[b]Alexa![/b]

A shiver runs through the ship. The lurch of acceleration. The distant pounding of macrobatteries. This world in the sky is waking to the call of battle.

"The story says that Kronus devoured me," said Hestia quietly, strong arms churning the yeast compound that transformed oats into butter. "And a lot of mortals took that literally. Because, bless them, they didn't understand what it was to have your life consumed by a wicked parent. To have your soul chewed down, blunt and grinding and constant, until it was more exhausting to maintain resistance than to crack. To have acid seep in, thick and burning, stripping away feeling and making gentle things feel toxic and painful against raw skin and heart. They didn't know what it was like to dwell in a darkness that was another's satisfaction. The humans who read those stories understood hunger, and assumed that was all it was. But they missed that some people aren't just hungry. Some people genuinely love food. They love eating it. They love feeling full. They're grateful to the food that goes down easy and gives them a warm feeling inside. The meal can never claim it was neglected."

Her hands are steady as she pours. The compound sizzles as the yeast sterilizes, leading only cream, fat and butter behind. Distant war-songs echo through the halls.

"I didn't correct them. I was glad they didn't get it. I was kind of glad that the worst parent that people could imagine was a hungry giant. But, just like so many of our stories, it was corrupted in our neglect. The rich and powerful heard the story of Kronus and thought, 'ah, so long as I do not literally eat my infant, then I have done no wrong' even as their devouring jaws choked down cities and worlds."

She lifts the heavy bucket and starts pouring the soft and smooth semisolids into glass bottles. The bear-head of her hoodie is lowered, and her dark hair is tied back in a simple bun. Her hands are steady even as deep and distant crashes of battle make themselves know again. "But then, you asked me how I endured it? The same way you did. I didn't know anything else. I did not lift myself from that pit, Alexa. I was rescued. I can't show you the way. Ask another."

[b]Dolce![/b]

"I apologize, Lord Captain," said Jil, firmly taking the pot - and the hand that held the ring. As she spoke the tip of her tail slipped into the ring, wearing it. "But that is not acceptable. We are in the Endless Azure Skies and this is a realm of dedication and specialization. You may not simply decide to intrude upon the space of another, no matter how far you may think them beneath you. Even if you have received dispensation to cook that does not give you the right to trespass on the work of the waiters."

There is a fierce determination in that voice, a genuine courage and commitment. That's a surprise. A battered and terrified slave would have backed down or stumbled. Jil, though - she was fighting for something she believed in, for someone she believed in.

And that's honestly a shock because she's the first Imperial servitor you've ever met like that. Even most Imperial nobles are driven by some combination of greed or fear. But within this lantern burns a genuine fire.

[b]Bella, Skotia, and Vasilia![/b]

The great hall is a storm, and the eye is Beautiful.

She moves through the storm of violence and rushing bodies, drowned in thought, untouched by the mortal world. She steps through all the empty places between bodies and debris and scattered violence, semi-divine mind having done the math on everyone's fighting styles and able to predict every move and motion perfectly. Her head is bowed in thought and her violet eyes flicker rapidly as they process incomprehensible reams of data - only resolving for a second to link with Bella's from across the hall, timed perfectly for the second when Bella's frenzied eyes catch hers. She makes the T-gesture - time out. Something is wrong.

And above it all, Redana's voice rises in command. And then all things truly are chaos.

She has directed her retinue to open fire with solid projectile weaponry. High angle, high coverage. The ceiling rattles as fusilades strike it from her bodyguard, firing volley after volley straight up, causing a shattering cascade of thunder and the descent of billowing clouds of opaque poisonous gas. It does not bring death with it - chemistry lost the arms race to biology long ago - but it brings noise, blindness, stinging pain and confusion. Redana has decided to draw the curtains on this conflict. 

And as the smoke descends the only thing that can be seen is a red glow, a devil in the fog, a volcanic rupture in Azura blue. The light of some awful cigar silhouettes a serpentine shape that prowls through the toxic mists. It is [i]hunting[/i]. It being visible is no sign of weakness, it's a sign of the most terrible strength there is. Artemis demands brilliance from the most deadly. 

Each of you, whose hand finds yours in the dark?