deities could be divided into sides
only one could tip the
Aruma absolutely hated the Djinhelm Dishonoreds' base. Even his enchanted piano was irritating at times since he could not play for another, much less an audience. As he walked down the infamous hallway that never seemed to end, he called out everything in his head. A red carpet that was perfect for deities that thought they were royalty. The variously themed doors of the Dishonored sorted them like they were the multi-colored candies in Lihared—as if they weren't diverse enough. The giant pillars' design stolen from a Karvic temple.
Ever since he started staying at the Memory Court, he had gotten to appreciate things that he had never cared to notice before. More privacy. No annoying siblings. A piano he could play to Morita. No more war meetings. No threats of invading Heavens hanging over his head. He could almost get used to the life.
He hadn't always been this bitter. He remembered the days so many years ago when he would play the piano for days on end before he realized a mortal week had passed. Music had stolen time, love, and attention from him. Deities did not love him, they loved the sounds of the piano. They did not pay attention to him, but to his playing. He had been very quiet those years. Now he knew that if they could not hear the music, then they would starting seeing him instead of the wind-up to the music box.
He stopped dead in his tracks, glanced to his left, his mood souring immediately when he saw it was the brightly colored doors of the Summer quarters that were closest to him. He had come back to see Sumaestas, yet did not want to see him.
Aruma looked up and meet the gaze of his "blood" brother, deity of Summer and the Dry Season. Aruma's first reaction was a drop from the corner of his lips, then he regained his composure and gave the Summer deity a cold, calculating glare. A wide smile spread on Sumaestas's face.
They had always been the opposite of the other. The summer to the winter. The sun to the moon. The grin to the scowl.
Sumaestas walked toward him and remarked, "Always so formal." The heat behind his eyes was hard for Aruma to look at. "Even after partying with the Heavens for so long, you haven't changed."
"It has been two weeks." Aruma's voice was quiet but spoke volumes. Despite what others thought, he was not a man with few words, but rather one who had few chances to speak his mind.
YOU ARE READING
Silver As GlaceFantasy
They took her life, so she will destroy everything they have. Masquerades are dances of the night, ploys to cover identities as tricks are pulled behind the masks. As an outcast deemed freakish by her society, it's all 17-year-old Morita has ever w...