DICTATRICR DE LA NUIT— the title she had been crowned with had spread like wild fire in a matter of hours to all.
Dictator of the Night.
Is what they call her. A ruler with total power over their subjects, someone who had obtained complete control by force.
She sighed looking at her reflection as she finished her makeup. She had done it flawlessly, all sharp lines and angles, winged eyeliner making her eyes more enchanting than they already are and a subtle highlight causing her cheekbones to look like someone could cut their finger on them if they weren't careful.
Cynthia stared into her own eyes.
She sees divinity— and it's taunting her. She sees as the mirror had rippled like a clear lake that was disturbed by leaves falling, her reflection shifting, as golden eyes stared back at her in contracts to her unforgiving shade— they were archaic.
She bites the inside of her cheek so hard blood pools in the back of her throat until she swallows, licking her teeth afterward and smearing the crimson and gold all over the pearly whites.
She held a wild, dangerous anger within her that simmered low in her gut, like a wound from battle festering away in the blazing heat until the vultures circled overhead to signal that there was a weakened being dying beneath their beaks.
The crimson ichor, spills from the side of her lips, dripping down her face and into her lap.
She knows. She may not be fully noble. Yet she is divinity. With half of her blood from her father, more than any of them, she alone am worth their weight in gold.
A low rumble in the air, as an electric charge snaps into the air, as the power heats through the surface, making the air waver like a hot summer's day.
"Oh Dearest." Came a familiar voice.
Cynthia saw the figure standing behind her, from the mirror's reflection. She has long dark hair, and large, soft brown eyes that one could get lost in and a face of regal and unapproachable beauty. With glowing white gown, a cloak of peacock feathers over her shoulders. She is the most beautiful goddess, before the creation of Aphrodite that is.
Cynthia's beloved mother— Hera.
She wasted no time in collapsing herself into her mother's warm embrace, as Hera placed a hand flat onto her back, and another on the back of her head, holding her as close as possible.
"You're here." Cynthia smiled, clutching onto her dress tightly, if it were anyone else Hera would have killed them, but Cynthia isn't anyone.
Cynthia is Hera's sweet child.
They pull away, Hera places a hand gently on her daughter's face and looked into golden eyes.
She sees divinity trying to break free.
As much ad Hera wants Cynthia by her side for eternity, she knows that immortality is Cynthia's greatest fear, her own Tartarus.
Hera places a chaste kiss on Cynthia's forehead, and soon the gold in her eyes fades away, turning back to their beautiful unforgiving shade.
"You're safe now. Remember, that you are marble of the highest pristine. They will try to break you, but you must never let them win." Hera told her softly as she ran a hand running through her long hair of silken flames.
"I won't." Cynthia said and Hera smiled at her.
"That's my girl."
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