Marion glanced languidly towards Eris, their brows furrowed. The death of a king, no matter how foul and fallen, was meant to be historical. Here, under the heavy skies and hidden stars, there were no witnesses. There would be no scribe to write melancholic sonnets in the final hours of Ouranos’ life. There would be no priest to offer his final rites. Not even a bard to play a mournful dirge.

The prince brought a hand up to wipe the blood from his face, inspecting his fingertips ...