The Best Friends Coalition?
And somehow that's worse
Qia
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A Little Weasel
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6 days ago
Why do all good things come to an end?
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11 days ago
I can't believe I binge watched this show. But damn Dark is so good.
27 days ago
Or maybe melons>>> lemons?
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28 days ago
God now I have Daddy Cop stuck in my head. My fault xD
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29 days ago
And gave a big 'ol grin at the camera too. "Hey Drake." LMAO
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Bio
Hi, Qia here <3. I'm a gamer and RP fan just looking to have a good time.
Most Recent Posts
And somehow that's worse
<Snipped quote by ERode>
You forgot about the BFC :>
God I...really wish I could change the name now.
Interactions: None/Open
Thalia scarcely had the luxury to revel in the tavern’s exuberance before the first sonorous toll of the bell cleaved through the merriment like a knife through silk.
The shift was instant. Laughter, once abundant, withered on startled lips, and the jubilant hum of conversation fractured into uneasy silence. The bell’s heavy knell curled through the rafters, sinking its weight into the marrow of those who listened. A shiver, unrelated to the chill seeping through the wooden beams, skated down Thalia’s spine. Around her, the tavern itself seemed to exhale, as if the very walls had drawn breath and now braced for what was to come.
Thalia sought out Aldrick, yearning to decipher any glimmer of recognition or comprehension etched upon his features. Being Aurelian as she was, he would intuitively grasp the gravity of the bell’s mournful toll; such peals were not summoned lightly nor without purpose. The palpable tension surged like wildfire among the patrons, their convivial spirits extinguished, replaced by an urgent whispering that coursed through the crowd. While some of the once carefree revellers murmured anxiously, others propelled themselves toward the door, only to be stymied by the guards' imposing figures filtering in to usher them back.
“For your safety, we ask that you shelter in place immediately…”
A lime-haired Blightborn cut through the murmuring patrons, her voice carrying above the mounting din. “Please make way for us to secure the Eye.” The words held no room for argument. The crowd shifted, tables scraping against the floorboards, creating an undulating wave of movement that reverberated through the tavern. Meanwhile, the fluidity with which the inn’s staff converged into their accustomed roles conveyed an unvoiced assurance: They had prepared for this.
Unlike her.
And yet, Thalia remained still.
In a singular, seething instant, the fiery-haired maiden grasped the woeful depths of her unpreparedness. She felt as if she had existed in a cocoon, shielded from the sinister realities that lurked beyond her sheltered existence. At her tranquil home, perils had always been dispatched long before they could cloud the noble ear with their menace. Yet, in the heart of Dawnhaven, the threat was visceral—immediate and relentless—clamouring for urgent reprisal.
And where was her father?
The thought struck like a stone against still water, rippling through Thalia’s mind with chilling clarity. She pivoted, her gaze sweeping across a sea of restless visages, each face reflecting the palpable dread of the moment. Lark—had he remained upstairs? And her father—had he even heard the bells? If something had gone wrong beyond these walls, she couldn’t afford to assume they were safe. Assumption was a luxury, one she no longer possessed.
Before she could second-guess herself, Thalia was moving.
A path carved itself before her—not through hesitation but through sheer purpose. Bodies shifted, and the crowd parted in half-formed recognition as she slipped past Sya and onto the stairs. Her boots barely made a sound against the wood as she took them two at a time.
With a muted thud, her soles struck the landing.
She did not pause to knock.
The door swung wide, propelled by a force that ushered a chilling gust into the cramped chamber, stirring the fire's dying embers.
Lark was already awake.
His shaggy coat bristled, his ears pricked and alert as he stood near the cot, tail low, his entire form taut with unease. His dark eyes met hers, and in them, she found confirmation—something was wrong.
Her father, by contrast, had barely stirred.
He let out a groggy, disgruntled grumble, shifting in the chair without fully lifting his head. “What in the—” His words slurred slightly, the deep grooves of exhaustion making him seem older in the dim firelight. He scrubbed a hand down his face, blinking blearily at her. “Damn bells. Thought I dreamt ‘em.”
Thalia scarcely registered his words, urgency propelling her across the room to Lark, who stood poised between instinct and training. She pressed a hand against his side, feeling the tremors that rippled beneath his coat. His ears flicked toward the window, nose twitching with anxiety. If the cacophony of alarms had not unsettled him, then surely something more sinister lurked beyond their temporary abode.
Regardless, Thalia turned back toward her father, jaw tightening. “You didn’t dream them,” she said. “There’s been an attack near the outskirts. The guards are locking down the square.”
The severity of her words roused him from his stupor, and he sat up straighter, expelling a sharp breath as his fingers traced soothing circles at his temple. “Shit.”
Lark let out a low whine.
Thalia cast a wary glance at the window, her pulse thrumming in her ears. The flickering lanterns outside illuminated shifting figures—guards moving swiftly, voices carrying commands. Doors were being barred, windows shuttered. The entire town was curling in on itself, bracing for something unseen.
She turned back to her father. “We should stay inside. They’re telling everyone to shelter in place.”
He grunted in acknowledgment, running a hand through his graying locks.“No point arguing with the town guard, then.” His voice was hoarse from sleep, yet a steely focus began to infiltrate his tone. “Damn shame. Just when I found my comfort.”
Thalia didn’t respond, her mind already cycling through the possibilities of what was unfolding outside. Her fingers twitched at her sides, restless.
Dawnhaven was prepared for this.
But was she?
With a determined shake, she cast aside her doubts and stepped back toward the door, her hand firm against the frame. The churning uncertainty within her was a sentiment she would rather dispel, for one truth remained steadfast in her heart.
Patience, she realized, had never been her virtue.
The shift was instant. Laughter, once abundant, withered on startled lips, and the jubilant hum of conversation fractured into uneasy silence. The bell’s heavy knell curled through the rafters, sinking its weight into the marrow of those who listened. A shiver, unrelated to the chill seeping through the wooden beams, skated down Thalia’s spine. Around her, the tavern itself seemed to exhale, as if the very walls had drawn breath and now braced for what was to come.
Thalia sought out Aldrick, yearning to decipher any glimmer of recognition or comprehension etched upon his features. Being Aurelian as she was, he would intuitively grasp the gravity of the bell’s mournful toll; such peals were not summoned lightly nor without purpose. The palpable tension surged like wildfire among the patrons, their convivial spirits extinguished, replaced by an urgent whispering that coursed through the crowd. While some of the once carefree revellers murmured anxiously, others propelled themselves toward the door, only to be stymied by the guards' imposing figures filtering in to usher them back.
“For your safety, we ask that you shelter in place immediately…”
A lime-haired Blightborn cut through the murmuring patrons, her voice carrying above the mounting din. “Please make way for us to secure the Eye.” The words held no room for argument. The crowd shifted, tables scraping against the floorboards, creating an undulating wave of movement that reverberated through the tavern. Meanwhile, the fluidity with which the inn’s staff converged into their accustomed roles conveyed an unvoiced assurance: They had prepared for this.
Unlike her.
And yet, Thalia remained still.
In a singular, seething instant, the fiery-haired maiden grasped the woeful depths of her unpreparedness. She felt as if she had existed in a cocoon, shielded from the sinister realities that lurked beyond her sheltered existence. At her tranquil home, perils had always been dispatched long before they could cloud the noble ear with their menace. Yet, in the heart of Dawnhaven, the threat was visceral—immediate and relentless—clamouring for urgent reprisal.
And where was her father?
The thought struck like a stone against still water, rippling through Thalia’s mind with chilling clarity. She pivoted, her gaze sweeping across a sea of restless visages, each face reflecting the palpable dread of the moment. Lark—had he remained upstairs? And her father—had he even heard the bells? If something had gone wrong beyond these walls, she couldn’t afford to assume they were safe. Assumption was a luxury, one she no longer possessed.
Before she could second-guess herself, Thalia was moving.
A path carved itself before her—not through hesitation but through sheer purpose. Bodies shifted, and the crowd parted in half-formed recognition as she slipped past Sya and onto the stairs. Her boots barely made a sound against the wood as she took them two at a time.
With a muted thud, her soles struck the landing.
She did not pause to knock.
The door swung wide, propelled by a force that ushered a chilling gust into the cramped chamber, stirring the fire's dying embers.
Lark was already awake.
His shaggy coat bristled, his ears pricked and alert as he stood near the cot, tail low, his entire form taut with unease. His dark eyes met hers, and in them, she found confirmation—something was wrong.
Her father, by contrast, had barely stirred.
He let out a groggy, disgruntled grumble, shifting in the chair without fully lifting his head. “What in the—” His words slurred slightly, the deep grooves of exhaustion making him seem older in the dim firelight. He scrubbed a hand down his face, blinking blearily at her. “Damn bells. Thought I dreamt ‘em.”
Thalia scarcely registered his words, urgency propelling her across the room to Lark, who stood poised between instinct and training. She pressed a hand against his side, feeling the tremors that rippled beneath his coat. His ears flicked toward the window, nose twitching with anxiety. If the cacophony of alarms had not unsettled him, then surely something more sinister lurked beyond their temporary abode.
Regardless, Thalia turned back toward her father, jaw tightening. “You didn’t dream them,” she said. “There’s been an attack near the outskirts. The guards are locking down the square.”
The severity of her words roused him from his stupor, and he sat up straighter, expelling a sharp breath as his fingers traced soothing circles at his temple. “Shit.”
Lark let out a low whine.
Thalia cast a wary glance at the window, her pulse thrumming in her ears. The flickering lanterns outside illuminated shifting figures—guards moving swiftly, voices carrying commands. Doors were being barred, windows shuttered. The entire town was curling in on itself, bracing for something unseen.
She turned back to her father. “We should stay inside. They’re telling everyone to shelter in place.”
He grunted in acknowledgment, running a hand through his graying locks.“No point arguing with the town guard, then.” His voice was hoarse from sleep, yet a steely focus began to infiltrate his tone. “Damn shame. Just when I found my comfort.”
Thalia didn’t respond, her mind already cycling through the possibilities of what was unfolding outside. Her fingers twitched at her sides, restless.
Dawnhaven was prepared for this.
But was she?
With a determined shake, she cast aside her doubts and stepped back toward the door, her hand firm against the frame. The churning uncertainty within her was a sentiment she would rather dispel, for one truth remained steadfast in her heart.
Patience, she realized, had never been her virtue.
Oh man, waeaponizing the cure...
Edit: OHIGOTAGREATIDEA
Oh boi
Mentions: Vincent (@Estylwen), Asterion (@The Savant) Interactions: Emilia, RRS spy
Another Quiet Cathedral, White Pine
The cathedral's splendour towered majestically above the tranquil morning thoroughfares, its lofty spires etched against the tender azure of dawn’s nascent light. Within its hallowed confines, the gentle luminescence of flickering candles danced upon the ornate stained glass, illuminating the vibrant depictions of saints and martyrs in a celestial embrace of ruby and gilded hues. The lingering essence of aged incense intertwined with the subtle perfume of polished oak and stone's cool touch, steeped in the remnants of night. The pews stretched out in solemn, unbroken rows, their emptiness a quiet testament to the void that filled the cathedral’s vast expanse. The cavernous quiet seemed almost alive, interrupted only by the faint resonance of footsteps trailing from a passing priest.
Isabella occupied a pew near the front, her frame poised but her expression cloaked in introspection. Beside her, Emilia sat with hands lightly clasped, her gaze wandering the frescoed walls where scenes of divine and mortal struggle unravelled in exquisite detail. The cathedral's silence, heavy yet serene, embraced them, a respite from the ceaseless march of the world outside.
“I've never been much for places like this,” Isabella murmured, her voice subdued in the solemn stillness. “Faith, prayer, salvation—none of it ever seemed particularly... useful.”
Emilia's eyes flitted toward the altar, where a carved effigy of the Virgin Mary gazed down with an air of tranquil benevolence. “And yet here you are,” she said softly, “seeking something, even if you won't admit it.”
A dry laugh ghosted past Isabella’s lips as she folded her hands. “It’s just... habit,” she admitted, her tone tinged with something between nostalgia and disdain. “When I was a child, my mère would bring me here. She’d tell me to pray, and I’d just stare at the ceiling, counting angels. Les chiffres always made more sense than prayers.”
“Practical,” Emilia replied, tilting her head as if appraising the thought. “Measurable, tangible—easier to grasp than the nebulous promises of faith.”
An interlude of silence enveloped them, filled with the weight of words unsaid—much like the motes of dust suspended in the stained glass illumination. Leaning back against the pew's embrace, Emilia pondered aloud, “Have you ever considered that perhaps faith isn’t about finding answers, but about enduring the questions?”
Isabella's lips pressed into a thin line. “I don't have the luxury of enduring questions. I need answers. Always have.”
Emilia regarded her thoughtfully, sensing the softening of her armour. “Perhaps that is the very reason you’ve graced this sacred space,” she proposed. “Searching for clarity in a place with many mysteries.”
The silence returned, this time companionable. Isabella exhaled, her eyes drawn toward the arched doorway as a shadow of movement stirred in its frame. “He’s late.”
“Well…you can’t exactly rush divine intervention,” Emilia quipped dryly, though her posture straightened as a figure emerged. The Red Rose Syndicate spy approached, his every movement laced with tension. His eyes darted, his breath uneven as he slid into the pew behind them, his nerves practically vibrating.
“You seem agitated,” Isabella observed without so much as a glance in his direction.
The spy dragged a trembling hand across his damp brow. “With good fucking reason, I tell ya. Accardo’s men are everywhere. I’ve got something, but he said it’s gonna cost you. $200,000—twenty wealth—and you'll get the address where they're keeping Mr. Delacroix.”
Emilia glanced at Isabella, whose expression remained unreadable. The spy hesitated only a moment before pressing a card into Isabella’s waiting hand. “Call that number when you're ready to make the deal.”
Isabella turned the card over in her fingers, staring at it like it was a key to something much larger than a hostage. The spy stood abruptly, mumbling an excuse as he vanished into the cathedral’s vast corridors, his footsteps swallowed by the hymnals echoing in the distance.
After a long pause, Emilia spoke, a small smirk on her lips. “And what do you think, Bella?”
Isabella let out a soft sigh, her fingers drumming the card against the polished pew.
“I think this city has too many devils and not enough saints.”
Emilia tilted her head. “Speaking of devils... Kairo surprised me a bit when I met him.”
Isabella's brow arched, intrigue mingling with skepticism. “Surprised? In what way? You’re rarely surprised by anything.”
A fleeting pause held the air taut before Emilia’s smirk deepened, touched with something sly, something secret. “Let's just say he knows how to mix charm with threat in a way that’s... effective. He gave me this.” From within the folds of her coat, she revealed the blank card Asterion had surreptitiously entrusted to her, flipping it over to show the magenta-inked number.
Isabella's eyes narrowed, sharpened by doubt. “Do you think he’s serious?”
Emilia spun the card between her slender fingers, her gaze lingering on its surface as though searching for answers in the curves of the handwritten number before she handed it over, the other slipping it into one of her coat’s pockets.
“I think he’s more invested in this game than he lets on,” she said. “He talks about death like it’s an inevitability he’s long accepted, but I don’t buy it. Not entirely.” She glanced at Isabella, whose expression remained impassive, waiting. “There’s something in him—something unfinished. He builds, Bella. He builds because he wants to leave something behind, even if he won’t admit it to himself.”
A muted scoff escaped Isabella’s lips, her fingers drumming an impatient cadence upon the wooden armrest. “So he’s just another man clinging to the illusion of legacy? I expected more.”
Emilia shook her head slowly. “No, it’s not that simple. He’s clever, and controlled, but underneath all that composure, there’s a man who hasn’t quite decided whether he’s a king or a pawn in his own game. He’s drawn to control, but he’s also fascinated by chaos—by people who challenge him. And right now, that includes us.” Her lips quirked in a smirk. “He’s trying to decide whether we’re an asset or a liability.”
Isabella’s eyes narrowed in calculation. “And what’s your read? Is he an asset... or a threat?”
Emilia leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “Both. He’s pragmatic, and he doesn’t take risks without reward. He wants proof, something tangible—he’s not a man who moves on whispers alone. So, if we give him a reason to believe we’re worth aligning with, he’ll play his part. But... there’s a line with him. He won’t be led by emotion, and if we push too hard, he’ll shut us out completely.”
Isabella studied her for a long moment, then turned her gaze back to the altar, deep in thought.
“And what about you, personally?” she asked. “Do you think we can trust him?”
Emilia’s smirk faded into something softer, touched with a rare, honest reflection. “Trust?” she echoed as if tasting the word on her tongue and finding it lacking. “No. But we can work with him... for now.” She exhaled, her eyes tracing the wavering glow of the candles. “He’s the kind of man who delights in unravelling others, but I wonder if he even realizes how much he’s unravelling himself in the process.”
After another elongated interlude, Isabella released a breath through her nostrils, her fingers coiling fiercely around the card in her hand. “If he’s unravelling, that makes him unpredictable, Emilia. Unpredictable men are dangerous.”
Before Emilia could offer a response, the muffled hum of Isabella’s phone reverberated through the solemn hush of the cathedral, an intrusion that felt almost blasphemous. With a sharp motion, she retrieved it, her brows knitting together as the voice note played.
Another buzz. A new notification.
Emilia observed how Isabella's lips compressed into a razor-thin line, a subtle shadow of trepidation weaving its way into her otherwise inscrutable visage. “What is it this time?” she asked, her voice a shade quieter since the first message.
Wordlessly, Isabella tapped the screen, and the new minute-long video began to play.
The shadowed room exuded a heavy silence, punctuated only by the venomous intent lacing Eric’s voice as it slithered around Mathieu’s quivering frame.
Then, the sound.
A sharp, wet snip, followed by a scream that clawed through the speakers, raw and desperate.
Emilia's breath caught—just for a heartbeat—before she schooled her expression into something neutral, detached. Meanwhile, Isabella remained a statue, her grip on the phone tightening almost imperceptibly.
When the video ended, an eerie silence settled between them. Emilia finally spoke, her voice carefully composed. “He’s escalating.”
Isabella’s thumb hovered in suspended animation over the screen for a heartbeat longer before she silenced the device, placing it face-down on the pew beside her. “Accardo’s message is clear. He knows we’re moving against him.”
Leaning forward, Emilia propped her elbows against her knees, eyes alight with inquiry, probing Isabella's expression. “What’s the play?”
Isabella remained silent for a beat longer, then shifted her focus to Emilia. “Vincent’s been compromised. He’s using Mathieu to push me into a corner.” A dangerous smile danced upon her lips, though the smouldering rage igniting her eyes betrayed her otherwise composed demeanour. “He’s renegotiating the deal. Wants dirt on Detective Newport.”
Emilia arched her brows, a glimmer of understanding igniting. “Yes, that much I got. He’s making us jump through quite a few hoops, isn’t he?”
Isabella’s expression hardened. “Then we jump—but not the way he expects.” Her fingers tapped against the pew, rhythmic, calculated.
“We give him what he wants... and then we take what’s ours.”
Emilia studied Isabella in the flickering glow of the cathedral’s candles, the light casting a sharp contrast across her features—determined, unyielding.
Then, slowly, she extended her hand, palm open, fingers steady.
Isabella’s gaze hovered over it, her hesitation lingering like a held breath. At last, without a word, she surrendered the card into Emilia’s waiting grasp.
The gesture, though small, carried the unspoken weight of trust long tested and never once broken.
As Emilia's fingers caressed the card’s surface, a reflective hum escaped her lips.
“I’ll find him, Bella.”
“Do it quickly then. And discreetly.”
“Always,” Emilia acknowledged, rising with poise. Her silhouette was framed by the ornate stained glass, a vision of determination caught between worlds—both mortal and divine. For a fleeting moment, she seemed to absorb the reverence of the hallowed space, her expression inscrutable before she turned to the grand doors.
Isabella remained where she was, her gaze following Emilia's retreat until the grand doors yawned open, spilling sunlight into the dim sanctuary. Her eyes flickered back to the altar, where unspoken prayers pressed heavy against her ribs, never to pass her lips. Instead, she exhaled slowly, the weight of her breath almost penitent.
Emilia’s voice drifted back to her then, almost teasing, before she disappeared into the daylight beyond the cathedral doors.
“And may God have mercy on him.”
Because Emilia for sure would not.
Isabella occupied a pew near the front, her frame poised but her expression cloaked in introspection. Beside her, Emilia sat with hands lightly clasped, her gaze wandering the frescoed walls where scenes of divine and mortal struggle unravelled in exquisite detail. The cathedral's silence, heavy yet serene, embraced them, a respite from the ceaseless march of the world outside.
“I've never been much for places like this,” Isabella murmured, her voice subdued in the solemn stillness. “Faith, prayer, salvation—none of it ever seemed particularly... useful.”
Emilia's eyes flitted toward the altar, where a carved effigy of the Virgin Mary gazed down with an air of tranquil benevolence. “And yet here you are,” she said softly, “seeking something, even if you won't admit it.”
A dry laugh ghosted past Isabella’s lips as she folded her hands. “It’s just... habit,” she admitted, her tone tinged with something between nostalgia and disdain. “When I was a child, my mère would bring me here. She’d tell me to pray, and I’d just stare at the ceiling, counting angels. Les chiffres always made more sense than prayers.”
“Practical,” Emilia replied, tilting her head as if appraising the thought. “Measurable, tangible—easier to grasp than the nebulous promises of faith.”
An interlude of silence enveloped them, filled with the weight of words unsaid—much like the motes of dust suspended in the stained glass illumination. Leaning back against the pew's embrace, Emilia pondered aloud, “Have you ever considered that perhaps faith isn’t about finding answers, but about enduring the questions?”
Isabella's lips pressed into a thin line. “I don't have the luxury of enduring questions. I need answers. Always have.”
Emilia regarded her thoughtfully, sensing the softening of her armour. “Perhaps that is the very reason you’ve graced this sacred space,” she proposed. “Searching for clarity in a place with many mysteries.”
The silence returned, this time companionable. Isabella exhaled, her eyes drawn toward the arched doorway as a shadow of movement stirred in its frame. “He’s late.”
“Well…you can’t exactly rush divine intervention,” Emilia quipped dryly, though her posture straightened as a figure emerged. The Red Rose Syndicate spy approached, his every movement laced with tension. His eyes darted, his breath uneven as he slid into the pew behind them, his nerves practically vibrating.
“You seem agitated,” Isabella observed without so much as a glance in his direction.
The spy dragged a trembling hand across his damp brow. “With good fucking reason, I tell ya. Accardo’s men are everywhere. I’ve got something, but he said it’s gonna cost you. $200,000—twenty wealth—and you'll get the address where they're keeping Mr. Delacroix.”
Emilia glanced at Isabella, whose expression remained unreadable. The spy hesitated only a moment before pressing a card into Isabella’s waiting hand. “Call that number when you're ready to make the deal.”
Isabella turned the card over in her fingers, staring at it like it was a key to something much larger than a hostage. The spy stood abruptly, mumbling an excuse as he vanished into the cathedral’s vast corridors, his footsteps swallowed by the hymnals echoing in the distance.
After a long pause, Emilia spoke, a small smirk on her lips. “And what do you think, Bella?”
Isabella let out a soft sigh, her fingers drumming the card against the polished pew.
“I think this city has too many devils and not enough saints.”
Emilia tilted her head. “Speaking of devils... Kairo surprised me a bit when I met him.”
Isabella's brow arched, intrigue mingling with skepticism. “Surprised? In what way? You’re rarely surprised by anything.”
A fleeting pause held the air taut before Emilia’s smirk deepened, touched with something sly, something secret. “Let's just say he knows how to mix charm with threat in a way that’s... effective. He gave me this.” From within the folds of her coat, she revealed the blank card Asterion had surreptitiously entrusted to her, flipping it over to show the magenta-inked number.
Isabella's eyes narrowed, sharpened by doubt. “Do you think he’s serious?”
Emilia spun the card between her slender fingers, her gaze lingering on its surface as though searching for answers in the curves of the handwritten number before she handed it over, the other slipping it into one of her coat’s pockets.
“I think he’s more invested in this game than he lets on,” she said. “He talks about death like it’s an inevitability he’s long accepted, but I don’t buy it. Not entirely.” She glanced at Isabella, whose expression remained impassive, waiting. “There’s something in him—something unfinished. He builds, Bella. He builds because he wants to leave something behind, even if he won’t admit it to himself.”
A muted scoff escaped Isabella’s lips, her fingers drumming an impatient cadence upon the wooden armrest. “So he’s just another man clinging to the illusion of legacy? I expected more.”
Emilia shook her head slowly. “No, it’s not that simple. He’s clever, and controlled, but underneath all that composure, there’s a man who hasn’t quite decided whether he’s a king or a pawn in his own game. He’s drawn to control, but he’s also fascinated by chaos—by people who challenge him. And right now, that includes us.” Her lips quirked in a smirk. “He’s trying to decide whether we’re an asset or a liability.”
Isabella’s eyes narrowed in calculation. “And what’s your read? Is he an asset... or a threat?”
Emilia leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “Both. He’s pragmatic, and he doesn’t take risks without reward. He wants proof, something tangible—he’s not a man who moves on whispers alone. So, if we give him a reason to believe we’re worth aligning with, he’ll play his part. But... there’s a line with him. He won’t be led by emotion, and if we push too hard, he’ll shut us out completely.”
Isabella studied her for a long moment, then turned her gaze back to the altar, deep in thought.
“And what about you, personally?” she asked. “Do you think we can trust him?”
Emilia’s smirk faded into something softer, touched with a rare, honest reflection. “Trust?” she echoed as if tasting the word on her tongue and finding it lacking. “No. But we can work with him... for now.” She exhaled, her eyes tracing the wavering glow of the candles. “He’s the kind of man who delights in unravelling others, but I wonder if he even realizes how much he’s unravelling himself in the process.”
After another elongated interlude, Isabella released a breath through her nostrils, her fingers coiling fiercely around the card in her hand. “If he’s unravelling, that makes him unpredictable, Emilia. Unpredictable men are dangerous.”
Before Emilia could offer a response, the muffled hum of Isabella’s phone reverberated through the solemn hush of the cathedral, an intrusion that felt almost blasphemous. With a sharp motion, she retrieved it, her brows knitting together as the voice note played.
Another buzz. A new notification.
Emilia observed how Isabella's lips compressed into a razor-thin line, a subtle shadow of trepidation weaving its way into her otherwise inscrutable visage. “What is it this time?” she asked, her voice a shade quieter since the first message.
Wordlessly, Isabella tapped the screen, and the new minute-long video began to play.
The shadowed room exuded a heavy silence, punctuated only by the venomous intent lacing Eric’s voice as it slithered around Mathieu’s quivering frame.
Then, the sound.
A sharp, wet snip, followed by a scream that clawed through the speakers, raw and desperate.
Emilia's breath caught—just for a heartbeat—before she schooled her expression into something neutral, detached. Meanwhile, Isabella remained a statue, her grip on the phone tightening almost imperceptibly.
When the video ended, an eerie silence settled between them. Emilia finally spoke, her voice carefully composed. “He’s escalating.”
Isabella’s thumb hovered in suspended animation over the screen for a heartbeat longer before she silenced the device, placing it face-down on the pew beside her. “Accardo’s message is clear. He knows we’re moving against him.”
Leaning forward, Emilia propped her elbows against her knees, eyes alight with inquiry, probing Isabella's expression. “What’s the play?”
Isabella remained silent for a beat longer, then shifted her focus to Emilia. “Vincent’s been compromised. He’s using Mathieu to push me into a corner.” A dangerous smile danced upon her lips, though the smouldering rage igniting her eyes betrayed her otherwise composed demeanour. “He’s renegotiating the deal. Wants dirt on Detective Newport.”
Emilia arched her brows, a glimmer of understanding igniting. “Yes, that much I got. He’s making us jump through quite a few hoops, isn’t he?”
Isabella’s expression hardened. “Then we jump—but not the way he expects.” Her fingers tapped against the pew, rhythmic, calculated.
“We give him what he wants... and then we take what’s ours.”
Emilia studied Isabella in the flickering glow of the cathedral’s candles, the light casting a sharp contrast across her features—determined, unyielding.
Then, slowly, she extended her hand, palm open, fingers steady.
Isabella’s gaze hovered over it, her hesitation lingering like a held breath. At last, without a word, she surrendered the card into Emilia’s waiting grasp.
The gesture, though small, carried the unspoken weight of trust long tested and never once broken.
As Emilia's fingers caressed the card’s surface, a reflective hum escaped her lips.
“I’ll find him, Bella.”
“Do it quickly then. And discreetly.”
“Always,” Emilia acknowledged, rising with poise. Her silhouette was framed by the ornate stained glass, a vision of determination caught between worlds—both mortal and divine. For a fleeting moment, she seemed to absorb the reverence of the hallowed space, her expression inscrutable before she turned to the grand doors.
Isabella remained where she was, her gaze following Emilia's retreat until the grand doors yawned open, spilling sunlight into the dim sanctuary. Her eyes flickered back to the altar, where unspoken prayers pressed heavy against her ribs, never to pass her lips. Instead, she exhaled slowly, the weight of her breath almost penitent.
Emilia’s voice drifted back to her then, almost teasing, before she disappeared into the daylight beyond the cathedral doors.
“And may God have mercy on him.”
Because Emilia for sure would not.
As Amaya withdrew, the sudden absence carved an aching void within Elara, a pang so acute it sent tremors through the very marrow of her being. The delicate intimacy that had enfolded only moments before dissipated, unravelling into an expanse of unfamiliar distance-an expanse Elra could not have foreseen, nor prepared for. Her gaze, once bright with an unguarded tenderness, hardened with an embryonic discontent, the sting of her friend’s persistent insistence on being fine striking a discordant note within her. The incongruity between Amaya’s unwavering facade and her fragility, though not new to her, seemed to release an unrelenting spectre demanding recognition before her, and it set a slow-burning blaze within that Elara’s usual temperate nature now struggled against.
But it was when Amaya’s gaze shifted, drawn inexorably toward Flynn, that the handmaiden felt the fragile scaffolding of her restraint buckle beneath the weight of an unarticulated longing. The strange, the new, affection that flickered between them, intangible yet undeniable, pressed against her like an invisible force, sharpening every single one of her frayed nerves. Beneath the polished mask of self-possession she wore so dutifully in the face of royalty, something fissured-a raw, simmering frustration that refused to remain contained.
And then, like a sudden squall upon tranquil water, it finally broke free.
“Stop,” she said, “Just stop it already.” Elara’s voice emerged cool yet edged with steel, its undercurrent betraying the storm roiling beneath the simple denotation of the word. Amaya’s eyes snapped to Elara, caught off guard. “You’re being a fool, and you know it.” She stood up, grabbing at Amaya’s forearm and turning it to display the bruises there once more.
“Pray tell, what defines ‘fine’ in your lexicon? Because having one of our best sages walk out of this room to grab a priestess, who we don’t know, but is supposed to be our best sun-blighted hope is the exact. Opposite. Of fine!”
“Fine is alive,” Amaya snapped as she wrenched her arm back, “as it has always been. And frankly, that’s all we can afford.” She levelled Elara with a cold look of growing anger. It wasn’t often that the two fought – life in the palace meant they were too often focused on survival, finding comfort and support in each other. But Amaya still knew the storm in her friend’s eyes, just as she recognized the blizzard surging through her veins to meet it. All her chaotic emotions began to coalesce into something sharp and lethal. Pain reverberated through Amaya’s arm in time with her heartbeat.
“And if my survival should ever be in question, I’m confident that adequate resources will be devoted to ensuring that I remain fine, because apparently my entire life has just been a series of men deciding that it’s not yet the opportune time to be rid of me, and there are still at least nine months on the clock.” Her words were precise, steadily gaining speed and volume as she threw the prophecy in Elara’s face, and its inevitable conclusion – a painful, unspoken grief that neither had been willing to address. It sat between them now, a raw wound festering in the open air.
“But what about your survival?” Something fractured the ice in Amaya’s eyes, revealing the fear beneath. Her voice had the slightest tremble. “Hmm? Will the same level of care be taken to make sure you live?” Amaya leaned towards Elara, eyes searching hers like she hoped she might actually find the answer. Then her gaze hardened again, the flash of vulnerability sealed away. “Or Lady Hightower? The innkeeper? Those two sisters from the feast?” Amaya shook her head as she watched Elara. She pulled back again. Her voice was softer when she spoke again, but no less intense.
“Do you think that what happened today will be the only threat Dawnhaven ever faces? All of our best healers are Aurelian, and their magic will only grow weaker. I am not willing to discover the point at which they run dry, nor whom they are unable to save, and I will not have them drain themselves on things that will heal, on their own, because they want to make sure that the Princess is a pretty enough offering for Seluna!”
"Enough." Flynn’s voice cut through the tension, calm but weighted with an authority he rarely leaned into. "Both of you."
Flynn’s green eyes flicked to Elara first, narrowing slightly as he regarded her. The fire in her words held a boldness he wasn’t accustomed to hearing directed toward the Princess—toward his wife. The way she spoke with a familiarity that bordered on insolence bristled against his instincts. A part of him wanted to remind her that Amaya was royalty, deserving of a certain deference.
But as the words settled in the air, Flynn had to admit to himself that he didn't truly know the depth of their relationship. The ease with which Elara spoke to Amaya—how she challenged her without hesitation—hinted at a bond far deeper than any he'd ever shared with the palace staff.
Elara wasn’t just Amaya’s handmaiden. She was a friend—an equal in a way that Flynn hadn’t fully grasped until this moment. She wasn’t speaking out of turn; she was speaking out of care.
Amaya's fears were justified, but Elara was right. Amaya wasn’t fine. And it was time someone made her see it.
His focus shifted to Amaya, his gaze softening. "She's right." he said firmly, even as Amaya's expression sharpened in response, defiance reigniting like flint against steel. His heart skipped a beat, nervous that he had just lost the intoxicating vulnerable way she had looked at him not long ago.
"You survived, but survival isn’t enough—not for me." His eyes locked onto hers, unflinching under her scrutiny. "I didn't fight this hard just to pretend like survival is all you deserve. I want you to live."
Flynn took a breath, his jaw tightening. "And if it were Elara sitting here, wounded, and refusing aid, or even one of the guards, I wouldn’t hesitate to spend every resource at my disposal to save them—to make sure they had the best chance.” His gaze dropped only briefly, looking at her hands as he longed to reach out, but refrained, unsure if she’d accept the gesture. "Because they all matter… Because you matter, Amaya. Not as a Princess, not as some symbol of hope or offering to the Goddess, but as you." He paused, his eyes searching hers.
He knew all too well the fears she carried, the bitter ache of being reduced to a name etched into prophecy, a pawn in a game played by Goddesses. “I want you to be able to wake up one day without having to carry this pain, this burden, every second of your life. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen. But you have to let us help you.”
Elara’s lips pressed into a taut, bloodless line, the gravity of Flynn’s words settling within her and curling into the hollow spaces she had long since fortified against such intrusions.
His words were not solely for Amaya; they were for her as well.
The realization coiled tightly within her, a thorned truth she could neither ignore nor dislodge. She detested it. The way his voice now seemed to carry a quiet dominion over Amaya’s well-being. He spoke with the assuredness of a man who thought he knew Amaya’s every need and the audacity of it sent a bitter pulse of resentment through her veins. It was not jealousy in the simple petty sense-it was something far more complex, a lamentation of space lost, of a role once unquestioned. Truly, this time.
Nonetheless, Elara cast a glance toward Flynn, offering him a curt nod as if he’d said nothing of significance, nothing she’d already expressed. “I shall…procure fresh water,” she murmured the excuse as if it was anything but, retreating with the seamless grace ingrained in her since her earliest training days. At the threshold, she lingered but an instant, her gaze drawn irresistibly back to Amaya. Then, without further hesitation, she slipped through the doorway without waiting for dismissal, her departure marked only by the soft rustle of fabric.
It seemed she’d taken all the air in the room with her.
Amaya deflated, slumping back against the headboard as she squeezed her eyes closed. She brought her hands up to cover her face, like she could simply shut the world — Flynn’s words, her emotions, Elara’s departure — out. The blizzard contained in her body slowed. But ice still crept through her, down the channels of her blood and bones.
Their care for her was a miasma in the air, and her lungs didn’t know how to breathe it in. It wrapped itself around Amaya, suffocating her. The weight of it pressed into her skin as it formed a new layer to cover her. She was too busy trying to keep herself from shattering — she didn’t notice the way her magic stirred, rising to shield her from her own sense of helplessness. It encased her, a sluggish buzz under her skin, like it was the only thing holding her together.
When her hands dropped away, her eyes glistened with tears she refused to let fall. Something in his chest cracked, aching. She stubbornly looked at that candle against the wall, again — even as Flynn burned his presence into her reality, his inescapable weight pressing against the edge of her attention, demanding more.
“This isn’t Aurelia.” Amaya’s voice was hollow as she chose the words she thought might create distance, to disentangle his world from hers and draw careful borders between them again. Perhaps he might leave her as Elara had. Slowly, subtly, the temperature in the room started to drop. “We do not have your abundance. Sometimes survival is all there is.” She said it like a reminder — like to forget would only court more grief.
Flynn stared at her in silence, his gaze unrelenting even as she refused to meet it. She was right—this wasn’t Aurelia. But neither did it feel like Lunaris.
The air between them grew heavy and cold with the weight of her magic, a chill enveloping him and causing his skin to prickle. His own magic stirred in response, a quiet buzz beneath the surface, instinctively seeking to soften her frost, as if something inside had been unleashed by the raw emotion in the room, unguarded by barriers that had been stripped away from him. Unlike Amaya, he made no attempt to rebuild them.
Elara had left, but Flynn had never been so easily deterred. Whether born of his upbringing or his inherent stubbornness, his patience was a quiet rebellion against the walls she’d built. He wasn’t going anywhere. She could try to push him away, but he’d already come this far past the barriers she’d raised, and now he felt a desperation in his soul.
Without a second thought, Flynn closed the distance between them. She didn’t look at him, but he didn’t need her to. Gently, he reached for her, his arms wrapping around her and pulling her into him. She was stiff in his hold.
He had no words that could heal all the wounds she carried, no magic to undo all the pain she’d endured. He didn’t know how to fix any of this. All he knew was this ache to be closer, to offer her all the comfort he could in the only way he knew how.
His lips hovered near her ear as he held her, the words low and hushed, meant only for her. “Don’t lock me out again.”
Amaya shivered, his breath feathering over her skin. She closed her eyes — allowed herself the small comfort of breathing him in, feeling his body around hers. Even that felt like too big a risk. But she couldn’t pull away. Being in his arms felt too much like…
Like…
Amaya broke. Melting into him, she pressed herself deeper into his warmth. She was trembling again, whether from her magic, or the force of her own heartache pulling her apart.
Her hands moved, slow and hesitant. Eventually her arms found their way around Flynn’s body, her fingers curling into the fabric at his back. Relief coursed through him like a tidal wave. It was such a small thing — not just being held, but holding. It should’ve been small. But it set Amaya’s heart hammering in her chest as she discovered the way she fit around his body. Her grip tightened, slender arms trying to keep him, despite the doubts in her mind.
“I’m not wrong,” she whispered, still stubborn despite it all.
“I know,” he murmured against her, lips curving into the faintest smile as she still refused to relent. “But there’s more to life than just survival. More than just being… fine.”
His hand rose to cradle her jaw, his fingers light as he pulled back just enough to tilt her head upward. His eyes sought hers with intensity, willing her to feel the depth of what he could offer. “Let me show you.”
His thumb brushed along the curve of her cheek, pausing just below her lips. His gaze lingered, silently asking her to believe him—to trust him with all the pieces of her that she kept so guarded. To give in. To stop fighting against him at every opportunity.
He leaned closer, the space between them charged. “I’ll find a way.” he whispered, the words carrying a quiet, unshakable conviction, as though her faith in him was all he needed to take on everything the world had levied against them. What else could he possibly need?
His warmth seeped into her, flushing her skin, traveling down her spine, nestling deep in her stomach. Flynn held her gaze. Amaya held him back. The force of him was overwhelming in a way that left her breathless, even as his eyes were patient and open as always. He was a riptide asking her to venture into the depths, waiting for her to take the first step.
Amaya looked up at him with wide eyes as his words moved through her. Her gaze flickered to his lips.
Then she brought her hands back up to his shoulders, as if she could hold him in place. Amaya leaned up to press a kiss to his jaw, even as her senses begged for more. Tilting her head down, she buried herself in the dip of his shoulder. She tried to take a breath.
“Cocky,” she mumbled into him, even as she hid a soft smile. A quiet chuckle escaped him, his arms tightening around her protectively. Amaya let herself stay there – just for a moment. Just long enough to remember his smell, savor his warmth. Then she pulled away.
Amaya leaned back against the headboard, the warmth seeping from her expression – but the softness stayed. The walls did not return. Her eyes were distant as she sighed to herself. A hand remained, resting lightly on Flynn’s knee.
“I need to apologize to Elara.” Her voice was tired. She thought of her friend’s fury, the cold way she’d excused herself. Elara didn't deserve what Amaya had said to her. Not the harsh tone nor the cruel reality of their situation, especially after all they’d gone through today. Her other hand curled in her lap as she thought of Elara’s grief.
His gaze drifted to the door, a moment of quiet thought passing over him before he returned his focus to her. "She cares for you," he said, his voice quiet but assured. He paused for a beat, his eyes searching hers, before a small smile curved his lips.
"Judging by the way she spoke to you," he continued, a touch of amusement in his tone, "I’d say you two must have known each other a long time?" His head tilted slightly, brows raised. "At least, I certainly hope so." he added with a soft chuckle. In Aurelia, a servant who dared speak to or even touch a royal the way Elara had would have been dismissed on the spot—if not worse. It was a strange sight, seeing Elara act in such a way, even if the circumstances had called for it.
Amaya felt her cheeks warm at his observation. She knew her relationship with Elara was unusual. They were normally so careful to keep up appearances around others, lest they be separated — or punished. But somehow they’d completely failed to hide themselves in front of Flynn. She couldn’t help the twinge of shame in her heart as she thought of what he’d witnessed.
“Elara is…”
She didn’t have the chance to finish her thought, half formed as it was. Amaya stopped as the doorknob started to turn.
<Snipped quote by LanaStorm>
Someone should. *Casually stares at Qia because I'm lazy*
Gimme a minute
Not for this round, at least.
Vincent is a problem that ought to be handled pronto, so I don’t exactly have the Wealth to spare atm.
I mean when you think about it, even if Vincent kills Mathieu, Bella's just gonna go full slaughter mode.
Interactions: Loni,Luci @FernStone, Elijah @Theyra
Elena stepped back into the room, offering Loni a small, reassuring smile in response to the wave. Her gaze, however, softened as it landed on Luciana, still curled tightly against her mother’s side, her tiny frame trembling with the weight of exhaustion and fear. The sight of the little girl’s trembling frame struck a deep chord within Elena, awakening that familiar, protective instinct—the same one that had driven her to carry Luciana through the chaos earlier without hesitation. There was something about the way the child clung to Loni, as if the world outside was too vast, too cruel to face alone. It was a sentiment Elena understood all too well.
“Guess I don’t make the best first impressions,” Elena said lightly, though the warmth in her voice betrayed a genuine fondness. She took a step closer but remained at a respectful distance, unwilling to press Luciana for more than she was ready to give. “She’s got good instincts, though. You’re her whole world right now.”
At Loni’s question about magic, Elena glanced toward Elijah, briefly wondering how much he’d be willing to share. She wasn’t one to divulge details about herself easily, not after learning how quickly people could turn curiosity into suspicion. Still, she listened attentively as Loni described her abilities, her interest piqued at the mention of both Green and Black Lux. While Elena wasn’t an expert on Lux, she understood enough to recognize the strength behind Loni’s abilities.
“That’s impressive,” she remarked genuinely, arms crossing loosely over her chest. “Holding that shield up, keeping Luciana safe? That’s more than useful. That’s guts.”
With a pause, she considered how much she wanted to reveal, but ultimately, Loni’s forthrightness deserved an honest response.
“I’m an Adept, too,” she admitted with a small shrug. “White Lux—nostalgia-based stuff. I can… tap into the past, memories, echoes of things left behind.” At this, her fingers absentmindedly glided over the edges of her crossbody bag, which held her cherished tea infuser—her Channeler. “It’s not exactly the flashy kind of magic, but it’s useful when you want to know things.”
She hesitated for a moment before adding, “My mom taught me most of what I know, too. She runs an herbal shop in the South Side, so I picked up a thing or two about blending tea with magic. It helps people remember things they’ve lost… or forget things they’d rather leave behind.” A flicker of somberness flashed across her visage, but she quickly tempered it with a sardonic smile.
Directing her gaze toward Elijah, she quipped, “What about you? You seem like the ‘stabbing things with a spear’ type, but I’m guessing there’s more to it than that.”
“Guess I don’t make the best first impressions,” Elena said lightly, though the warmth in her voice betrayed a genuine fondness. She took a step closer but remained at a respectful distance, unwilling to press Luciana for more than she was ready to give. “She’s got good instincts, though. You’re her whole world right now.”
At Loni’s question about magic, Elena glanced toward Elijah, briefly wondering how much he’d be willing to share. She wasn’t one to divulge details about herself easily, not after learning how quickly people could turn curiosity into suspicion. Still, she listened attentively as Loni described her abilities, her interest piqued at the mention of both Green and Black Lux. While Elena wasn’t an expert on Lux, she understood enough to recognize the strength behind Loni’s abilities.
“That’s impressive,” she remarked genuinely, arms crossing loosely over her chest. “Holding that shield up, keeping Luciana safe? That’s more than useful. That’s guts.”
With a pause, she considered how much she wanted to reveal, but ultimately, Loni’s forthrightness deserved an honest response.
“I’m an Adept, too,” she admitted with a small shrug. “White Lux—nostalgia-based stuff. I can… tap into the past, memories, echoes of things left behind.” At this, her fingers absentmindedly glided over the edges of her crossbody bag, which held her cherished tea infuser—her Channeler. “It’s not exactly the flashy kind of magic, but it’s useful when you want to know things.”
She hesitated for a moment before adding, “My mom taught me most of what I know, too. She runs an herbal shop in the South Side, so I picked up a thing or two about blending tea with magic. It helps people remember things they’ve lost… or forget things they’d rather leave behind.” A flicker of somberness flashed across her visage, but she quickly tempered it with a sardonic smile.
Directing her gaze toward Elijah, she quipped, “What about you? You seem like the ‘stabbing things with a spear’ type, but I’m guessing there’s more to it than that.”
A
A adjusted the straps of her pack, her gaze following the hurried movements of the Ghost Corp soldiers. Meanwhile, Le Frey articulated his thoughts, the minutest curvature of her lips hinting at the emergence of a smile—his voice even wavered, betraying more emotion than she expected of the man. The thought of leaving behind someone who had, in his own way, looked out for them left a bittersweet taste in her mouth.
She nodded at him, her voice soft but sincere. “Thanks… you kept us alive, and that’s more than I can say for a lot of people.”
Then, pivoting toward VV, A delved into her pack, her fingertips skimming the haphazard assemblage of provisions until they encountered the familiar shape of the pill bottle. She withdrew it briefly, letting it rotate between her fingers before consigning it again to the depths of her bag. A muted rattle emanated as it settled into place.
“Yeah, I’ve got them,” she said, though her grip lingered on the pack's zipper for a moment longer than necessary. “I’m… I’m good.” A conjured a fragile semblance of a smile, yet a flicker of trepidation shimmered in her eyes.
After everything—her blackout, the vision—'good' felt like a word she didn’t quite own anymore.
A clenched her fingertips around the extremity of her seat, her knuckles devoid of colour, as the atmosphere inside the jeep became increasingly suffocating, mirroring the sweltering desert heat outside. The acrid emissions from the smouldering barrels infiltrated the fissured windows, assailing her eyes and constricting her lungs with a noxious bite. Her hands twitched at her sides, a subtle tremor betraying the volatile energy simmering just beneath the surface of her skin, but unleashing it now would be a fatal misstep—a flare in the dark that would mark her and her friends for slaughter.
As Val's voice sliced through the stifling aura of silence, his nonchalant demeanour struck A as disconcertingly assured. A’s head snapped toward him, her gaze narrowing as she studied the careful arrangement of his features. It dawned on her then that this demeanour was but a façade, one she frequently donned to mask her own trepidations. Handing his rifle to Ebony only confirmed it for her.
He wasn’t just preparing for a fight—he was bracing for the worst.
A’s throat felt parched, akin to arid earth, as she contemplated their dwindling alternatives. They could flee, but not without leaving someone behind. They could stand their ground, but the inevitable bloodshed would be chaotic, their firepower no match for what awaited them. And surrender? That meant putting their lives in the hands of men who more than likely viewed mercy as a foreign concept, a weakness to be exploited.
She inched closer to VV, her voice a taut whisper threaded with urgency. “If this goes south,” she murmured, feeling the faint pulse of power coiling in her veins like a caged animal, “I’m not going down without a fight.”
But deep down, A knew the fight she feared most wasn’t with the men outside—it was with herself.
She nodded at him, her voice soft but sincere. “Thanks… you kept us alive, and that’s more than I can say for a lot of people.”
Then, pivoting toward VV, A delved into her pack, her fingertips skimming the haphazard assemblage of provisions until they encountered the familiar shape of the pill bottle. She withdrew it briefly, letting it rotate between her fingers before consigning it again to the depths of her bag. A muted rattle emanated as it settled into place.
“Yeah, I’ve got them,” she said, though her grip lingered on the pack's zipper for a moment longer than necessary. “I’m… I’m good.” A conjured a fragile semblance of a smile, yet a flicker of trepidation shimmered in her eyes.
After everything—her blackout, the vision—'good' felt like a word she didn’t quite own anymore.
A clenched her fingertips around the extremity of her seat, her knuckles devoid of colour, as the atmosphere inside the jeep became increasingly suffocating, mirroring the sweltering desert heat outside. The acrid emissions from the smouldering barrels infiltrated the fissured windows, assailing her eyes and constricting her lungs with a noxious bite. Her hands twitched at her sides, a subtle tremor betraying the volatile energy simmering just beneath the surface of her skin, but unleashing it now would be a fatal misstep—a flare in the dark that would mark her and her friends for slaughter.
As Val's voice sliced through the stifling aura of silence, his nonchalant demeanour struck A as disconcertingly assured. A’s head snapped toward him, her gaze narrowing as she studied the careful arrangement of his features. It dawned on her then that this demeanour was but a façade, one she frequently donned to mask her own trepidations. Handing his rifle to Ebony only confirmed it for her.
He wasn’t just preparing for a fight—he was bracing for the worst.
A’s throat felt parched, akin to arid earth, as she contemplated their dwindling alternatives. They could flee, but not without leaving someone behind. They could stand their ground, but the inevitable bloodshed would be chaotic, their firepower no match for what awaited them. And surrender? That meant putting their lives in the hands of men who more than likely viewed mercy as a foreign concept, a weakness to be exploited.
She inched closer to VV, her voice a taut whisper threaded with urgency. “If this goes south,” she murmured, feeling the faint pulse of power coiling in her veins like a caged animal, “I’m not going down without a fight.”
But deep down, A knew the fight she feared most wasn’t with the men outside—it was with herself.
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