*COMPLETE* Allayria promised to do what it takes to stop the Jarles, to make the ugly decision. She thinks, at last, she understands what the dynast meant. The lesson earned from the top of that lonely cliff and given the dark murky water below.
It...
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They are where they should be; where they were always going to end up, a conclusion long forgone but still very anticipated.
Isati watches as the Paragon comes into this second connection, watches as everything clicks into place.
Yes, patience has not been easy, patience has not been kind, but in this, at least, it has finally been rewarding.
"You're tired," Isati notes, taking in the dark circles, the way the skin sags on the other woman's face, puffy with sleeplessness, with wear.
Something has happened.
That face twists now, a faint grimace, a snarl of irritation.
"A natural consequence of fighting back an invasion."
We won't speak of it then, won't acknowledge it. Very well. Isati can wait a bit longer.
"From where I was looking, the people fighting back an invasion were the ones you were cutting down," she returns instead, enjoying the darkening of the Paragon's features, the way her black eyes glitter at the taunt, all rankle and rancor. "They fell like little matchsticks all around you, even my little friend. You've been practicing since we last met. You're getting the hang of this sport."
"I wouldn't call it that."
"A sport?" she lets herself smile, as if to consider the denial, the deflection, but Isati can feel the other woman poking, prodding beneath these meaningless words.
No, none of that just now.
"You're right, it's not a trivial hobby, is it?" Isati throws out, shifting so the Paragon freezes, all attention now, all suspicion and fear. "It's something deeper, means something more. Maybe a birthright—a calling, just like the Skills."
An ugly grimace flickers in response to this.
"Killing people isn't a birthright," the Paragon shoots back, though her voice is quiet.
A shimmer—regret. Isati's head turns to the side, tilting, as if to hear a sound of it, and she looks at her, this Paragon, this being of power and might, who holds everything Mother could have ever wanted, but somehow looks like a reflective shadow of Isati herself.
Hair still in place, face still clean, unblemished, Isati corrects herself. Still giving off the pretense of fitting in.
She slides to her feet, moves in this metaphorical space, around the conjured room as this new shadow watches, fixed and tense beneath all the armor, all the walls she's trying to build up.
Pointless.
"There comes a time," Isati tells her, the words rolling out in a practiced certainty born from years of saying it back to herself, alone, in the dark. Her dark mantra, now given to a new audience. "A time after the suns set on that finite adolescence, when the world decides the slack on your rope is over and the leash needs to be tightened. The allowances of youth have dried up; the blush of innocence is now a mar. It's time to get your piece on the board and play the game. Our way."
