'ᴡᴇ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇ ᴀ ꜱᴇɴᴛɪᴍᴇɴᴛ. ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ʙᴇ ʙᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴠᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇ.'
Only one month has passed in Daliah Viper's life trying to reintegrate at court and follow the uneasy trails her eyes have caught.
One month filled with blood, tribulations, and l...
-something that outrages the moral or physical senses
-the act of displeasing or affronting also: the state of being insulted or morally outraged
-obsolete : an act of stumbling
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I feel wrong. Raw inside my skin, my feelings are more imbalanced than ever. My self is torn between dizzy tiredness and being wide awake again.
I enter the foyer with broken fresh scars and smelling like saltwater, sweat, and smoke. It isn't a new mixture and not the worst I have smelled the last days alone.
The lights are weak inside the house. Shapes that blurry resemble the familiar interior delineate along my vision.
I expected the dogs lounging around. But since my father is nowhere to be seen as well, they are either running happily along his legs or someone has put them behind a closed door. One of them is still recovering. The fact that the creature is wounded and limping while I broke all of my bones just to be pieced together by a Skonos in very little time is unfair. Again, I wish an animos could simply cure wounds on their creatures. It would have helped me in the city of ruins.
That hawk was worth something. Wasted asset. And dying painful, nonetheless.
My boots are too loud on the wood. Even the animals all breathe low tonight. Only the slightest sounds from a nocturnal bird penetrating the floorboards from above. It dies as fast as it rings up.
Ears cautious, I take in the silence- At least no music from below or voices from the salon. My mother must be busy sleeping or putting horns on my poor father again where all my family can hear and notice.
The pipes rumble low, water rushes. Bathrooms are occupied, everyone just wants to wash the dirt off.
A small trail of that dirt lies over the hallway leading to the quarters of my fellow brethren. I know it'll be gone fast, swiped off by the almost invisible hands of red servants cowering in the corners like ghosts.
For a second I think about a boy barely fifteen with gentle hands and big eyes. Cleaning a glass cage for a spider, and something in my stomach clenches a little. It feels like the stinger of a wasp pricks my skin tonight, unwelcome, and the feelings that make me weak rise and fall just like the running force of the army before.
I could easily find out how he is doing. But do I want to? It is surprising enough he hasn't been taken as some threat or leverage or simply been killed. Maybe it is simply because someone like my butcher husband or a Queen wouldn't waste time on lowly red blood. No one else knows he cared for me and my creatures when he shouldn't have, except for my father.
To my surprise, I don't find Battle Scar on my bed. A small portion of the silken blanket and bedsheet are crinkled and rumpled. Just like a huge dog would leave it jumping down after lying on it rolled together.
