The layers of his insignificance rolled from the Time God’s tongue, and the Lord listened as he was chastised, as he was reprimanded, as he was scolded for having an opposing opinion: fought the urge to spark, to sizzle, to sear and embolden his speech into another barbed discourse. But apparently they weren’t allowed to dispute a deity’s sentiments, weren’t allowed to form thoughts other than pure acceptance, sheep and lemming mentality. Deimos had never been one to follow the flock, never been one to bow his head and accept everything before him: he’d challenged since the moment he was born, played devil’s advocate and cretin’s sword, craved defiance and coveted sedition. His fight seemed extinguished, however, because no matter what he stated, no matter what D’art, Ulrik, or anyone else thought, the sparking being wasn’t going to alter his decision. Even if he scraped, bit, tore, and rasped against the grain, naught would change – his resistance, his uprising, disappeared and died in the flicker of the god’s words. There was nothing he could do: the decision was final, the outcome pressed and made, the gavel dropped. He was forced to adhere to another’s reign, and the difficulty, the constraint gnawed at his mind, clawed down his spine, because all he yearned to do was fight, and the deity, this colossus of time, of hours, of minutes and measures, told him he couldn’t. The winter King clenched his jaw and grated his teeth, served his gaze without emotion, with empty, void beacons, with indifference and reticence, retreating so far into himself that the God would have to dive deep, deep into the blue fathoms to retrieve any other sentiments. Guarded, reserved, gone, into the bestial framework of years before: resolute, protective, of the nefarious heart, of the wicked deeds, of the barbaric flames he kindled. “We shall see if she meets your expectations.” It was the only acceptance he could muster, and all he desired to do thereafter was cling, linger, back into his comfortable shadows, his desolate, forlorn shoals, his hollowed caverns, hiding away from the world.

What provoked him even more was how some of the drones, some of the patriots, simply forgot, neglected, and overlooked Illynx: gone, tangled into another mission; someone monumental abandoned moments later, favoring the new sovereign with smiles and warm gestures. Would he be the same some day? Tossed aside despite all of his efforts, all of his passion, all of his carnivore predilections for a herd he fought day in and day out for? Were they all so inconsequential? Were they all so insubstantial? Were they all irrelevant place holders, figures and fixtures to be abandoned? Replaced so readily, thrown away so quickly? He glanced at each and every one of his members, some he didn’t recognize, some he knew for seasons and cycles, and wondered the meaning of his place. To protect, to shield, to defy, to cripple, to conquer – or to the unattainable Reaper, the dark scythe, the unapproachable behemoth immersed in antiquity, in nonchalance, statue depravity carved from Lucifer’s rubble and ruin.

More bickering commenced, more queries flew, more questions traveled: murders and mayhem, monsters and ogres (for once, he presumed, not incited by them), and he processed all of it, calculated, examined, deliberated, nodding towards Aviya, a daughter in need of vengeance, turning towards Zikar-Sin, a Haruspex requiring more information, and even Ophelia, a foreign Queen he had to adhere to. She talked and she talked and he just wanted to leave (her credentials were long but consistency not), until she inquired about their herd, its protection, and he, mighty, domineering, and overwhelming, felt the slightest bit of comfort in taking the task of vigilance and violence. “When investigating the mystery, they should travel in groups, ensure all whereabouts are known.” None of them should’ve slipped through cracks, disappear into more atrocities, more casualties. A mere moment later, he inclined towards Ulrik, the resident artiste. “Perhaps we could employ our Weaver for specific weaponry or shielding artifacts.” Was it possible to craft something (beyond fabric armor – the notion was ludicrous) to salvage, secure, and safeguard their detective groups?