Trivik's eyes gaze at the lapis floor. It glistens in the light from the massive chandelier of the same material above him, and eternal candles sit within. Their wicks burn with cerulean fire.

"Trivy, you can stand," the Goddess softly utters, her voice playful and welcoming.

Though the Goddess behaves casually, Trivik remains formal. He rises from the floor, his arms tense at his sides and his face bare of emotion. Inside, a fire brews deep in the pit of his stomach, but he hides it with his cool persona.

Directly in front of him on a pink crystalline thrown, a cheery woman with the appearance of an early twenty-year-old sits. The smile on her lips tugs at Trivik's nerves. Her flowing, silver-gold hair falls to her lower back, and a shimmering dress of silk and opal covers her up from her wrists to her ankles.

Beside her both ways, a fearsome guard stands, each scoffing at Trivik. They certainly think omens, Trivik knows, glaring at each before lessening his stare's vehemence.

To her left, a brawny man with neat, obsidian hair. Shiny, decorative armor shields him with its steel exterior. His blue eyes attempt to pierce Trivik like the green of the man on the other side, but neither man can. A sword rests by his side in a black hilt, though it's mainly for the appearance, as all Reapers have an innate weapon.

To her right, a highly skinny man with a short, blond ponytail. He wears similar armor meant for ornateness, though it seems to be light-weight. A whip sits on his hip, and a dagger is at his left.

"Come closer," the Goddess tells, and Trivik does as she pleases without a hint of hesitation. He changes position to a mere foot away, and the guards peer at him with glowers. "Trivy, how was your first job? Was it okay?"

Trivik swallows the lump at the back of his throat and bites into his lip. He glances down, his eyes welling with water. "It was absolutely fine," he spits, and the guards' faces go red with rage due to his disrespectful tone. But they know they can't do anything to the Goddess' favored lord.

"Di'atrivik, I know that isn't true. Please tell me the truth. I won't take offense. And say it as a poem," she almost orders. Due to exposure with Trivik, she's learned an important factor about him: he never lies during a poem, and he'll tell exactly what he feels.

After a deep breath, Trivik is ready. "Yes, Goddess.

Teach of easygoing experiences,
But reality couldn't be more different.
The world of mortals homes horrific incidents.
Truthfully, Drevillik are belligerent.
They aren't hesitant.
They aren't imminent
For destruction.

But Drevillik are the beginning.
For us Reapers,
There's no winning.
We fall deeper and deeper
In humanity's sinning.
In humanities uncaring
Nature.

Covered in filth and muck,
I felt no touch of a Goddess.
It seemed I was out of luck.
To this world, I was a novice.

And my sister,
She suffered with me in mere children's flesh.
My Sun covered in dirty clouds that blister,
And starvation hit us hard for me to stress.

If you can do anything,
Why must your soldiers suffer!
Is the darkness worth hiding
When we are the ones who can't muster
The strength to live!"

Silence echoes through the castle, and tears leave Trivik's eyes as he stares at the Goddess with pure hatred. Enraged, the bulky guard strides up to him and makes a glance toward his sword. But Trivik ignores, staring at the Goddess who sits in the fetal position while crying into her dress.

"You made the Goddess cry, you deplorable lord," the guard growls, removing his sheathed sword from his side and throwing it away. He's ready for a real fight of natural abilities.

"Nasich'ra, you hold no authority to fight me." Trivik's orbs intensify and widen, and his teeth bare. "Back off!" He shifts his attention to the skinny guard who nudges further into the conflict. "And, Frere, don't even step by me. You aren't powerful, and you're just the Goddess' loyal pet. All in the Overworld know that."

Frere scowls, his chest filling and depleting quickly. "Don't you dare say that, cocky lord! You, of all in the Over, are the most likely to be a pet!"

After Frere tosses his false weapons away, all begin to take out their truthful forms. Trivik rips his skin for his preferred Drevillik form, Frere tears his tongue out for it to become the handle to a whip of blue lightning, and Nasich'ra's mouth emits a black haze that solidifies into a purely black two and a half hand sword that falls into his hands.

I hope you enjoyed chapter two part six! Don't be a silent reader! I love comments and votes!

What is your favorite weapon so far?

Trivik's Reverse Drevillik form —> ()

Gnaimral's ability to fill with pressurized air —> ()

Sun's Halfie form —> ()

Frere's whip of lightning —> ()

Nasich'ra's black sword —> ()