#ayarn

kim had been on an unlucky streak, it started with ... well, it started with getting shot. that was the most unlucky, it made everything else seem like minor inconveniences, and it was to her. but that's not the look on the face of the doctor - who was also her friend. "i cut myself on a kitchen knife, adam insisted i come here - said he thought i needed stitches?" tilting her head towards the hand she'd ( semi ) bandaged with a dish towel. it was the best she had in her apartment. "think i can work still?" it's mostly a joke, only slight hint of anxiety. kim couldn't be benched again - she'd never be able to reach her goals and dreams if she kept doing that.

he almost doesn't catch it. there is a bit too much occupying his attention. like freya yelling something indiscernible from the back of the room—at least, it's indiscernible to him but a man closer to her turns around with an enraged expression. he's yelling something back in russian which emil is too exhausted to translate in his own head. someone else is laughing & not in the good way. too many voices talking at once, too many languages with too many insults being slung back and forth. emil sighs and crosses his arms. he lets it all play out for once. he leans his shoulder against the doorframe between the kitchen and the dining room, watching silently as they fall apart.

ashen  battlefield,  dragon  and  wyvern  fire  had  scorched  the  ground  -  and  guilt  has  eaten  at  the  water  wielder  ever  since.  incapable  of  putting  it  out,  fire  too  consuming  and  all  there  is  left  is  stone  which  doesn’t  burn.  they  had  barely  won.  third  years  sent  to  the  border.  entirely  out  of  his  depth,  despite  knowing  of  the  real  threat  for  far  longer  than  the  navarrian  riders.  shielded  from  @ayarn,  knowing  his  guilt  would  influence  her  too  -  still  he  feels  her  presence.  grimacing  softly  at  her  fingers  brush  over  bruised  and  busted  cheekbone,  red  lingering  upon  the  tip  of  her  fingers.        ❝  i’m  okay,  ❞        not  really,  but  it  feels  like  the  appropriate  thing  to  say  in  an  instance  like  this.

the long nights away from her bleed together. weeks or months, it matters little when he is robbed of the serenity she provides his spirit. he has always been a single-minded man, focused on his duty first and foremost. but it does not mean he does not notice the hollowness just beneath his ribs when her warmth is not within reach. he is loath to be away from the palace. but he is home now. and he wishes he could have her all to himself. he has been sat at the corner of the long dining table, listening to the useless prattle of advisories and ambassador, all while his eyes wandered to her. they haven't quite left all evening.

roan only briefly tears his gaze from his wife to offer a polite word to the men and women around him, mumbling an excuse to dismiss himself. he pushes back his seat and stands, stalking down the dining hall towards aurelia. she's smiling. there's some man who has journeyed from sangeda to be here and he has made her laugh too many times tonight. the sound echoes across the hall like morning bells. it stokes a fire inside him, simmering beneath the surface of his scarred skin.

Bastian studies her, eyes dark with something unreadable, something caught between amusement & calculation. Demetria’s voice is steady, her chin lifted in defiance, as if daring him to contradict her. It’s almost admirable. Almost. His lips curve, slow & deliberate, not quite a smile but something close. Something that doesn’t reach his eyes. “ Is that so? ” His voice is velvet-smooth, a quiet drawl that hums between them. He takes a step closer, just enough to test the space between them, to watch for the flicker of hesitation— because there will be one. Eventually.

“ You used to be wiser than this, ” he muses, tilting his head slightly, gaze flickering over her with the familiarity of someone who once stood at her side. “ Once upon a time, you knew better than to mistake bold words for real power. ” His hands remain at his sides, deceptively relaxed, but there is an edge to him now, something sharp beneath the surface. A reminder.

“ You should be afraid of me, Demetria, ” he continues, softer now, almost gentle. “ Not because I want you to be, but because you know me. Because you know exactly what I’m capable of. ” He lets the words settle between them, watching for any change in her expression. “ Or have you forgotten?" His voice dips lower, a whisper laced with something that isn’t quite mockery but isn’t kindness either. “ Shall I remind you? ”