The Titan’s smirk now became a glare. “Do you dare threaten me in my own court?”
“Call it a prophecy.”
Koios recoiled, his look so stricken Prometheus had to wonder if he had just somehow confirmed one of Koios’s own foretellings. He would not be the first Titan undone by his own foreknowledge of the future.
Prometheus stalked away from the other Oracle, knowing full well where to find his daughter. He slipped around the courtyard, and into the water garden where Pyrrha and Artemis both lounged beside a pond.
Pyrrha read from a papyrus scroll of love poetry while the other woman inserted snarky or lewd remarks every few lines. For a moment—too brief—Prometheus listened to the joy in his daughter’s voice, the simple pleasures. For that instant, he dared to let himself believe the dark depths she had explored in his pyromantic visions were mere products of his fears. That she had not delved into sorcery. That the girl lying on her back, snickering at mediocre verses, was the sum of his daughter, still innocent.
But then, as he had told Koios, everyone had a responsibility to help those they had the power to help. And, wherever Pyrrha had gone, it was not too late for her to turn back. So he moved to let his shadow fall upon the women, and both looked up abruptly at him.
Artemis frowned while Pyrrha stiffened, his daughter clearly more embarrassed at being observed than the other Titan.
“Well,” Artemis said. “I believe Aidos was looking for me earlier. Perhaps I should check in on her.” Without another look, she rose and departed, and Prometheus sat down beside Pyrrha.
His daughter scooted up against a tree and tossed her scroll aside as if ashamed to have even taken a moment for such things. “What are you doing here?”
Prometheus knelt and took her hand in his own. “I have seen things.”
“You were spying on me.” An accusation, and it stung.
“I cannot help but have concern for my own child.”
“I’m fine,” she said, snatching her hand away. “Thank you for asking.” There was bitterness in her voice. Did she blame him for her exile? Had he failed to do enough to spare her that?
He sighed. “You are not fine. You deepen your studies in the Art.”
“Yes.” She made no effort to deny it.
“Pyrrha, sorcery abrades the soul. You cannot practice the Art without it destroying the person you are inside.”
His daughter scoffed and fixed him with a hard look. “Sorcery abrades the soul? Well, so does life, Father. It scours and scourges and takes and takes until we are but nubs. Shells of our former selves. Does sorcery harm us? Perhaps, but so does training as a warrior, and you do not dissuade any from that course. We pay for power in pain and blood, but at least we gain some semblance of control over our lives!”
“Pyrrha, you cannot—”
“My name,” she interrupted, “is the sorceress Hekate.”
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About the Author
Matt Larkin writes retellings of mythology as dark, gritty fantasy. His passions of myths, philosophy, and history inform his series. He strives to combine gut-wrenching action with thought-provoking ideas and culturally resonant stories.
Matt’s mythic fantasy takes place in the Eschaton Cycle universe, a world—as the name implies—of cyclical apocalypses. Each series can be read alone in any order, but they weave together to form a greater tapestry. Want a place to start? Check out Darkness Forged.
Learn more at mattlarkinbooks.com or connect with Matt through his fan group, the Skalds’ Tribe: https://www.mattlarkinbooks.com/join-the-skalds-tribe/
For Juhi. For believing.
