Rhea wants nothing more than to kill her father. But not just because he's any run-of-the-mill scumbag. No, he's a god. And he's the one who cursed her with being a goldblood -- half human, half godling. Good for her, she's willing to do anything to...
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WHEN SHIVA DOES NOT SHOW UP ALL THROUGHOUT THE DAY AND INTO THE NEXT MORNING, I BECOME THE ONLY PERSON WILLING TO SERVE LORD BRAN.
It's also reassuring to everyone that I did not come back mute or disfigured the first day, though no one dares to take the chance themselves.
It suits me just fine.
It's almost as if I had planned it, I think, a cold chill of satisfaction running up my spine.
I make sure that with his daily meal of bread and eggs, Lord Bran is also served a dose of cassava root.
It is odorless, tasteless, undetectable.
When I knock on his door the next morning, he immediately answers.
I see the reason why when I enter. His wife is awake and sitting up. She looks tired and gaunt, and Bran is the image of the doting husband.
"Breakfast, darling?" he asks his wife as I bring him his tea.
She tries to answer, but coughs instead. Blood spatters into the silk sleeve of her robe.
Bran frowns.
If it is possible, in the few days I have been here, the wife seems to have shrunk and lost what little color she had in her face.
Bran hands her a handkerchief and pats her back soothingly, cooing as he does so.
For such a cruel man, he can be so kind to his wife.
When I make to leave, he calls me back. "Who said you could leave? Call my son. Then serve my wife."
I curtsy, and do as he says.
The son is already awake and comes as soon as I repeat his father's request.
If he recognizes me, his blank stare gives no indication.
He comes in, sitting stiffly in a chair he pulls up besides his parents' bed. I pour a cup of tea for the wife. She takes it with a cube of sugar and without any thanks, though she does ask for a slice of buttered bread.
"How are you feeling this morning?" the son asks.
"Good enough to eat something," the woman says with a smile as I hand her a slice of bread.
"Worry not, my dear," Bran is saying to his wife, brushing a strand of blonde hair away from her face. "Soon, you will be able to eat as much as you like. People say there is magic on this island, a wonderful magic that can cure any illness. It can even grant immortality."
I busy myself with refilling their tea cups.
Magic? There is no magic on this island.
There is only the powers the gods have, wonderful and infinite in their scope and ability. Not many mainlanders know of it, believing the island to be more cursed than blessed by divinity.
