Dark Son Rising

[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 fealty.

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.

“And?”

“I am yours to command.”

“Not yet.”

She shook. “But soon.”

“Yes. So, please me.”