ARIELLE:
A collective gasp ripples through the crowd as all eyes snap toward the back of the hall. A figure emerges from the shadows, her movements fluid and purposeful. She is cloaked and hooded, seemingly a chaperone or attendant from a foreign land. Her dress, however, is the least of anyone's concerns at the moment.
With a dramatic flourish, she pulls the chaperone from her head. It's not a normal headpiece, but woven together... from snakes. Living snakes, their forked tongues flicking in the air as they writhe and hiss. A collective shudder of revulsion and horror sweeps through the room.
Gasps and screams fill the hall. This is no ordinary guest.
"I am not here for a wedding," the woman declares, her voice a chilling hiss that amplifies through the hall, laced with a dangerous melody that makes my hair stand on end. "I am here for Caith."
She pauses, her gaze locking on the prince with an intensity that could melt steel.
"On behalf of the Princess of Hell," she continues, enunciating each word with deliberate venom, "I am Euryale, sister to Medusa. And I am here to claim what is rightfully hers."
Chaos erupts. The men draw their swords, their polished steel gleaming in the candlelight. The Amazons respond in kind, their blades flashing as they form a protective circle around me and the Queen. Others scatter, their cries of fear adding to the cacophony of the moment.
An Amazon warrior, bolder (or perhaps more foolhardy) than the rest, steps forward, her sword raised. "You are not welcome here, Gorgon," she spits, her voice filled with contempt. "Take your threats and your serpents back to the underworld where they belong."
Euryale merely smiles, a chilling, inhuman expression that sends shivers down my spine. "Insolent cur," she hisses, her eyes glowing with an unnatural light. "You dare insult me in my true form?"
With a swift, almost imperceptible movement, she tears away the last of her disguise, revealing her true Gorgon visage. Her skin turns a ghastly shade of green, her teeth sharpen into fangs, and her eyes... her eyes... burn with an infernal fire. They shift and change, from human to reptile in a blink of an eye.
She pulls the veil from her eyes, unleashing the true power of her gaze.
"Prepare to meet your end," she rasps, her voice a horrifying blend of human and serpentine tones.
The hall explodes into a frenzy of violence. Swords clash against swords, the air filled with the sounds of battle cries and the sickening thud of steel meeting flesh. The Amazons fight with the ferocity they are known for, but Euryale is a formidable opponent, her movements swift and deadly.
The battle has begun.
Euryale strides into the center of the Grand Hall, a living nightmare, and quite frankly, rather vulgar. Any semblance of beauty she might have once possessed has been replaced by a monstrous majesty that is frankly, a bit much.
In the flickering torchlight, her scaled skin gleams like burnished emerald armor. Emerald, of all things! Truly, the woman has no taste. Her hands covered in mottled brass catch the firelight with every movement, the talons ready to tear through steel. I rather think a good nail care order is in order, but I daresay she does not frequent the establishments in Khavena.
Her mouth curves into a cruel smile, revealing fangs sharper than any blade. And her hair… well, it's simply not done. Dozens of serpents writhing, hissing, their forked tongues tasting the fear that drenches the air.
Each warrior who dares meet her gaze falters, stiffens, and freezes in place eyes wide in eternal shock until their bodies harden into cold, colorless stone. The sound is hideous, like marble grinding against gypsum, as living flesh becomes lifeless rock. I can barely breathe as Elara, one of the Amazons who trained me – who taught me how to wield a sword and gut a fish with equal aplomb – collapses, now nothing more than a sculpture destined to crumble. The absurdity of it all! I'm about to be thrust into a marriage with a man I barely know, and now this? It is all terribly inconvenient, to say the least.
A sudden force is at my arm Caith. He yanks me and Mother toward the narrowing corridor at the side of the hall, his shield slung over his shoulder as he pushes us away from the carnage. "No arguments," he growls, pulling us behind a carved column before guiding us through the passage. It is rather ungentlemanly, of course, but one can hardly expect proper decorum when facing a Gorgon, now can one?
The screams beyond the wall suddenly fall away into a suffocating silence. My skin prickles. The quiet is worse. It's the calm before a storm you can *feel*. Like the silence before a particularly disastrous debutante ball.
Then it comes—the cry.
Euryale's shrill, bellowing screech splits the air like shattering glass. My knees buckle as I cover my ears, Mother doubling over beside me. All through the hall, warriors and guests cower in the shadows of their hiding places, pressing themselves against walls that now tremble beneath the force of her voice. Honestly, my teeth are rattling. Is this what it feels like to be a chandelier?
A low rumble stirs underfoot. The marble floor cracks in jagged lines, the gilded pillars quiver, and dust rains from the high arches. Her cry is so strong that it gnaws at the very bones of the palace stone weakening, threatening to collapse. At this rate, we'll all be buried under a pile of rubble before the wedding breakfast is even served. How tiresome.
Caith releases my arm and slides the shield from his back, adjusting it so its polished surface faces outwards. He avoids my gaze only scanning my reflection in the metal to find the direction of her movement. Honestly, the man's awareness leaves something to be desired. Slowly, deliberately, he draws his sword, its steel singing against the scabbard. It's a rather dramatic gesture, I must admit, but I'm not entirely convinced it will be effective.
"She's immortal, Caith," I whisper urgently, grabbing his wrist before he steps forward. "She can't be killed… not in any way we know. And those cries," I shudder "those cries can bring down walls and turn stone to dust. Fighting her blindly, you're walking into death."
A scream from the hall answers my warning.
"CAITH!" Euryale's voice rolls like thunder soaked in poison. "Come to me, my champion! Let us see if your courage is more than the pretty bride's trembling lips."
Her serpents twist toward my reflection, hissing my name. "Your princess already wilts. How pathetic… to rule nothing when your beauty fades."
Rage, hot and sudden, boils in my veins. The sheer audacity of the woman! I may be a reluctant bride, but I am not pathetic. And as for my beauty fading… well, I'll have her know I have excellent lineage. A lady must maintain standards, you know.
Caith's jaw tightens. He steps forward with caution, shield up, sword angled low, every muscle coiled for movement. The man truly needs to consult a strategist.
Euryale turns, her brass fingers flexing, the snakes writhing in anticipation. I can see the reflection of her cruel smirk.
The air between them grows still. I can feel the tension, thick and suffocating.
The fight is about to begin, and I have a terrible feeling it is all heading towards a rather unpleasant conclusion.
The air crackles with unseen energy. It is all terribly exciting and terrifying. The gold of Caith's shield reflects the scene before us, a chaotic dance of death and dread. It is like watching a terribly-acted play, but with real consequences.
Euryale, shifts her weight, the serpents on her head a writhing mass of discontent. Honestly, one would think she'd invest in some hair ribbons. Her brass fingers flex, and I swear I see sparks fly from them. She is positively brimming with ill temper, a state I know all too well myself.
Caith takes another cautious step forward, his gaze still fixed on the shield. It is all rather dramatic, if not terribly effective. If he intends to win, he needs to be clever, not merely brave. And perhaps less.
"A touch to your left," I murmur, barely daring to breathe. "She favors her right side. And for heaven's sake, do try to avoid looking directly at her. I'd hate to see your statue gracing the gardens." It's a rather macabre thought, really.
Caith adjusts his stance, tilting the shield ever so slightly. He is a good listener, I shall give him that. He seems to understand it's not his brawn, but my brain he should be relying on.
"She's preparing to strike," I whisper, my voice barely audible above the hissing of the snakes and the crackling of the dying torches. "She'll aim for your legs, I think. That's usually how these ghastly things operate."
As if on cue, Euryale lunges, her brass hand flashing towards Caith's leg with surprising speed. It is like watching a viper strike – swift and deadly.
"Now, Caith! Now!" I urge, my heart pounding in my chest.
Caith reacts in a heartbeat, pivoting on his heel and bringing his sword down in a sweeping arc. The steel sings as it cleaves the air, narrowly missing Euryale's outstretched hand. I watch breathlessly, directing him through the reflected gold plate like he is a very well-dressed puppet, as he parries and thrusts, all the while keeping that infernal gaze at bay. It is not so much a fight as a dance, a perilous waltz with death as his partner.
"Strike higher, man! Aim for the serpents! If you take out enough of those horrid creatures, perhaps we can weaken her," I suggest, wringing my hands in what I hope is a display of dignified concern. One must maintain appearances, after all, even when facing a Gorgon.
Caith, bless his heart, actually seems to hear me. He adjusts his attack, aiming for the writhing mass of snakes that crown Euryale's head. The task is perilous, requiring both precision and audacity, but he is surprisingly adept. With a swift, precise movement, he manages to sever a few of the serpents from their ghastly host. They fall to the ground with a sickening thud, writhing and hissing in their death throes. It is all rather unpleasant, but I cannot deny a certain sense of satisfaction.
Euryale shrieks in fury, her voice cracking the remaining glass in the chandeliers. She lashes out with renewed ferocity, her brass hands moving with blurring speed. Caith manages to deflect the blows, but I can see the strain on his face. It is only a matter of time before one of those blows lands.
"Patience, Caith! Patience! Wait for an opening!" I caution, desperate to prevent him from succumbing to recklessness. We've come this far, we cannot allow him to ruin it with some foolish display of chivalry.
It is a slow dance, this fight, a dance with the devil, and I, it seems, am the dance mistress. The stakes, however, are rather higher than those at Almack's.