╰┈➤𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ━━ ❝I envy those ignorant to the way Gods toy with us.❞
𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛- you're the object of many powerful men desires; from gods to warriors...they all want 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ ᴇᴘɪᴄ: ᴛᴍ!ᴀᴜ ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
[𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤/𝐟�...
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━ ⭒─⭑━
The light of the late afternoon sun streamed in through the small window of your room, illuminating the modest space with a soft golden glow. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, drifting in and out of the sunlight, as if time had stilled within these four walls.
The space was modest—small enough that, if you spread your arms, your fingers would nearly brush either wall. The bed was a simple cot pushed against the corner, layered with a thin blanket and a single pillow.
There wasn't much else: a rickety chair, the small dresser, and a wooden box under the bed where you kept your belongings.
It was far from luxurious, but it was yours.
You had a room to yourself, and that was more than most servants could ever dream of.
Servants usually stayed in the common quarters, sharing their space with others—no privacy, no quiet moments, so having your own room—albeit a tiny one—felt like a luxury, a place where you could gather your thoughts in peace, surrounded by familiar, if simple, comforts.
In this space, the worries of the palace faded, leaving only the gentle hum of your own heartbeat and the soft echo of music that seemed to linger even in silence.
Here, you could lay down the weight of duty, if only for a little while.
And for that, you were thankful.
You hummed softly to yourself as you prepared for the evening's performance.
Your chiton was simple—white, loose, and flowing, cinched at the waist with a thin cord. The cloth was light, airy, and allowed you to move comfortably—perfect for an evening of singing.
There was nothing grand about it, yet the purity of the white fabric gave you a sense of grace and calm.
Settling onto the stool, you picked up your lyre, letting it rest gently in your lap.
As your fingers moved deftly along each string, coaxing it back into tune, you began to oil them, the scent of olive oil filling the small room.
Suddenly, a warmth bloomed at your fingertips—a faint, tingling sensation. It was a sensation you couldn't quite place—a hum that seemed to pulse through the strings, the kind that felt almost... alive.
As you worked, the hum deepened, like a heartbeat echoing through the wood.
For a fleeting moment, the air in the room had grown thick, a hush settling over everything as if the world outside had faded, leaving only you and this ancient instrument.
