[or what Seth did on his time off]
She knelt, head down, pink hair falling to
brush the cold stone floor. If asked, she would spin a tale about
trying to help me or not understanding what the symbols woven into the
fabric meant. She would beg me to destroy the loom as proof of her
I hadn’t given her leave to speak.
Herbs added to the dish sent smoke curling heavenward. She looked up, eyes widening at the scent.
“Now,” I said, “who am I?”
“First of Many,” she whispered.
“I am yours to command.”
She shook. “But soon.”
“Yes. So, please me.”