vicious [d.m]

eight: moonlight & talons

She's learned to associate the scent of limes with danger.

It's the first scent that hits her as she steps out of the edge of the forest, dripping wet in her black dress, her hair slicked back from her face with the water. She doesn't feel any different — but the sight that she sees in front of her is enough to confirm the finality of what she's just done.

The General strides towards her, still in his black suit, the jacket unbuttoned — an Angel of Death against the backdrop of fiery dawn. She can see him loosening the collar of his shirt with one hand, the other flexing at his side like he wants to strangle her.

She stops, blinking droplets out of her eyes as she watches him, their gazes locking across the training field. She has the vague feeling of gazing upon an enemy across a battlefield.

And then she's in his grasp, his hand fisting her hair, drawing a gasp from her as the sharp pain stings through her scalp. She can't suck in a single breath as he tilts her head back, far enough that she has to meet his eyes despite the height difference between them.

"Tell me you didn't."

He says it so quietly, silver eyes jarring, the four words spiked with something deadly. His expression is surprisingly blank — but the ferocity of his grip is enough to show her what she needs to know.

"I did," she says back, almost breathlessly — and she sees the way his eyes darken, the way his jaw clenches.

There's a crowd gathering behind him — the guests from the Feast, Khione realizes, drawn out by the commotion. She can see Radna and Irvene at the front of them, Ayla pushing her way through behind them.

Her attention is drawn back to the six-foot-three wizard in front of her, locks of his pale hair falling forward onto his forehead when he forces her gaze back to his by giving her a shake.

"What fucking game are you playing?" he hisses out through his teeth, searching her face as if he'll find the answers there. "Do you realise what you've done?"

"Yes," she responds, steadily. "I believe I've just secured my place as Heir."

His eyes flash — and when he releases her, it's with a shove, forcing her back a step. She catches herself on the bark of the tree beside her, shoulders heaving — and when she looks back at him through wet strands of her hair, he's already backing away, hands in the pockets of his trousers.

"Try your best," he growls out — and then he turns, heading back the way he came. The crowd parts for him, some turning to follow him — and Khione is struck with the inexplicable urge to call him back.

———

If they wanted her dead before, Khione doesn't know how to describe what they want to do to her now.

The following days pass slowly — in between scathing glares, whispered curses and jagged hatred. She can feel it — like a second skin, a too warm coat that has her itching. The reality of her decision doesn't go unrealised — but Khione has never been an impulsive person and she'd known this would be the outcome. She knows what it means to enter the Duellum — and she knows it means her death.

She's surprised at how little she cares. Surprised at how it doesn't weigh on her shoulders or curl up in her gut like she'd expected to. All she has to do is stay alive long enough to kill the three Death Eaters she's after — and then somehow kill Hadeon and let the others descend upon her in their rage. She'll let them take her life if she succeeds. She has nothing to live for apart from making sure her mother's murderers suffer a brutal, terrible death.

"You're making a mistake."

She doesn't turn her head from where she sits at the windowsill, watching over those training in the field below. "I can assure you I'm not."