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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Children born from the flames typically craved fire. Hawk on the other hand, found it quite difficult to stomach once it had grown to the point of tearing flesh from bone. Moss Moritani and a Harkonnen soldier both simmered on the throne. Splayed over the armrests, succumbing, entombed forever more in Collette's chambers.
Rabban coughed, singularly, angrily. There was much expression that could go into a cough and the one that he let off said everything Hawk suspected. His rage had bubbled past the point of mild inconvenience. There was no longer a selfish will to keep her alive.
Hawk pressed a lazy hand to her chest, feeling along the wall for support. The smoke billowed from the drapes, the rug, any high heat point that it could cling to amongst the stone. The palace groaned, beams dropping from the doorway. Rabban edged down the dais after her. She couldn't see how far he made it before a rafter fell and blocked his path. It seemed to block everything, sight, sound: a burning veil that coated reality in soot.
Once in the hallway, she turned to ensure Rabban had found too much trouble in navigating the wreckage. Feyd might have been overcome by hate at the death of his brother, but that didn't concern her greatly. There was blood on her armor from the soldier that had fallen at her sword to his ankle. Tiny specks of fluid that smelled of salt and sweet mineral from a lifetime on Giedi Prime. She had killed nearly a handful of Harkonnen's in such a short period, purposeful or otherwise. Many more would fall before the dawn crept.
Hawk was a liar, and thus, she knew one when she saw it. Once she had gained her footing, having fallen into the hallway, she caught sight of a red veil amongst the scrambling soldiers. It ducked into a doorway adjacent to the throne room, the trail of fabric disappearing in a cloud of smoke. Collette, looking for refuge. Collette, a key to unlocking her chain. Hawk pulled herself upright, repeatedly knocked back by the ruckus of Moritani guards. She drew her chipped sword and waded through the bodies and blood.
Halfway to the entrance, a weight fell upon her shoulders. Strong, overbearing, it knocked her into the nearest wall and held her by the throat. Two unforgiving hands came down to rest upon her trachea.
"The Duke is dead?" Oliver asked. Betrayal flickered in his eyes like a heat seeking missile; poised to find a terminal to blame. It was valiant, Hawk had to admit.
"Yes," Hawk choked out, "but I didn't kill him."
She readjusted her grip on the short sword, too short a length to make any difference as Oliver stood braced. She didn't ache to kill him, that general who owed little but gave all. In the correct circumstances he would have made a fine member of the Galicine.
"I am going to make the crooked paths straight," She mused through hastened breaths, "I am going to make them pay."
Oliver's eyes twitched disbelief. They bore into her soul and dissected the truth. Hawk may have been a very good liar, but he was trained to kill liars.
