Memoriae of The Minerva (Fara Fairchild)

“The prisoner is ready to make his plea.” The speaker bows deeply at the waist, the black mask that obscures the upper half of her face disguising the disdain that you can see in the tight, thin line of her lips. “If you would give a traitor the honor of speaking in your presence, my lady.”
You smile down at her from the dias. The ice of your throne is a soothing chill against your skin, even through your cloak and it does wonders for cooling your temper. “I would.”
The faceless woman stamps a foot against the ground and her closed fist over her heart in salute. As if that were the signal they waited for, the doors at the back of the hall swing open and two more faceless women drag a man, bound in shackles and masked in a burlap sack.
He stands before you, defiant as any man could be when naked and bound. That defiance vanishes as the speaker slams her boot into the back of his knee and sends the criminal to his hands and knees with a cry of pain.
“I’m told that you have something to say for yourself, Archibald.” You can feel Her creeping into the edges of your voice, and from the tension of the man’s shoulders can as well. Good. You make a gesture with one hand and the speaker rips the burlap sack gruffly away, leaving poor Archibald blinking up at you in the sudden brightness. “Speak.”
Squinting up at you, he manages to stammer, “I-I did nothing wro-”
His protest breaks off into an agonized whoop of air as the speaker’s boot catches him in the belly hard enough to send him rolling onto his side. “Mind your place, traitor.” She spits as the two faceless guards wrench him back onto his knees, “You address a goddess.”
Well, the avatar of a goddess at least, but that’s the sort of inaccuracy best left uncorrected.
Lifting a hand, you interrupt, “I asked a very simple thing of you, Archibald. We had an accord that has treated you very well for the last decade. Cast your vote as I instruct, and in exchange you remain in your seat among the senate while your daughters remain out of prison.” Arching an eyebrow, you ask, “What do you think happens now?”
“Please, don’t hurt them.” Archibald pleads, lifting his hands to you like a common beggar, “I-it won’t happen again.”
Canting your head at an angle, your smile warms. “No.” You reply, holding out your own hand. “No it will not. But you and your daughters will face the consequences of your actions.”
Archibald pauses, blinking at you. “Daughters?” He asks, befuddled, “I don’t have any children.”
“Well,” you chuckle softly, looking down at the glass pendant taking shape in your upturned palm, “No, not anymore.”