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The first time Rex Lapis sets his eyes on Alatus is also the last.
His pathetic body lies shivering on the earthen ground at the feet of his Master's throne, but he is not shivering from the bitter chill; rather he is quaking from the piercing glow of the foreign god’s amber eyes.
They swirl with pale golds and deep umbers - like a pool of molten lava - looking both at and through him simultaneously in a thousand-yard gaze. Alatus has seen his own irises only in the reflection of the shallow pools around his Master's domain, yet even so, he is sure his eyes are a mere dimming star before this god’s yawning nebula.
The god stares at Alatus’ silver leash tying him to the bloodied throne of his dead master. Their calm face is all flawless skin and copper dragon scales - visible even from under the shadow of their white hood - but their eyes hold no pity for Alatus; only a barely-there intrigue and something else he cannot define.
Petrified corpses of servants and slaves alike litter the now empty domain and his Master’s head sits in the foriegn god’s hands, a grim trophy of war. The head isn’t trapped in geo - the dripping blood tells him the god had lobbed it off roughly with their blade. The Archon of Dreams’ face is frozen in a scream of enraged horror and her lavender stare is glazed over with death.
He expects himself to be the next to die. He expects his own head to join his Master’s in the archon’s spoils. Perhaps this god would find him beautiful like his Master had. Perhaps he would be preserved in geo as well, turning his flesh into another macabre offering.
Even still, Alatus simply lies back and closes his eyes in his personal facade of peace.
The red crystal shards embedded into the throne behind him are icy against his exposed flesh, reminding him of his Master’s cold fingers that had once loved to rake through his matted hair after battles, when it still glistened with blood and guts both divine and mortal.
“What a pretty little songbird you are,” she’d coo. (When his wings were wretched from his shoulders she had begun to call him her cute little dog instead.)
She would have wanted him to live, he thinks. Alatus is grateful he has been allowed this final freedom in his life fraught with suffering.
But the spear to the neck never comes. All is silent in the domain save for the whistling blow of cool wind. There is no sound of a dying heartbeat, no noises of gushing blood onto earth.
Alatus chances a peek at the archon, but in the very same millisecond his eye flutters open, the archon begins to speak.
Their rich, honeyed voice is nothing like the taste of a sweet dream, but it feels like ambrosia all the same. He cannot tear his eyes away.
“In the fables of another world, the name Xiao is that of a spirit who encountered great suffering and hardship.” Barely above a murmur, yet their voice is the only thing Alatus can focus on. “He endured much suffering, as you have. Use this name from now on,”
They reach down to his collar and they snap the cold silver into a thousand shards with a single firm grip.
Work done and trophies collected, the archon turns sharply on their heel but walks away with no real haste - on a tranquil stroll through the remnants of a bloodbath. Xiao gets up on his quivering legs and follows his divine Lord away from the museum of corpses.
When the sun glares into his dying-star eyes, it is the first time he sees its light with no fetter at his throat.