All voices cry [i]bow.[/i]

All voices cry [i]submit.[/i]

There is a sliver of difference. There is a silver difference. He has a moment to act.

Vasilia’s hand smells of sweat and perfume. Her fingers stroke his face. They are strong, even moving so faintly. They are soft, save for an unfamiliar ring, and a whisper of anger recalls through the maelstrom. He mouths words into her skin. He taps meaning onto her arm.

“My husband says he cannot know, for he has yet to meet one. I myself agree with him.”

Vasilia’s voice is too casual to be calculated, too reverential to be defiance, too open to be hiding. 

Dolce’s voice is gone. 

Together, they stand.