metallic glint I’ve wrought is mine. Another inhale sucks into my lungs as I sag against Midas’s hold, blade forgotten, time suspended. I open my mouth and tip up my hands, calling to the gold I’ve made. And it answers back. With fire in my eyes and a flap of furious wings in my chest, I bring my gold thrashing to life. The floor goes molten; the walls bleed; every goblet, drapery, instrument, chair—they all turn viscous and malleable, melted down by the pure fury that burns in my veins.
