The tiny breath she draws in is the only acknowledgement she makes of the pain. Bella watches her thumb back farther and farther, twisted and pulled to unnatural lengths, and her lips stay set and proper. Her eyes are curious but passive. She inclines her head to the slightest degree while she waits for the digit to break, and she watches.

But the Shogun releases her. Gingerly, she spreads her finger wide, and then balls them into a fist. She turns her back on the woman whose information she craves. Her feet carry her in four careful, perfect steps to the place she should have been from the beginning. She takes her wife's face in both her hands. She pulls close, close enough to feel the warmth of her body radiating onto her forehead. Close enough to feel the splash of startled murmuring against her lips. Close enough to drink in every star and sparkling detail lost within her quivering eyes.

She pulls her closer. The kiss is hot and angry, and it tastes like blood. It is dizzying, to drink in something so beautiful and complete and yet so far away from the splinter of obsession now pulsing in her eyes. When she pulls away, she nearly stumbles. When she pulls away a trickle of blood dribbles from the corner of her lip. She laps it away as she squeezes Ember's wrist one last time. This is the touch of the [i]Anemoi[/i], this is the quiet thank you and I love you and goodbye.

"Do not interfere!" she barks.

Her voice is loud and firm, with the inevitable and rolling depth of absolute authority carrying every syllable. Her crown blazes on her head brighter than a sun and in this single moment Bella is an Empress in her own right. Her posture is proud and defiant even as her face is carved as a statue of absolute composure and grace. The air around her crackles with power. For one shining moment, long enough only to notice and admire her, she is the most powerful figure in the room. There are no shadows on this ship. Only wolves bending their knees toward a queen. 

Then the light dims and the magic dies with it. Though she does not slacken or show fear, she is simply Bella again. This was never an act of defiance or aggression. Her orders were only ever toward the people who were supposed to be counting on her. As if any of them could ever understand. The noise in her throat is called Revulsion.

With a maid's pride and a maid's delicate precision she unclasps her dress and lets it drape around her waist. She can hear the scraping of the glittering chains of jewelry against the metal floor. For one last elongated moment she stands as tall as she is exposed. And then she lowers herself with reverent gentleness onto her knees. She dips low and places her hands in front of her head, touches her forehead to the ground. She presses further. Bends her spine. Lowers herself until she feels the sharp sting of cold metal kissing her breasts and pressing them into her ribs.

"Please." she says, and her voice is nothing more than the desperate longing of a child only just rescued from a Box, "Do what must be done."

What light there is in the room seems bent entirely upon her. In this moment the scars on Bella's back glisten so sharply they seem freshly carved. Nero's field of roses stands out against the paleness of her skin so clearly and unmistakably that even the dead and the blind could not fail to see it.