to anyone who might care

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

You wanted to talk, Danta almost says, so talk. He spots the flicker of darkness in his peripheral vision, letting it settle where it will, and only when it doesn't break the silence first does his gaze lift from the fire and across to where Maea stands. He doesn't turn to face her, not properly, cold eyes holding her gaze even as his fingers reach in to sample the warmth of the flames. Fine. He'll start.

"When we spoke at Longnight," he says, his voice soft as silk on a razor, "you preached about what was right and what was necessary. You told me," and gods he tries to keep the mirthless laugh from escaping his lips, "you told me you had never tormented anyone who couldn't defend themselves."

And now he turns to her, head tilted, the shadows cast by the fire cutting against his jawline and cheekbones. "So why did you hurt my friend?"

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //