As for Pallas, he could only stare, his eyes wide with utter adoration for Elara.
Magic, to Pallas, was the greatest power in the world—a force of pure wonder.
"Sister, it's dark now," he whispered, tugging on her sleeve. "Mama will be looking for us! And… and Pallas is hungry!"
He felt a pang of sympathy for the bound figure of Kronos, having learned this was his brother. More than that, Pallas felt a strange, instinctual connection to him, a quiet hum of kinship in his blood. He wanted to plead for Kronos, but he knew Elara would not listen to him.
The night grew deeper.
Kronos, all of three years old, was starved, parched, and exhausted.
"Does… does calling you '(big)sister' get me meat?" he finally asked, his voice a fragile thread of sound, laced with a stubbornness that was quickly fading.
The simple, primal need for food was eroding his defiance. Hunger, after all, is the beginning of all things, be they sin or salvation.
"It does."
"Fine, then. Sister."
