Here’s a little thing you should know about me: I find chaos divine.
Here’s what you should know about my family: they never learn.
Arrogant fucks.
“No, not this time, Elythia,” my father booms from the white marble poolside. His voice shakes the columns of the sky terrace, and the clouds flinch.
The pool’s surface flickers, reflecting the realms’ fae queens one by one. A wave of his meaty hand dismisses one. A hum as he lingers over another.
I’m taking note of his preferences, don’t you worry.
I lounge above them all, a leg draped over the curve of a comfy little gold cloud, head propped by a fist. My tunic, mid-thigh and scandalous, ripples in the divine breeze. And just so there’s no confusion, the answer is yes. I am Vasari’s son.
Shocking, I know.
It’s the beard. Throws everyone off.
Vasari, the King of Gods, puts a halting hand in Elythia’s flawless face just as she opens her mouth to protest. He shakes his head, his long white beard scraping his barrel chest. “Stay out of it. My realms, my mortals. If I let you make all the decisions, they’d be drunk and merrily skipping all over the place, singing and screwing all the time. Power—my power—would wane. The realms will collapse, and then where would we be?”
See? Arrogant.
“If they’re drunk all the time,” I interject from my high cloud perch, “will they be burping pretty little rainbow bubbles? I like bubbles.”
I conjure a bubble with the wave of my hand and pop it with the tip of my finger. Tiny little sprites scatter into the blue sky, their pitched laughter filling the air.
Elythia rolls her eyes at me. “Hush, Maeris. When we’re in need of your foolery, we’ll ask.”
“What did I say?” I hold up my hands in surrender. “I’m on your side, Sister.”
I like love just as much as the next god—I’m just not quite as direct about it. Love should be fun, a bumpy ride, a well-earned gaffe. A carriage without a wheel. A lover who arrives five years too late.
With a heaving sigh, Elythia returns her attention to our father. “You won’t fade into existence over a little romance, Father. Love is just as powerful—”
“Love is just as—” Vasari turns plum in the cheeks, absolutely livid by the implication.
I grin and rub my palms together—this is getting good.
When Vasari can’t find the words to continue, he makes a mighty fist and rattles the air. The sky terrace, shimmering with the threads of fate and misted with golden clouds, quivers.
The rest of my half-siblings pause—all in various states of dress, many of them completely unconcerned about the three fae ceremonies underway. They’re here for the wine, mostly. But, really, it’s just another opportunity to become Father’s favorite. What they don’t realize—because…arrogance—is that Father will always be Father’s Favorite.
But I digress.
The whispered conversations go silent, and the clash of dueling swords halts; a lucky thing for Vaelkor—he was about to lose an eye. Nysara’s champagne flute freezes partway to her lips, and she nearly topples drunkenly from her divan. Ithra curses when the ink from his pen scratches imperfectly across his scroll mid-poem. Only Orithis has been paying attention—she loves to watch a good tragedy unfold.
“That’s enough!” Vasari bellows.
He waves a hand over the pool, then pulls at least a dozen colorful strands from the water. With a casual flick, the strands twist through the air and settle atop a chessboard near his throne. Sculpted figures fill the squares, representations of his chosen.
I lean forward to see who he’s chosen—bo-ring. Unsurprisingly, any children from these unions would bring great power to the realms. But there isn’t a cursed mortal in sight. Where’s the scandal? The inconvenience?
We can do better.
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