Slowburn | Enemies to lovers | dark romance | false prophets | Space Opera | triangle | strong femme characters | eventual Romance | Eventual smut |
A desperate Baron.
A yearning Duke.
A woman who weaves destruction with an army of fire.
In the m...
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The air fleet went out in search of Eidan at the break of a new day. It was early enough that the Harkonnen's hadn't roused from their beds. Late enough, that the chamber servants were already in a scramble. The rumbling of the jets engines would have woken Hawk from sleep, but she hadn't found it in the first place.
Dust and shards from the rafters flittered down and found estate upon her duvet cover. Hawk leaned over the edge of the bed, face in her hands, and willed exhaustion to disperse. The night had been filled to the brim with questions and they overflowed from her mind and made a puddle of her limbs. There was so much to do, so many roads to walk down, but the simplest path disguised itself.
When she stepped into the hallway, hand on the hilt of her axe and eyes ablaze, she found unfamiliar souls inhabiting the halls. They trickled into the throne room, backs covered by long red shrouds. There were four of them, possibly five, they seemed to blend together in a synchronized walk. No mind was paid to her as Hawk crept past the group. They did not raise their heads, but she could see gilded masks with the same horns that Collette's had worn.
Bene Gesserit, she supposed, but they didn't look much like the ones she had seen. Possibly, outcasts of the order. Women who, like Collette, had abandoned the typical trade in search of another sort of sisterhood. Whatever it was, Hawk did not feel comfortable keeping their company.
The candles in their palms lit the way for Hawk to slink past them into the shadows. Her swift feet pounced upon the crevices of the wall that no light would touch. From that vantage point, she could listen to their hums without having to approach any closer.
Moss would not be awake yet. Collette surely was and lurked about the throne, playing a tune that charmed crimson-clad snakes into the annals of the palace. Hawk did not owe her anything, but it seemed like a ritual that was better left uninterrupted.
Hawk turned the corner, preparing to lean her ear against the throne room door and listen in, when she found herself in the guest wing instead. She blinked at the portraits of long dead duchesses and generals, dukes and warlords. They did not glare at her in the daylight. Instead, they seemed to sweep their open palms out in welcome.
