'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...
-the distinguishing character or personality of an individual: individuality
-the relation established by psychological identification
-the condition of being the same with something described or asserted
-sameness of essential or generic character in different instances
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I lose myself again more often after the day in Corros. The next time it happens, I sit on a table. I feel like I float, staring at the reports in my hands. My ears pound, my eyes burn.
I can't follow the words. Something in me knows that Hector send me pieces of paper. Something in me recognized the small words about my parents and the word 'Loren'.
One deep breath and I can decipher at least some more letters. Nothing new yet. Loren is working on it, he will send something elaborate very soon. Whatever that means. It can't be good. I hope it just means that I have to show patience. But how much patience can I have? Everything I have done so far was a fruitless attempt of pinpointing rebels. On the few occasions someone reports a sighting, they are gone before they can be detained. They have some sort of flying transport and they have operatives that at least know some of the technical aspects of the rudimentary command systems. And they seem to turn invisible wherever they go and disappear.
How much time do I have until Elara and Maven change their mind and decide that I would be well suited for the cell next to Ara?
The dogs have a distinct smell, and it clings to me with force with the window closed. At least it glosses over the constant scent of the dread from the prison cells that cling to me. I feel the white light flicker behind my eyelids in sterile tiles.
I can't follow anything. A screen flickers in the background of my table. I look up, heavy like a sleepwalker. Are those my hands?
I recognize some sort of small broadcast, with Maven's face in the middle, Evangeline in the background, some sort of inspection. Of another kind. No prisoners this time. No one grips my arm or shakes me. Without Ptolemus or anyone that cares, I just float above myself until something in me decides to return.
It happens after another arrest. I'm angry, lashing out at everyone around me. The anger consumes me in flames hotter than any burner can conjure. It feels oddly good to snap. It always feels good to gives orders. It feels good to be valuable and alive. This anger is searing as my hatred, but it grows, and it feels as raw as the days around my period. Maybe it wasn't my period at all.
The last thing I consciously ponder about is Asher and Bryce watching me. I hiss at them to watch themselves. Hadrien strums around on his feet in the corner of my vision, with One Ear licking his silver sister's bloody chaps. I stare at the blood as if I haven't seen so much of it in the last weeks. Silver and red, dried and liquid. Under nails, in hair. On limbs. Dangling from nooses, shot in squares.
