice is quiet but it carries, and it stings.
"I DON'T THINK WE HAVE ANYTHING TO FEAR UNLESS A TYRANNICIDE-"
"ENOUGH," growls Izem, eldest of us all. The closest to the Age of Escape. His usually low, level voice twists toward us with thorns. "FOCUS ON THE GROUND, WHY DON'T YOU?"
Pluck my eyeballs from my skull. I still won't look away.
Twenty-five fifty-four. Twenty-five fifty-four-
Servile's web yawns open, spreading like a bouquet. But instead of the sweet smell of flowers, salt-spray itches my nose.
Too much focusing on the ground. I'd forgotten to consider the water.
For a moment, I can't remember whether or not I can swim. But it doesn't matter: I've just fallen from the sky. I don't have to worry about where I land: I'll die on impact, unless-
Target comes into focus: a spot betwixt the eight spokes of the inland Coruscant Sea. Coming closer sketches waves, paints Servile's aureate complexion into the scene.
A scream builds in my throat but I swallow it down. No. No.
I'm not going to beg.
I will not close my eyes.
But I refuse go quietly, whimpering like a lamb. I'm not Hippias Acanth. I'm Pyrrhus Alexander Adona, Pyrrhus of Pyrrhi, and, apparently, Pyrrhus the Tyrannicide.
If I go down, I'll do my best to take the bronze regent with me, or damage him if I can.
My fingers release the golden threads of fate.
The spider spins to face me.
"Pyrrhus," he admonishes.
And wings unfurl from my Fetters.
YOU ARE READING
Hide Your Fires
FantasyNations crumble when stars fall. ✧✧✧ PYRRHUS is the son of a tyrant and a captive of Kyadel, the Shining One's palace in the sky. To earn his freedom, he must compete against eleven fellow prisoners, many of whom possess kernels of the Shining One's...
