from the mind of Chaos’s lonely daughter
and the sun fell heavy and thick
to warm the blood of a world"
The drop of blood that had flown from the ring to the curl of her brow sinks into her pores like a taste of madness. Magic traces the edges of it, of the iron and rust, below her skin. It feels like a pounding hind her eyes, like she is nothing more than a bit of birch shivering when the thunder comes to roar close at her roots. When she blinks there is only an aching, bright white glare and the thudding and moaning of a fight.
It consumes her. The aching and the blinding. And she lets it, oh she lets it devour every inch of her magic and sinew. The girl beneath the madness falls to the decay with a smile.
Amaunet does not open her eyes until the thunderous roar of her heart becomes the loudest thing she can hear. And even when she looks at the colors (blood, and red, and pale skin turned pink) everything seems dim and white-washed below the echo of her heart. Her wings flare at her sides like the holy wings of a predator-god. The crowds looks at her and smile for the sight of it.
They know what is to come. They know. Bets are placed because tonight--
Tonight is the only treasure waiting to be found in the crowd.
Chaotic wrath is already alive in her blood when the stallion yells at her through the crowd. Even with the echo of her heart roaring in her ears like the sea his voice reaches her like an anchor. She turns with her wings still spread wide and holy. When she moves towards him the crowd moves around her like ripples around a stone thrown in a lake. She drains a whiskey from someone's table before she reaches him.
The smoke makes her feel reckless. Magic coats her body in golden light as it purrs and nibbles at the edges of the forms around her. A fight starts at the edge of her shadow, two stallions shoving each other like cave creatures. Amaunet does not turn to watch them, her eyes remain still and heavy on the winged stallion as she joins him. It's the look of a predator.
She offers him her nose. “For now. The night is still young.” Her laugh is smooth as the whiskey on her tongue and just as full of banked embers. Their shadows turn bruise dark when she steps closer to him. A shiver takes her own skin as she wipes away a forgotten line of blood from his neck.
“You fought well.” Her glow brightens into a dawn sun as her wings settle themselves back at her side. One of the fighting stallions bumps into her, but she does not move from the feeling of the wrath at her back. She revels in it and lets her turn her voice to wildfire and flowers that only bloom at night. “Congratulations on your win.” And when she steals two glasses of liquor from a passing participant, she offers one to him with a smile that promises every sin left to discover.
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