EPITHET || [l. loki]

iv. Slipped Daggers

──⇌•♚•⇋──

❝Do you want to see this world burn?❞

She didn't even know the name of the first planet she conquered. It was a whirlwind of events that led her being dropped down without orders. She recalled the first sensation of her feet against solid earth after years of her life on her father's ship.

Cyra felt first wonder, then sadness. This day was originally to be her and her sisters'. Yet Gamora was locked within her Chambers, Nebula bruised and battered, and Laria dead. And Cyra? As the "oldest" sister, it was her duty to set an exemplary example to the rest.

The grass was too soft to touch in her hands. Cyra stroked nature gently, her eyes wide and curious as she listened to the rustling of the wind. 

Ebony Maw was watching. The Black Order was watching. Thanos was watching. His armies were watching. The universe was watching, weighing her worth in blood. It was her duty to show all that she was someone who deserved to be feared.

The handle of her own dagger dug into the palm of her hands, a solid reminder of what was at stake. 'It's beautiful,' she whispered the second her eyes scanned over the rolling green hills of this foreign habitat, shoving down a mouthful of guilt.

"It will burn soon." She sighed, "What a pity." She tried to savor the view of endless aquamarine as a sheen fell over the frosted lakes of the chosen target of death. It gave her peace— what she hadn't felt in a long time.

There was a twinkling sound as the grass swayed in the soft evening breeze. Soon it'll be all gone. It carried a prepossessing melody as it blew, a tangent reminder that she did not reside in a dream. Though the tangled weeds outnumbered the tall, untamed grass, they seemed to dance in perfect synchronization under the melting yellow cold within the sunset. The world was ethereal in Cyra's eyes— an utter dream. If it were truly a dream, it would simply be too cruel. Then again, reality was no better. She was no stranger to cruelty. The world gleamed within her golden eyes and filled her with even more sadness. The things she would do to witness this moment alongside her sisters.

Cyra shifted her stance, tearing her eyes away from the horizon, the fresh sky still ablaze with the fiery shadow of the setting sun. It was a portrait she painted and burned in her consciousness— a beautiful, tragic masterpiece.

Why, she hated it. Despised it. It reminded her of all the things she could never have. Beautiful things right before her eyes get she cannot possess. It was always fated to pass right by. 'If I were as strong as my father,' Cyra thought, 'Perhaps I can make this moment last forever.' Her hands clenched tightly into fists as she glared down at the civilization just right across the distance.

'How long will this conquest take?' She took in the environment around her, deciding that it would be a matter of a few hours if her father ordered her to completely exterminate every living being on the planet. Soon, smoke will wash over the land.

──⇌•♚•⇋──

"I am going," Nebula spat at Cyra, standing up with her eyes flashing as Gamora entered the room. The Luphomoid stood and glared viciously at her approaching "sister." Gamora showed no attempt to be the kinder one, for she bared her teeth and hissed as a reply.

"Don't screw it up," Gamora called as she stopped by the door.

Nebula's eyes narrowed once again, "Like how you do?" Without further verbal exchange, she took her leave, her annoyance visible in every step in the halls.

As soon as her footsteps vanished from hearing, Cyra let out a sigh of relief. She glanced up wearily at Gamora, giving her a small nod of acknowledgement only to be rejected by another glare. Nonetheless, she was still thankful that the three of them would not be confined in one chamber: disaster was bound to be the result.

"Shame," Cyra muttered, "We don't seem to get along well."

Her words were briefly interrupted by the slam of Gamora's fist against the wall. When Cyra's eyes flied curiously towards her, she shrugged innocently. "Slipped," the Zehoberei commented sweetly, "And to answer your question..." her eyes shot daggers at her sister, "I wonder why."

Ahh. There was that antagonizing guilt again. However, she maintained her stance and never once looked to the ground. There was an agonizing pain eating her up on the inside that weighed her every move down but she refused to show it. Not now, not ever. "Hmm... truly, I wonder," she replied nonchalantly, her eyes glued on to each dagger and the sparks that flew off each time she sharpened them.

Gamora grew silent upon her response. She took a seat on the opposite end of the table with her own sword drawn and prepped. "...It's not her fault," she whispered quietly at last, "that she hates you, I mean." She then stood. "I heard you were being sent on... that mission." Her eyes were anywhere but on Cyra's in the moment. "Good... luck," she forced out of herself in the end, lifting her hand awkwardly on her shoulder in brief seconds.

Cyra was still frozen as she heard Gamora's steps disappear from the halls. God knows when the two-- no three of them would meet again... and only god will ever know when the three will stop hating each other... but a small smile still slipped onto her face. "Thank you... sister." It was a shame Gamora never heard her reply.

She replied because she understood her sister's true question: "It's not her fault, it's not any of our faults that we are bound to this life."

What made her heart heavier was that it was her fault. The day she took his hand... but will she let go one day? Only after what? Was her fate at the cost of Laria's death, the cost of millions, billions or will the entire galaxy fall under her rule?

A smile spread across her face. She was a daughter of Thanos. Even fate cowers under his name that stands besides death. One day, she will succeed him. She will be the daughter of death. That day, Cyra believed everything will finally come into place.

She didn't want to know what it would be like if it didn't.