Mother of Midnight

Chapter 153 – Applause

“You know, that was a fantastic performance. You aren’t the goddess of stories for nothing! Hilarious!” cackled Akhenna, her violet eyes gleaming with amusement. She leaned slightly forward, resting her weight on one foot, the delicate shift of her form making her look more like an artist admiring her work than a deity contemplating mortal affairs.

They stood atop a grassy hill, the wind stirring Akhenna’s long, shimmering hair, its color an ever-shifting tapestry of silver and violet strands. Below them stretched a vast forest, its canopy rippling like a sea of emerald waves. Sunlight broke through the clouds, casting dappled shadows across the landscape, the distant rustling of leaves blending with the soft hum of distant life. Yet none of it held her attention for long—her gaze remained fixed on the horizon, as if she could already see the story unfolding beyond it.

“Thank you, my lady,” came a gruff voice beside her.

The figure that spoke was tall and broad-shouldered, clad in dark, travel-worn armor that bore the marks of countless battles. His face was sharp and chiseled, with short cropped hair, streaked with strands of silver that glinted in the pale sunlight. He was the perfect image of a hardened warrior—except for the faintest flicker of something else beneath his gaze, something that didn’t quite belong.

Akhenna’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Oh, come now, Lyridia, don’t be so stiff. You wear his form well, but you don’t quite have his charm.”

The warrior—no, Lyridia—allowed a faint smirk to touch her lips. “I wasn’t aiming for charm, my lady. Just believability.”

“And believable you were,” Akhenna said, clapping her hands together softly, as if applauding an actor’s grand finale. “You slipped right in, twisted the tension just enough, and let it all unravel perfectly. Beautiful, really.” Her voice carried a strange, melodic warmth, as though the entire affair had been a grand stage production performed solely for her amusement.

Lyridia’s smirk faltered slightly as she shifted her weight. Her stance remained confident, but the unease creeping up her spine was impossible to ignore. Standing this close to Akhenna—the void where all threads lead, the hole in the world.

Still, Lyridia kept her voice steady, carefully choosing her words. “Is this truly wise, my lady? Vivienne grows stronger with every battle. If she discovers that you’re toying with her, she might turn her ire toward you.”

Akhenna’s eyes glittered with amusement, her lips curving into a grin that bordered on delighted madness. “Good. That’s precisely what I want, dear Lyridia! Let her rise. Let her sharpen her claws. Let her burn brighter than anyone before her. Whether she soars to glory or crashes into ruin is irrelevant. What matters is the story—the journey, the twists and turns that keep things interesting. If she can kill this iteration, then that would be interesting.”

Lyridia tensed slightly, instinctively wary of Akhenna’s words. Though she didn’t break eye contact, her heart beat faster. “You mean you don’t care if Praxus wins? Or if Vivienne destroys him?”

Akhenna giggled, the sound almost childlike in its playfulness. She spun in place, arms spread wide as if to embrace the world around her. “Of course not! I don’t choose sides—I choose stories! Praxus and Vivienne… they’re just threads in the grand tapestry I weave. If Praxus crushes her, it will be a tragedy for the ages. If Vivienne triumphs, it will be a tale of defiance, of clawing victory from the jaws of despair. Either way, I win.”

Her words were like cold iron in Lyridia’s ears. There was no malice in Akhenna’s tone—only the pure, detached joy of someone who viewed the world as a stage and its inhabitants as actors in a never-ending play. And yet, that made her all the more terrifying. A bored god. One of her least favourite tropes.

“What about me?” Lyridia asked quietly. “Am I just another tool for your amusement? Another piece in your game?”

Akhenna stopped spinning, turning to face Lyridia with a grin that was somehow both reassuring and deeply unsettling. She stepped closer, placing a hand gently on Lyridia’s shoulder. “Oh, sweet Lyridia. You’re more than a tool—you're backstage. And backstage don’t get to question the script. They work in the background. They help the actors shine. They give their all, and when the curtain falls, they either bask in applause… or face the tragic end.”

Lyridia forced herself to remain still under Akhenna’s touch, though every instinct screamed at her to pull away. “And if I refuse to play your part?”

Akhenna’s grin widened, her eyes narrowing in amusement. “You could refuse. But then what? You’ll face the anger of Praxus when he finds out what you did, maybe hunted by Vivienne, and, worst of all…” She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “…you’d bore me. And you really don’t want to bore me, do you?”

The weight of her words hung heavily in the air. Lyridia clenched her fists at her sides, biting back a retort. She shuddered to think what would happen if she became a bore. 

After a long pause, she nodded once. “Understood.”

“Marvelous!” Akhenna clapped her hands again, as if nothing had happened, her earlier levity returning. “Now, let’s see how our dear Vivienne handles the aftermath. Praxus won’t sit idle forever, and the real fun is just beginning. He is about to break some rules. I can’t wait!”

She turned away, her gaze drifting toward the vast forest below, where the horizon seemed to stretch endlessly. Lyridia remained where she was, silent and tense. Her mind raced with possibilities, none of them comforting. Akhenna didn’t care about victory or defeat—only about crafting the most entertaining narrative possible.

As the wind stirred the leaves around them, carrying with it the scent of rain, Lyridia stole a glance at Akhenna. The goddess’s expression was serene, but Lyridia knew better. The thing that called itself Akhenna thrived on chaos, on the unpredictable ebb and flow of fate. She didn’t seek control; she sought the thrill of watching others lose it.

Praxus paced across the cold marble floor of his vast throne room, his heavy footsteps echoing in the stillness. Perfectly polished stone reflected the dim, violet glow of the aetheric torches lining the chamber’s walls, casting long, angular shadows that twisted unnaturally with every flicker of light. Silent sentinels flanked either side of the room—automatons of gleaming metal and flawless design. They stood unmoving, their eyes dark and lifeless, their forms devoid of thought or soul. They did not question. They did not tire. They simply existed, eternal and unthinking, their only purpose to serve his will.

Akhenna’s blasted champion.

Praxus’s lips curled into a sneer as he halted before his throne—a jagged monolith of polished bronze and engraved glyphs. His fingers clenched tightly into fists as he fought to contain the seething fury building within him. That creature had slain Alisaria, his strongest champion, without hesitation. Worse still, someone had infiltrated his ranks, wearing the guise of Darius, his second most powerful champion. The thought gnawed at him like a festering wound.

He had appointed three champions for a reason.

Three was a number of strength, of versatility. With three, his will could be enforced across vast distances simultaneously. Each of them was meant to spread his influence, execute his commands, and ensure his dominion grew. One champion alone was not enough to do all he required—three were necessary to achieve his grand designs. And for a time, they had served him well. Alisaria had been the spearhead, the enforcer who crushed those who opposed him. Darius, with his cunning and deception, had worked in the shadows to undermine and subvert his enemies. And the third… well, the third remained. For now.

But now Alisaria was gone, slain by that accursed wretch of Akhenna’s. Praxus had seen potential in Alisaria from the moment he had chosen her—raw strength, unwavering loyalty, and a relentless drive to conquer. She had been perfect, a reflection of his will. Yet even with all her power, she had fallen, and too many of the gods had refused to acknowledge the threat posed by Akhenna’s chosen.

They scoffed at him. They dismissed his warnings. Fools.

Praxus turned sharply, his cloak of bright, shimmering aether billowing behind him like a living light. He could still hear their condescending voices echoing in his mind, their arrogance as they downplayed the danger. “She is nothing but an upstart,” they had said. “A flash in the pan, destined to burn out.” But Praxus knew better. He had seen the truth from the beginning—seen the potential for chaos, for disruption. Akhenna’s champion wasn’t just some mortal given power. She was a wildcard, unpredictable and dangerous. And now she had proven just how dangerous she could be by slaughtering Alisaria mere months after being appointed.

The enemy gods had underestimated her. He would not make the same mistake.

"Fools," he muttered under his breath, his voice a low growl that echoed through the chamber. His automaton sentinels did not respond, their empty eyes staring straight ahead as they awaited orders. There was a time when Praxus might have sought the council of his peers, might have brokered an alliance to deal with such a threat. But those days were long past. Now, he trusted no one but himself. The other gods were blind to the reality before them. They preferred their petty squabbles, their self-indulgent games of power and influence. Praxus had no interest in games. He sought only dominance.

He strode toward a massive map carved into the floor near his throne—a map of the world, its continents and oceans etched in such intricate detail that no mortal could ever hope to replicate. His eyes flicked over the various regions, each marked with symbols representing his growing influence. Alisaria’s death had weakened his hold in several key territories. He would need to act swiftly to prevent further losses. And he would need a new champion—one stronger, more cunning, more ruthless than any before.

But before that, he needed vengeance.

Praxus extended a hand, and a surge of bright aether coalesced around his fingers, crackling with malevolent energy. “You think you’ve won something, Akhenna,” he muttered, his voice cold and venomous. “You think this is a game.” His eyes narrowed, glowing faintly with the dark power coursing through him. “But I do not play games. I end them.”

He would find her champion—the creature that had slain Alisaria—and he would destroy her. But not quickly, no. That would be too merciful. He would crush her piece by piece, tear away her allies, her strength, her hope. And when she was at her weakest, he would ensure that her end was slow, agonizing, and absolute.

Turning away from the map, Praxus gestured toward one of the automatons. Instantly, the construct sprang to life, stepping forward with precise, mechanical grace. “Summon the forgemasters,” Praxus commanded. “Prepare the aether crucible. We begin crafting a new champion immediately.”

The automaton bowed silently before departing to carry out his orders.

Praxus’s eyes gleamed with cold determination as he ascended the steps to his throne. He would not be outmaneuvered by Akhenna’s tricks. He would not be undone by a mere mortal given power. The enemy gods might ignore the threat she posed, but Praxus would not rest until her story ended—written in blood and ash. If Akhenna would break the accord, so would he.

For in the end, only one truth mattered to Praxus: all who opposed him would fall. And when they did, there would be no one left to tell their tale.

And then he would be the only god on Nymoria that would be worshipped.