Erebos instantly had the feeling he was being appraised.
 
He’d been on the receiving end of judgments before – from those he battled, from those he chased, from those who wanted to look upon the son of the Reaper and see if might bestowed might. Some days he knew they saw nothing; a boy of little worth, come to play amongst the fireflies and demons. Some days he knew they saw a foolish little blackguard, come to simmer and seethe in his vengeful pursuits. Some days he knew they saw something there, lurking beneath the surface, come to wine and dine and devour them all.
 
But this was different, not scathing, not loathing, not scathing or sinister, analyzing, scrutinizing, and imbibing in a different light – something he couldn’t truly name, but it echoed along his cranium, his skull, on instinct and compulsions, inclinations and tendencies. She appeared distant, but coy, siren-esque, choosing to bask in frigid winds and summer splendor instead of the high seas, beckoning for avaricious escapades, burying her lords out in the sand. Perhaps she was a viper, sent to earth with spikes laden with venom, perhaps she was a moth, drawn to too many flames, perhaps she was a caterpillar, biding and clawing her way on black and gold feet, innocuous to some, fatal to many. He sifted and scanned in turn, and when she continued to glance his way, like he had something to offer her (he didn’t stop her from looking, couldn’t if he’d wanted to), he drew his smile upwards again, a great grand grin, trying to hide, to mask, a sinister, mocking laugh.
 
Before he could respond to her (Ovi, she’d serenaded, a mellifluous tune), she approached the Sentinels, attempted to persuade and inveigle with a smirk embedded in catty wiles, and spoke of cloaks. The lad’s brow arched, but that was the end of his speculation  - for no sooner had she finished, Enna arrived, and the depths of his devilish soul crooned at her infernal essence. They were two halves of the same whole, both immoral, both iniquitous, both scaling a wall of scathing dreams and ambitions, both clutching knives and daggers to the throats of their enemies, eager to cut away, piece by piece, morsel by morsel. Lucifer ambitions and Mephistophelean pride shielded him from her temper, but not her touch, and his frame nearly turned into the simmering caress, as her mouth grazed his hip, fervent on snickering and smirking from beneath his friendly, amiable grin. The prince’s gaze turned to hers, asked a silent query, and was given his answer as her features shifted, blunt and keen, cold and mercurial.
 
A game, she seemed to whisper.
 
But there were two amusements sizzling along the air, one he couldn’t quite name (still a worthy diversion, however, because whatever it happened to be made Enna cover his frame with hers, and he could nearly touch his lips to her ear without her flinching, scowling, or fleeing), and the other just beginning. The scion’s gaze followed the healer’s, along the stranger, until they rested on the withering Sentinels, decrepit and eerie, poignant and haunting. Seasons before, they would’ve been more than just a barren threat, but a hostile certainty, a vicious, brutal siege on those who dared to trespass. Now, they were mere artifacts of Engineers and their sons tinkering on heartless machines. 
 
Then came the contemptuous notion, spreading, circling, pervading his skull in a vicious swirl, and Orsino responded in kind, laughing, laughing, and laughing, a vehement hiss flooding and flickering through his ears. They were one and the same too – cruel and vindictive, brutal and irreverent, acting as two feral beasts, one standing as a noble, regal prince, the other, a Stygian fox nestled between the former’s front limbs. It only took one silent command for the kitsune’s cunning invocations to spiral; on quiet, inaudible threads, he coaxed and chanted, he called and courted, he stunned and imagined darker plains of soulless whims.
 
The delusion, illusion, and mirage were brought to life. One of the Sentinel’s enormous heads began to move, twisting, turning, in gnarled, metallic growls, in wicked hymns, in disastrous tugs and pulls. It creaked and groaned, stretched and moaned, and shifted its empty gaze solely upon the stranger.
 
The boy’s features remained friendly, charismatic, and cordial, his words a genial warning, missing the puncturing, piercing shards of the ominous provisions coiling along his crown. “I hope you have a good answer.”