too pretty to die

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Tags are always no pressure, check this fun thing out, with no expectation of response ❤️

@serensama, @woundedsoul12, @davrinsleftpectoral, @blackwall-my-tiny-husband, @serialsforbellara, @notyourmamasdeerbat, @strugglinggranola, @aetherflowers, @necromanticsoul, @jukkaricity, @genjyoandgojyoandhakkai, @elishnord, @pixiedurango, @aiyestel, @tkwritesdumbassassins, @sandcastlekings, @sorcerousadventurer, @the-font-bandit, @tarasmom, @talkmagically, @potatofantiger, @redheadsramblings, @viagosbrother, @chaosherald, @iicaru2, @handsignals, @wickedadaar, @kogarashi-art, @vishantikaffar, @mushrooms-x-moss, @nyx-de-riva, @redaresss, @trevisowillbefree

He's beautiful.

It shouldn't matter that he's beautiful, but Cyri supposes that consequence doesn't always care for truth. And the truth, significant or otherwise, is that he's beautiful.

With his broad nose and all the sharp lines of his face, he seems more like a work of June. Made all the more perfect for his flaws—if the line cutting through his brow could be called as much. The raised line turns gilded in the dying light of fire left in the hearth. The contrast to the rich color of his skin suggests artistry more than violence.

His blade puts off a soft light, or else emanates a darkness so complete that the air around it seems brighter by comparison, though the marks on his forehead crown him as more of a threat to her than even the sword of obsidian held aloft in his hand.

Cyri had heard it said that the more scars a man bore, the higher he ranked in Andruil's service. And while she often doubted that Andruil promoted her Hunters based on the exact count of their scars, Cyri put some merit into the spirit of observation. And if the whispers that reached her ears were little more than hearsay, she isn't foolish enough to doubt that this man could rip her throat out with his teeth.

Under different circumstances, she might not be so opposed to allowing him close enough for the attempt.

As it is, she's already been far more arrogant tonight than was wise. A sentiment which is suppressed by the fur and leather pressing in around her. Sweat slicks the skin beneath her armor, the compounded body heat only serving to exacerbate her current conundrum. Cyri takes in a measured breath, fighting the urge to squirm away from the feathers twitching against the side of her throat.

A banal hiding spot by all accounts, the wardrobe.

Watching crimson rivulets spill between the flagstones on the floor, Cyri is forced to reckon with the fact that she'd had little choice—in hiding places at least.

It is difficult to pinpoint the singular choice which led her to this point, peering through the sliver in the wooden doors as her killer creeps undoubtedly closer. More likely, it'd been a series of precipitant decisions which lured her to the point of no return.

All said, it was bound to happen eventually.

Arguably, if she'd followed orders, she wouldn't be facing death down from the shadows of a musty cupboard. She wouldn't have been stupid enough to say she wasn't afraid, but it must be said that a part of her, rational or otherwise, felt more alive than she had in months, knowing that any violent tremor of her heart could be the last.

Though, arguably, it was happenstance that led her here as much as choice.

Slaves weren't a strange sight anywhere in the empire these days. Less than surprising in halls such as these, hung with lavish tapestries and gold of every finish. If rumors were to be believed, Andruil went through them quicker than most—Cyri hardly wanted to imagine the reason—so it wasn't exactly a surprise, to hear upon arrival that she'd been preceded by a troop of them—gathered from nearby settlements like some kind of tithe and delivered to the cellar like little more than a crop of potatoes or a crate of wine—though it was rather unfortunate timing.

Or, rather fortunate. Depending on which side of the vallaslin one stood.

Some moons ago, Cyri might have let the opportunity pass. Continued with her reconnaissance and reported back. Allowed the Dread Wolf to do as he would. With all his hatred for slavery and his undoubted disdain for the remaining Evanuris, she had little doubt he'd do something.

Reconnaissance is all the rebellion seemed to do these days.

Sensible, considering all that had been lost in the war with the Forgotten Ones—a title which never failed in its irony. Scars of this last war were carved as deeply into the land as they were into the hearts of all Elvhenan. It was a wonder rivers didn't still run red with the bloodshed.

The rebellion had survived it, but only a fool would pretend they hadn't grown too weak to strike. In recent months, the Dead Wolf had grown wary of risk—the rebellion needed time to rebuild—and maybe it was a bit selfish, but Cyri had grown impatient.

If anyone had come out from the war unscathed, it was the Evanuris themselves. Elgar'nan went from calling himself a king, to calling himself a god in mere weeks, the others following suit shortly after.

But they were not gods. And Cyri ached to prove it. To cut deep, to make them bleed.

And it was easy enough to steal into the lower levels of the manor, where they would undoubtedly be kept until the inevitable markings were etched into their skin.

Careful as she was to heed the warning that always came when one ventured into Andruil's domain, the kills were bloodless. She sent the first guard sprawling with a bolt of lightning while the other went lifeless in her embrace, his head locked firmly in her arms.

Convincing those within the cellar to leave with her had been arguably more difficult, as it so often was when they could see her face, but left with few choices, there weren't many dissenters in the end. Leading them back to the Eluvian wasn't so difficult as it was exhausting. Cloaking herself in the Fade was hardly a feat. Accustomed as she was to walking in obscurity that it took no more effort than donning a cowl to shelter from the rain. Extending the same veil to the others was far more taxing.

All said, she'd been rather pleased with herself when she'd seen the last of them through to freedom. There was little doubt she'd be chided for her recklessness upon return, but the alarm hadn't yet been raised and ut so long as she achieved her original purpose, she saw no reason for serious castigation. The Dread Wolf might even be pleased.

So with precious hours left until daylight, she made for Andruil's study.

It should have been easy.

The trek itself was familiar. West wing of the manor, down a long hall, up a back staircase only made treacherous for its narrow posture, and through a set of doors which held no wards save for the lock turned into the door. Whether a result of arrogance or the very tenable believe that the wards inside her study were more formidable, Cyri didn't suppose it mattered much.

What mattered was that the study was occupied when she fade-stepped through, feet sinking into plush carpet.

Bent over the hearth, poker in hand, the girl appeared to be stamping out the last of the embers. And it should have been stranger, given all the times she'd stolen into this very room, but when the girl turned, Cyri's heart twisted violently in her chest.

Her marks were new. Red skin still raised in irritation, a stark contrast to the sallow skin it marked. And even with her head slightly bowed, shoulder rounded in something like despair, Cyri couldn't help noting that she was young. Younger even, than Cyri when ink had first been cut into her face.

She'd shed the cloak of nihilhood before thinking twice.

If she was made to pinpoint them, she'd say that had been her first mistake.

The girl had looked at her with wide eyes. An expression Cyri had mistaken for shock at her sudden appearance. Only after her airflow had been abruptly severed, did she think it might have been a warning.

Years of training kept the panic at bay, and with some effort Cyri was able to get her attacker to the ground. A series of blows to his face had earned her release, but he's had no intention to make things easy for her. Flame was too unwieldy for such a small space, and electrifying her fists seemed to deal no more damage than mistaken static.

If she hadn't expended so much power so carefully leading those would-be slaves to freedom, she might have had more than punches to throw. As it was, she had little choice. Still, she'd cursed herself as she freed the dagger from her belt.

The man gurgled as he died, her knife in his jugular. And maybe it was only in her mind, but Cyri thought there was a curve to his mouth when he did. As if he reveled in the fact that his killing blow would be hers, too.

She would have been remiss to claim that the plot wasn't a clever one. Built for her in mind, it would appear. Cyri eyed the girl warily as she rose with crimson coated hands, though a quick assessment said that the terror still frozen on her face was likely artless. They both knew the blood covering her hands would not be so easily washed, but that didn't mean they both had to die for it.

Cyri issued a series of quick orders and a passphrase she was never to repeat. It seemed unlikely she'd be around long enough to be reprimanded for that misstep, at least. When the girl hesitated, Cyri had made a promise to follow she knew she'd never keep.

The men Andruil called her Hunters were outfitted with a great many magical augments. Not the most impressive of which was their ability to scent blood in the water, as it were. It was said they could scent blood trails for miles. For days. If the path of their murderous intruder led right to the resident Eluvian, she risked exposing the one good secret they had left to them—no, she'd just have to find another way out. There would be no leaving the way she'd come.

If she were smarter, or perhaps less brash, Cyri might have made her escape then. Undoubtedly the wiser choice. But if she was going to escape, she didn't plan to do so empty handed.

The wards inside the study were decently intricate. In the past, she'd been able to unravel them with a bit of magic and a great deal more time. She didn't have such luxuries this time, but she saw no sense in wasting blood she'd already spilled.

Cabinets and drawers had burst open at her command. She'd had mere minutes to rifle through, studying several odds and ends before tucking a few letters with distinctive seals into her breast pocket.

But just as she'd made for the door, the tumblers in the lock were already clicking free.

It had been a calculated decision, to conceal herself in the wardrobe. A whim born of the hope that the overwhelming scent of blood in this room might shroud her presence in it. Judging by the way the hunter's eyes cut from the body on the floor to her hiding place, it doesn't seem that her hypothesis held much water.

There are no secrets between them, no mystery.

He may not yet see her, bathed as she is in darkness, but he can sense her. If the legend of the Hunters' augmented senses holds true—and of that her doubts are quickly shrinking—her heartbeat must be ringing as loudly in his head as it does in hers.

Through the sliver in the doors she'd left open, she watches him prowl over plush carpet, soundless and strangely graceful. The leather grip of her dagger grows slick and heavy in her hand as he draws closer. She cannot move too early, but she certainly can't afford to do so too late.

But he pauses an inch from the wardrobe, the point of his blade angled as if he means to wedge it between the doors. Tip them open. Drag her out.

She should strike now.

If she moves fast enough, he wouldn't have time to make a sound. Could attempt to flee before the hounds were loosed. Maybe then, she'd stand a chance.

Only she hesitates.

Her father would have said the spirits themselves held her blade, though usually it isn't so difficult to disregard spirts who so often want her dead. A small consolation that her opponent seems just as stifled. Held back by the same unnameable force.

For several moments, they breathe the same air.

He cannot see into her shadows the same way she can see out of them, but as she studies the dark of his eyes—brown melting into midnight in the strange glow of his blade—and the finer brush strokes of scars on his face—across his cheek and over his chin, along his jaw and to the left of his throat hollow—he seems to study her shroud of darkness with a similar fascination.

He should be running her through now, or she him. But they linger in a moment of stolen time and elusive breath, some strange thread wending between them.

"The door to the gardens has been left unguarded."

Somehow, she's surprised less that he speaks and more at the timbre of his words. Low and war, Richer than all of the gods and honeyed like she takes her tea.

"Go back the way you came, but turn right instead of left. If you can make it to the trees, you stand a chance. I'll try to lead them off." The words are hushed, hurried. She cannot look away from his one eye, scar and all framed in the sliver of the wardrobe doors. "You won't have long. The moment I'm gone, you run."

The rebellion had no agents in Andruil's domain. That, she knew for certain.

So it makes no sense, that he should be helping her. But he is.

And given the trap which had been so carefully laid for her this night, she should not trust it. But she does.

He takes one step back. Quiet. Measured. Eyes still boring into her shadows as he backs toward the door. There's a short, slight motion of his chin before he slips away.

It's a risk she shouldn't take.

She should gut herself before chancing interrogation by Andruil, let alone her lover.