These are the last blues we're ever gonna have
For a moment, the world around him narrows into a pinpoint, the scent of fresh bread and salt air vanishing, the murmur of the market dissolving into nothing. Sunjata's words, well just one in particular—infected—ring in his ears, sharp as broken glass, rattling through his skull like a wasp trapped beneath a jar.
No. No, that’s not—
Remi blinks hard, shaking his head once, twice, as if to physically reject the thought, to force it away before it can settle. His grip tightens around the loaf of bread in his hands, fingers pressing so hard against the crust that it threatens to crumble.
That’s not possible.
His heart stutters, trips over itself. His mind scrambles for an anchor, for anything to cling to that makes sense, because it doesn’t make sense—Ronin is strong. Ronin is careful. Ronin is—
"What?" Remi hears himself say. The word is hoarse, barely audible over the hum of the market, like the air’s been stolen straight from his lungs. His sea-glass eyes snap to Sunjata’s face, searching, demanding something—reassurance, contradiction, proof that this is some kind of sick fucking joke—but there’s nothing in the Flood’s expression that suggests even a hint of dishonesty.
A cold, crawling dread curls around his ribs, tight and merciless before slithering down the attuned bond. He almost wants to laugh. A bitter, broken thing. Because of course, of course the gods haven’t finished with them yet. Of course this isn’t over.
"How," he manages, voice rough, fraying at the edges. His mind whirls through every moment, every breath they’ve shared since Seren’s funeral, searching for something—a sign, a mistake, something he should have noticed but didn’t. "How do you know?"
No. No, that’s not—
Remi blinks hard, shaking his head once, twice, as if to physically reject the thought, to force it away before it can settle. His grip tightens around the loaf of bread in his hands, fingers pressing so hard against the crust that it threatens to crumble.
That’s not possible.
His heart stutters, trips over itself. His mind scrambles for an anchor, for anything to cling to that makes sense, because it doesn’t make sense—Ronin is strong. Ronin is careful. Ronin is—
"What?" Remi hears himself say. The word is hoarse, barely audible over the hum of the market, like the air’s been stolen straight from his lungs. His sea-glass eyes snap to Sunjata’s face, searching, demanding something—reassurance, contradiction, proof that this is some kind of sick fucking joke—but there’s nothing in the Flood’s expression that suggests even a hint of dishonesty.
A cold, crawling dread curls around his ribs, tight and merciless before slithering down the attuned bond. He almost wants to laugh. A bitter, broken thing. Because of course, of course the gods haven’t finished with them yet. Of course this isn’t over.
"How," he manages, voice rough, fraying at the edges. His mind whirls through every moment, every breath they’ve shared since Seren’s funeral, searching for something—a sign, a mistake, something he should have noticed but didn’t. "How do you know?"
the glow of the cities below lead us back to the places that we never should have left
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
