chapter 1

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( Poison dipped in sugar, I lay in disguise. Bite into me, for your throat will be met with my smothering venom. Death by asphyxiate. )








        SHE COULD TASTE THE
acrid tang of metallic running down her nose, blood meeting chapped lips: a reminder of plaguing mortality. Though with the way she moved ( elegant, proficient, entirely fey ), one could only assume she held a gift. Not the type a little girl receives as a present — a dainty ballerina box, or a pair of blushed shoes. No, something generational, passed down from soul to soul, an elite skill only the supernatural could possess, and only the average could witness.

           Wand outstretched, she didn't tremble, moving through the white room with wits. Circe knew this area like the back of her hand, infact she could likely trace it to finer detail, for she had spent countless moments in here, and whilst the bruises were gone from both her skin and the walls, she could still feel them. They were everywhere, like minuscule beetles burrowing through a victims flesh, sucking away at the meat on their bones, they could only drain someone into total submission.

Circe didn't cave, instead she welcomed the feeling. For if you can't destroy your enemies, it's better to make friends with them.

That mantra would come back to bite her.

"Stabit!" a large man, pouncing from behind the corner, yelled hoarsely. From his raucous voice, scratched like a broken vinyl, the Einar could assume he was one of the last subjects standing — vocal cords ready to keel with exhaustion.

What a shame, she thought, blocking the spell without a flinch. How very, very sad. Strands of dark hair stuck to the sides of her profile, clinging to the layer of flesh her face held. They'd been in there for five hours, and under constant attack, she'd found herself breathless. Nothing she couldn't handle. There was nothing out there she couldn't handle. "Nunc moriatur." she responded; abruptly, letting it spill from her lips like lethal poison.

The buff man sank to the floor, eyes open, mouth agape, no pulse. Just like that, he had fallen, a domino in line with the others. Up until this point, it appeared Circe was leaving behind a souvenir of her winnings, for a scattered mess of limbs and corpses marked her footprints.

Circe's jaw unclasped as she pressed her fingers against his neck — double checking. You had to double check within that long, winding room. Otherwise you would soon find yourself a goner.

"Shame." she spoke, little emotion. He probably deserved it, she told herself.

Little lies build up, creating walls and mountains and castles and kingdoms. Soon the comment she'd spoken had transformed into an expansive mess of untruth and falsity, one that waited to come crumbling to the floor. For kingdoms don't run forever, and castles were like humans — ageing and decaying as time persisted.

A cackle hit the air abruptly and like a firework, it erupted into a static mess of shock. It caused Circe's body to shoot around. She had thought this was the end, she was sure of it. Though estimations were never reliable, and through the brief silence, she found herself cursing this lousy guesstimate. Sometimes, the girl longed to be something more than human, something more than a witch. She chose the unachievable and fucked the title. So really, what was stopping her from more? More entirely.

Greed dominates the mind. Humans want and want and want. The capitalistic society consumes them and through the haze of power and war, they yearn for more. More, more more. It whispers in their ears, like a lucid mantra, coercing them to chase this more. This more they're not even sure exists. For there will always be more.

Symbolically, no one can win. There will always be someone with more. And there will always be more to offer.

Another man lingered infront ( stubby face, blood-shot eyes, tanned skin stained crimson ), holding a devilish smirk, the type that could make a god fall to their knees. Circe wasn't scared. The concept of being scared had long faded into the illusive abyss.

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