♡ ˚· @ulircursed asked:
"You are of Grannvale." More statement than question, and something he had silently suspected for some time. Foreign accents are more difficult to parse in the Fódlanese tongue, but not impossible, and even beyond that, there are always the subtle habits of behavior that marked one's homeland. And so Andrei had been fairly certain that Ishtar, a fellow in the Abyss, in the Ashen Wolves, had been Grannvale nobility, just as he was. That she utilizes thunder magic as a noble had not been immediately unusual. Many of their enlisted had been minor nobles, as he'd learned over the course of fighting alongside them in Isaach. Yet... Look away, Ishtar had said, before unleashing a devastating strike of thunder against their enemies, but in that split second before he had averted his gaze, Andrei had seen the pattern upon her tome. It's a pattern he'd seen only once or twice before, recollection stirring uneasily within the pit of his stomach. "That tome you wield... it is the Holy Weapon of House Friege, is it not?" he asks, voice carefully level, "...Neither of Duke Reptor's daughters had inherited major Thrud blood." Of that, he is certain. News traveled quickly within Grannvale, after all, and the delicate balance of power between the duchies hinged so heavily on the presence of holy blood within each noble house. Yngvi would know. Even if Ishtar were one of the daughters in disguise, it should not be possible for her to wield her family's treasure. "Who are you?"
For how long has she feared that recognition? The question that follows it?
Ishtar's spine stiffens, her skin crawls. She looks at the man from the corner of her eye and forces herself not to flinch or shy away, to remember what is expected of her name from someone who knows it. All of her sin is hers once more.
Only she falters at the name, her grandfather's. Her single scrap of grace is that he does not know her name enough to know whereupon her family tree it falls, what blood stains her branch.
"His son," she answers, "is my father."
And it is strange, the feeling it evokes to admit that after so long. There is guilt, a selfish gratitude for the gaps in knowledge that she might can hide behind. A pride, one branded so deep into her flesh it scars bone, to lay claim to her name. A relief, as wrong as it might be, at being seen.
Silver eyes turn, peer at Andrei. Only after the day that might have marked her fate in a fairer world did she hear about all that had happened where she could not see, where news could not reach, and whispers of a man piece together a thought in her mind before she can shake it away. He had not been there, it could not have been him.
"And yourself?" She prompts, without elaborating further. "Why is it you are so familiar with my bloodline?"
