Page 9 of Invoking Ruin

How long I stumble through the pitch black on the edge of Tartarus and Void, I can’t say, but slowly, those glints become gleams. As I grow closer, they begin glowing in earnest. I press on until they turn into full-blown torches throwing out feeble lights.

Tartarus and its prison.

Once, this pit held mortals, demigods, titans, even giants. Now, it’s eerily silent. As far as I know, Nyx is the only occupant still wallowing away in this lonely corner of the universe, but it’s not as though the other gods are including me in their ‘who’s-going-to-prison’ gossip.

Or any other kind.

The good news is that the main hall is completely empty. Nyx’s guards, if she has any, must be away. It’s not hard to figure out which cell is hers. The rest of the bars and locks have accumulated dust. Anywhere from months to centuries of detritus clings to the door frames.

I let myself inside her cell and close the door behind me, leaning up against it.

Nyx sits chained to a rock. Her robes are dusty, marring the perfect darkness of the fabric, shattering the illusion of the night sky beneath her skin. Mother hasn’t been a kind jailer to her. I’m trying to decide how to feel about it when Nyx glances up, not seeing anything or anyone.

She rises, drawing to both her full height and her full dignity. The cuffs around her wrists—likely pure adamant to contain the goddess of night—strain and buckle, flickering as they absorb her powers.

Not exactly the most secure containment job I’ve ever seen. But then, Nyx is primordial. I can’t imagine there’s a perfect method.

“Show yourself,” she commands. “I’m in no mood for tricks.”

I grit my teeth. She has no power to command me from where she’s standing, but the urge to obey her queenly presence is undeniable. Slowly, as though the speed with which I obey determines the power she has over me, I pull off the helmet.

“Hello, grandmother.”

Nyx doesn’t even have the decency to look surprised I’m here. She takes in my appearance, covered in river mud and Chaos knows what else. The sandals on my feet, the helmet dangling from my fingers.

She sniffs. “I did wonder when you’d show up, granddaughter.”

“Did you now?” I hedge, already disliking how she’s managed to put me on the back foot.

I’m a master of manipulation. My very powers center around convincing anyone, but especially men, to make choices that will bring about their own destruction. And yet, I know I’m outmatched with Nyx. After all, while I was squirreling away artifacts and loot from our fallen brethren, she was the one making them fall to begin with. Checkers to her chess, and she never once invited me to play, preferring the more easily-swayed vacuousness of my sister Lethe.

I hate her for it. I hate her for poisoning Lethe, too, but it’s a smaller piece of it. Seven hundred years, she had her master plan in motion, and I was left to my own devices. Undiminished, knowing exactly who I was, and never knowing why.

Had it been Nyx’s idea of mercy? Or had I just been unworthy of inclusion?

The answer haunts me.

Worst of all, I’m sure she knows which it was.

“You’re all they talk about when they speak to me. Every time, for their entire visit, all they do is ask if I know your whereabouts, if I was working with you to keep the knife out of their hands. My daughter is especially distraught that I have managed to turn two of her children against her.” She cants her head in a solemn nod. A salute to my skills.

My skin itches.

“Yes, well, I’m not working with you.” I straighten, not about to slouch in this goddess’ presence. “Neither is Lethe anymore. Not since she got a taste for Smith cock.”

“The Olympians seem intent on claiming my line for their own.” She sighs, as though Apollo and Hephaestus had taken Eris and Lethe as bed slaves rather than incredibly willing lovers and companions.

I suppose in her reality they may as well have.

“But you’re the one with the knife,” Nyx presses, with a singular determination, “My daughter would be much more cheerful if she had that threat to lord over me.”

Eris must be sour over being outwitted, something Nyx more than likely delights in. I suck my teeth. Mother should have been more discreet in her interrogation, not allowed Nyx to know who currently does or does not possess the knife.

But then, no one’s ever escaped from Tartarus on their own, now have they? Nyx will remain here until someone releases her or the end of existence swallows us whole.

Both possibilities must seem very far off to Eris.

Of course, there’s a third option.

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