The Eris Rapier

∴ A Goddess Scorned ∴

“I never get invited to this sort of thing,” she laughs across the rim of her glass. “Not that I let that stop me.”

She caught your eye as soon as you walked in. Something about her demeanour: playful, mischievous, even. While the other guests stood raptly behind their chairs, waiting to applaud the bride and groom, she was perched on a bar stool, glass in hand, surveying the room with the arc of a graceful brow.

The second thing you noticed was the sword. Propped against the bar beside her, it’s a glimmering thing of slender steel and bright brass, gleaming wire grip emerging from a blackened cup. It sits at odds with the minimalist decor of the villa – but somehow not with her. No, despite the absurdity, you are certain it is hers.

As the happy couple enter to cheers and clapping, she reaches for the weapon and leans toward you, conspiratorially.

I’m bored,” she complains. “Want to make some trouble?”

Her fingers brush lightly, almost absently over the rapier’s golden pommel, and it’s only then that you realise the form it takes: a golden apple, as if from myth. The seed of discord itself.

“To the fairest,” she whispers, catching you looking, and casts you a dangerous smile.

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