Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
━━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━━
ARAMINTA SOLARII was a thorn in Octavian's side. She had been since the day she had departed and never looked back. She knew that. She also knew she should've been killed, it was the punishment for those considered traitors by Octavian. Had she not been protected by the Republic, she likely would have been assassinated from a distance a long time ago, like all the others.
But something in Daesha had not been fully in it, something had come over her and let her go, dark eyes on gold, maybe the only thing recogniseable between the pair anymore. How long had they held each other's gaze in the past? In violence and in love? An inch, less, and the sword would have been in her throat.
It's not necessary, Daesha had said.
Was that even true? Daesha had never adopted that philosophy the way Araminta had that had made her Octavian's favourite. But when it came to the sword at her throat, the odds in Daesha's favour, she had pulled back and left her armed.
Unlike Daesha.
Giving an enemy the best chance at escaping. They were taught to kill. It was their second nature, weapons an extension of their arms. It was unlike her.
Daesha had been the fire, harsh and unyielding. Araminta had levelled them out. It had been half the reason their dynamic had worked so well, why Octavian had constantly paired them up. It combined the ruthlessness and logic of both their techniques. Daesha was not known to show mercy, but Araminta, partially defenceless and looking up at her, had stumped her.
Why? Did Daesha still have a heart? After years did some part of her still, dreadfully, care about the other assassin? Had she, as Araminta, failed Octavian's teachings and grown dangerously attached? If it prevented her from doing what was necessary, then it had. But should Araminta have died?
She was a thorn after all.
Daesha might have even been hailed a hero for killing her.
"Excuse me, miss," a voice cut into her thoughts. She glanced up, eyes narrowing at the patron of the bar standing before her. "How much for an hour?"
She arched an eyebrow, realising what he meant. "Get out," she hissed. "I'm not a performer."
The man didn't take the answer, reaching a hand towards her. "But–"
She pushed the chair back so quickly it squealed against the floor, getting to her feet. "I said–"
"Lark," Bane snarled.
She paused, hand on the hilt of her curved blade, the man watching her cautiously at the hostility. Bane stood a few feet away, disapproving look clear as day when his hat wasn't shadowing half his face. She narrowed her eyes.
