He had been watching her for a time, as one might watch prey not worth pursuing. She had a certain energy about her that drew him in. One that spoke of chains. One that spoke of enslavement. He too had been like that once, shackled to a vision of his death. But he had risen above it, learned to break his chains, to cut the strings that did not serve him. He had wreaked havoc on the valley, ruled the people for a time, all because he willed it.

What freedom there was in feeding his desires, in indulging in his whims with wanton abandon. Now, he sought to do the same in others. In the worthy. Bruno had been among them—something he noted from the moment they first met. But what of this small woman? The prophet approached, toxic hues giving her an appraising once-over before he spoke his first challenge.

You look pathetic, he began, throughly unconcerned if he caused offense, How long have you been enslaved to the whims of others? How long have you been without control?

The answer, he thought, would tell him if he need bother with her any longer.

@Melusina

It's difficult to have a funeral without a body.

Nothing to burn. Nothing to bury.

Melusina was too weak to carry a body, as it was, so perhaps it's something of a blessing. She does not want anyone else in Vermeda to know she is mourning the sister she believes she's killed, so she leaves the territory for the first time in weeks. The trek is long, and arduous, and what once would have taken her a short time to traverse had taken her hours. Her gait has a pronounced limp, where the sea had battered her legs and swept her under.

But more than that, it was her constant need to stop, to catch her breath.

Every other step, it seems, until she reaches the top of that snowy hill.

She has nothing to burn, nothing to bury. But she imagines Magdalena liking a place like this; the highest reach in the Grove, small as it was compared to the mountain, but enough to see the sprawl of snowcapped forest and all that dwells within. A hushed reverence falls over the woods, as if it, too, is mourning.

For the very first time, she bows her head and prays.

To the gods. To anyone who would listen. To nothing at all.

Then, nothing answers.

You look pathetic.

I have always looked pathetic, she wants to laugh, to lash out like a cornered, angry animal. Now I just feel as pathetic as I look.

How long have you been enslaved to the whims of others? @Lachesis continues as Melusina rises and turns to face him. How long have you been without control?

F—From my first b-breath, she seethes, but her feet are unsteady, and she wonders if it was wise to leave without telling anybody. I am—s-shackled to this...b-broken body.

No matter how much she trains, and fights, and picks up the sword, she is never strong enough. She almost was. That day on the beach, when she had stooped to new a level of brutality, when she was so certain that she'd nearly grazed the height of power. And it had cost her everything.

code / artwork

It appeared she needed a confidant, for the way she seethed spoke to resentment long left to fester. In other words, perfectly pathetic. He would have taken his leave then, wholly uninterested, had she not spoke of being shackled to her broken body. Such news gave him pause. He observed her once again, looking beyond her obvious wounds. Hm.

Perhaps he was too hasty in his judgment.

I too was once shackled to a broken body, he began. Serpent's venom took much from me, but I was able to rebuild and now I stand before you resplendent. He lifted his chin so that she might bask in his glory, though only for a moment. But I sense such a thing is beyond your capabilities. He added after a moment. Else you would have conquered it by now, no? It was not truly a question, for he did not doubt the accuracy of his assessment.

However...

Have you considered, young one, that you are concerned with the wrong shackles? His poison green gaze met hers, burning with the intensity of a man who desired to pry apart her very mind, seeking the true source of her enslavement. What good is the perfect body if the mind is still captive? He pressed, stepping closer. I believe your mind has bound you to a path determined for you by another and look what it has done to you.

He knew nothing of her story, but he did know of chains, of the strings of a puppet, of being a slave. She had all the telltales signs of one shackled. He could show her the way to freedom but then, was she worthy of what it could offer her, he wondered? Tell me truly, if you were free to do as you willed and none could stand in your way, what would you do?

@Melusina

She should be afraid, but she's not.

Strangers bring risk, and risk is something Melusina knows better than to challenge. Months ago she would have thrown herself headfirst into the danger that is @Lachesis, challenging and taunting him simply to feel to alive. Nothing had been greater than the rush of adrenaline that accompanies the dance of indignation and fury in one's eyes, and there had been no one greater at enticing anger than Melusina.

But rage unrelenting had almost been her undoing.

Even if she lived, a part of her still died that day.

So she simpers. She broods. She relents.

I too was once shackled to a broken body.

You have no fucking idea what it's like, she wants to snarl back. He is already more powerful, more privileged, for no other reason than being larger, stronger, having a pair of balls between his thighs—

But she says nothing.

Serpent's venom took much from me, he continues, but I was able to rebuild and now I stand before you resplendent.

Resplendence is something he wears well, at least. His pride is unabated, and he is well-muscled and kempt enough to put some truth to his words. But even Melusina, for all her faults and ill-mannerism, cannot admire such a powerful man at a funeral.

But I sense such a thing is beyond your capabilities. It shouldn't be. It shouldn't have been. She's poured everything she's had to search for a cure when there is none to be had. Else you would have conquered it by now, no?

She would have done more than conquer it.

She would have cleaved it from her chest, lungs and all.

Have you considered, young one, that you are concerned with the wrong shackles?

She has spent far too much time considering the callouses they left on her skin to ever consider just how many she wore. She is too concerned by the raw, weeping wounds themselves rather than the reason behind them.

Her mouth presses into a firm, thin line.

What good is the perfect body if the mind is still captive? he urges, and as he steps forward Melusina fights the desire to step back. I believe your mind has bound you to a path determined for you by another and look what it has done to you.

She wonders if the ghost of Tinúviel is standing behind her.

Melusina is ready to leave. A sudden twist in her gut urges her to flee, to resign herself to the safety of Vermeda's borders and let herself forget this man and this moment, his cryptic words and his unrelentingly green eyes and the way they seem to pry her apart at the very seams.

Tell me truly, he continues, and Melusina swallows, if you were free to do as you willed and none could stand in your way, what would you do?

What would she do, if she could have everything she ever wanted?

She wants everything—it's what she's always said, what she's always told herself. Everything that is due to her. Everything the world had taken from her.

So why is that not her answer?

She thinks of stories—of old tales about warriors and heroes and women kings. Of little girls with lungs full of sickness but eyes full of ceaseless wonder. Of little girls who want for nothing.

I...I would s-stand atop the mountain, she begins with a rasp, and I—would take my f-first full breath.

And everyone who has ever wronged me—would know. A-and they would fear what I have become.

code / artwork

Ah, there it was, buried beneath the broken parts she wore like armor—a glimmer of desire, raw and desperate, tangled with fear. He almost laughed. He had seen this before: the way they trembled on the edge of wanting something they could barely name. Predictable, really.

A breath atop the mountain, he echoed, savoring the words, rolling them on his tongue like wine, though it was clear he found them lacking. She had said it like a wish, a fragile thing. It was amusing, in its own way. Pitiful, too.

Hm. His gaze did not soften. If anything, it sharpened, prying deeper into the cracks she thought she had hidden. But what then?

A question asked without expectation of a satisfying answer, more a tool to dismantle than to inquire. He took his time, studying her as if she were a puzzle missing its most important pieces.

The air will turn stale. The fear in their eyes will fade. He watched her closely now, as if daring her to deny it. And when the mountain offers no more peaks, when you realize the victory isn’t the breath you imagined—what will you be left with?

The corner of his mouth twitched, a sliver of something between pity and amusement. I’ll tell you what. His voice dipped, a slow, deliberate drag. You’ll find yourself gasping again, chasing shadows, desperate for a prize that doesn’t exist.

He did not step back, nor did he allow her the luxury of space. He lingered on the edge of her discomfort, poised and unwavering, like a snake deciding whether to strike. The ghosts you hope to haunt will not linger long enough to keep you company. The summit will not be enough, young one. His voice lowered to a murmur, as if sharing a truth she wasn’t ready to hear. I don't believe you want them to fear you. Not really. You want to be remembered. And that, my dear, he smiled, a sly thing edged in warning, is far more dangerous.

He let that thought hang between them, heavy and poisonous, his green eyes gleaming like a predator’s beneath a canopy of shadow. Freedom isn’t found at the top. It’s in the climb—every step, every grasp, every little piece of the world you tear from someone else’s hands and claim as your own.

He let the silence breathe, coiling tight between them like a serpent poised to strike. His gaze didn’t waver, a patient and unwavering weight pressing down on her, daring her to unravel.

What do you want? he asked, softly now, a question woven with the kind of dangerous curiosity that could peel a person apart.

Not what you were told to want. Not what others decided for you. He leaned closer, his presence suffocating yet strangely intoxicating, as if promising that the moment she stepped over the edge, she'd fly rather than fall. Forget the rules they taught you, the promises you were forced to make. What would you take if there were no one left to stop you?

His toxic green eyes gleamed with dark amusement, as if he already knew the answer buried deep within her—buried so far down, even she couldn’t see it clearly. What if there was no summit? No crown, no end? What if the climb was all that mattered—every want seized, every hunger fed, every desire chased until it burned you alive?

He tilted his head, studying her with something between amusement and pity. You’re clinging to a life that isn’t yours. A path someone else carved out for you, handed to you like chains disguised as a gift. And here you stand, still clutching the shackles, hoping they’ll turn to gold. His voice dropped to a whisper, sharp and cutting. But they never will.

A flicker of something dark passed through his expression—pity, perhaps, or mockery. The truth is simple, young one: you were born to take. Not to be given, not to wait. To seize what you desire without apology, without hesitation. You weren’t made to bow. You were made to devour.

He leaned back just enough to give her space to think, though his presence still pressed in on her like a weight. You stand on the edge, teetering, looking for permission to leap. A pause, a slow exhale of breath, as if he were already savoring the inevitability of what came next. Stop asking. There is no one left to tell you no.

He gave a slow, deliberate shrug, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. That is freedom. Not some fleeting moment at the top of the mountain, but the endless indulgence in everything the climb offers. Every bite. Every taste. His smile sharpened, wicked and knowing. And you could have it all—if only you stop waiting to be told you’re allowed.

He let his words hang in the air between them, the final thread of restraint waiting to snap. His gaze stayed on hers, unrelenting, daring her to cast off the last of the chains and take what was already within reach.

So, he murmured, almost gently now, what will you really do?

@Melusina

A breath atop the mountain.

When he puts it like that, it doesn't sound nearly as glorious. Melusina frowns, pointed, angry.

Hm, he begins, his pointed gaze combating the ferocity within her own, But what then?

Melusina was so certain the climb alone would kill her that she did not think about what would come after. She's never had designs on crowns or dominion. She had never wanted to be a player in the Game—such was the ambitions of Cassius and Icefang and countless other ambitious fools. She wants to be queen no more than she wants to be another nameless, faceless soldier in one's army. She does not want to be another hunter, or spy, or assassin. She is a healer by trade alone because she's good at it, and she's never known anything else.

Once, she wanted to be a knight. Gallant, good, adored by men and women and children. Told about in stories children pass onto their children, and their children thereafter. Immortalized as someone infallible, someone unwilling to give up when staring down the throat of uncertainty.

But those are the dreams of a girl long dead.

Now, nothing comes after the mountain, and that first full breath.

L-Leave me alone, old man—

The air will turn stale. The fear in their eyes will fade. He continues, and Melusina is forced into inquisitive, angry silence. —what will you be left with?

Nothing but the end. The end she's been waiting for so long.

Pity and amusement dance in his eyes, causing Melusina to bristle.

She is vaguely aware that he is inching ever-closer, and what once would have spurned a streak of rebellion in her instead stayed her hand. She neither moved backward nor rose to meet his challenge, instead choosing the one thing she never has before: Remaining completely still, chin held high, eyes still holding her fury.

You want to be remembered. He smiles, sly and wicked. And that, my dear, is far more dangerous.

Get out of my head, she snarls.

But he doesn't. He is inching closer, until she can feel the heat of his breath and the intense scrutiny of his gaze, until he swallows the sky and surrounding trees and there is nothing left of her to see but him. She is too breathless to offer rebuttal, too tired to spurn her paws into action. She has long since resigned herself to this stasis of being only half alive—of keeping her tongue and her wit but knowing she can do little to contain the fires she stoked.

His words are ones she's sworn she's told herself a thousand times. When Nikandr had first convinced her to leave his homelands, to return to the very place that had broken and blighted her. When she first avowed to become stronger, when she spent countless mornings waking before dawn, training and fighting and pushing herself to the very limit. And when she had reached its culmination, the very pinnacle of what she thought was power, it was wrest from her in one fell swoop.

All it had taken was one sister killing another to crumble the very ground from her feet.

And suddenly the mountain became insurmountable.

So, he finally asks, what will you really do?

She snaps, a torrid of emotion unchecked. A girl trapped in a broken body, a bird breaking her wings against the cage.

There's a noticeable stagger as she rises to her feet, but it takes little time before she reaches her full height. Her mouth is curved into a pointed frown, far more her than she's felt in too long, and the narrowing of her eyes and furrowing of her brow barely holds back the desire to leap at him, to see if his teeth are as talkative.

But she knows it's a battle she won't win.

Not like that.

Maybe that's what he's trying to say.

A pity Melusina is still too young, too angry, too unrefined.

I want everything, she seethes in reply, desperate to keep her voice steady, desperate to claw her words and wants to freedom. I—I want everything I am owed.

Suddenly, she is pressing forward, closing that distance; not with wildness and wanton as she might have before, but with controlled, icy rage.

I want the climb and the mountain.

She's panting, faltering. Physically, she knows she's at the brink. But there's a spark in her eyes he's put there and nothing can snuff it out.

And I want my fucking breath.

---

@Lachesis

code / artwork

Lachesis watched her closely, the corners of his lips twitching as her words, “I want everything. I want the climb and the mountain. And I want my fucking breath,” spilled out with desperate fury. Ah, there it was—her desire laid bare, raw and unchecked, though still wrapped in chains. But not for long, he mused.

Everything, he echoed, his voice almost mocking, though laced with something far more sinister. You speak with such conviction, yet you tremble as you say it. His gaze roamed over her, taking in every falter in her stance, every labored breath. You want the mountain, the climb, the breath—yet look at you. You’ve barely begun, and already you teeter on the edge of collapse. His tone dripped with amusement, but beneath it lay a darker thread, something coaxing, encouraging.

He stepped closer, his toxic-green eyes burning with a quiet intensity. You say you want it all, but do you even understand what that means? To have everything is not simply to conquer or to survive, he murmured, leaning in just enough that she could feel the heat of his breath. It is to take without remorse, without hesitation. To seize what you want, not because it is owed to you, but because you will it. Because you deserve it.

His voice lowered, becoming almost intimate, as if sharing a secret meant only for her. The breath you crave, the climb you speak of—it is not some reward for your suffering. It is the act of indulgence itself. Every step, every victory, every moment is yours to devour if you choose it. He let the silence hang, allowing his words to sink in before continuing.

But here’s the truth, he whispered, his smile sharpening. You cannot wait for it to be given. No one will hand you that breath, that power, that freedom. You must take it. His eyes narrowed, gleaming with a dangerous edge. And to take, you must abandon the stories you’ve been told—the expectations of others. Forget the debts you think you’re owed. Forget the chains they placed around you. Forget what they taught you about restraint.

Lachesis leaned even closer, his voice wrapping around her like a serpent tightening its coils. What matters is your will, your desires, untainted by anyone else's vision of what you should be. Forget them all. There is no king, no god, no sister to bow to. There is only you, and what you want.

He stepped back just slightly, letting the space between them fill with his words. So ask yourself—do you really want the climb, the mountain, the breath? Or is it something else you seek? His smile was sharp, pulling her deeper into his web. You want everything, you say? Then take it. Indulge in every hunger, every desire, every fleeting whim. That is the only truth worth living.

@Melusina