I was the heart. She was the butterfly. We’d fought once, long ago, when I was still considered a war goddess. She was forever a warrior, but it’d been a long time since she questioned my skills in battle. Our malicious and derisive names for one another became loving endearments by the time our swords were sheathed and we lost ourselves in friendly drinks.
You did not mess with family. Period. That’s something so many forgot about me. They saw my nature of peace and interpreted that to mean I was cold, a pushover, not caring. But the moment you tried to break a family up, well, there was a reason the saying was hell has no fury like a woman scorned.
His magic brought it to life, giving it an internal red glow that grew stronger, forcing it to shudder out a single beat. Then he dropped it into my gaping chest. It immediately attached, as if grateful to be reunited with its goddess.