Damien
i'm trying to run from our pride
Damien felt the shift before he fully looked—light thinning out across the field, chatter falling in waves until the hush pressed against his ears. Lanterns dimmed one by one, the pools of glow shrinking until only a single fire still burned proud against the dark. Edrei Launceleyn’s dragon grin, sparks curling upward like it had teeth.
He glanced that way, steady but brief. This was how it went. Someone was chosen, most weren’t. He hadn’t expected otherwise, and there was no sting in it. Whoever it was—good for them. Let them have that moment. He turned back to what was in front of him.
Which, at the moment, was Theea telling him with the straightest face that she’d once been ambushed by a chicken.
He stared at her a long beat, cup paused at his mouth, before the laugh broke out of him. Low, rough, entirely uncontained. He shook his head slowly. “Of course you got into a fight with a chicken,” he muttered, the corner of his mouth still dragged up. “Figures.”
Aria, curious at the sound, chirped once from her barrel-perch and pawed the air like she meant to box a phantom hen herself.
Damien’s gaze slid back to Theea, still catching the mirth flickering in her eyes. He took another drink, warmth settling in, though it had less to do with cider than with her.
“You didn’t win,” he said finally, answering the jab about their spar with a steady calm. Not defensive, not stung—just sure. “We traded. You landed blows. So did I. Call it even.” A pause, and then the faintest tilt of his head, like he was offering her something without making it sound like one. “Next round, with steel in hand, we’ll see.”
She’d asked him what he was thinking of. He let his eyes tip toward the fields, where the last sparks of the chosen lantern drifted up like embers into the night, then back to her.
“Axe,” he said simply. “Not for trees.” His hand mimed the swing without thought, a sharp arc through the air, then a flick of the wrist like throwing. “Something balanced. Heavy enough to break, light enough to carry. Maybe even throw.” His mouth pulled faintly, like the idea sat well with him. “Feels right.”
He leaned back against the table again, close enough that the warmth of her shoulder brushed the edge of his awareness. His eyes stayed on hers a moment longer, the barest tug of a smirk threatening again. “Still think you’ll win?”
He glanced that way, steady but brief. This was how it went. Someone was chosen, most weren’t. He hadn’t expected otherwise, and there was no sting in it. Whoever it was—good for them. Let them have that moment. He turned back to what was in front of him.
Which, at the moment, was Theea telling him with the straightest face that she’d once been ambushed by a chicken.
He stared at her a long beat, cup paused at his mouth, before the laugh broke out of him. Low, rough, entirely uncontained. He shook his head slowly. “Of course you got into a fight with a chicken,” he muttered, the corner of his mouth still dragged up. “Figures.”
Aria, curious at the sound, chirped once from her barrel-perch and pawed the air like she meant to box a phantom hen herself.
Damien’s gaze slid back to Theea, still catching the mirth flickering in her eyes. He took another drink, warmth settling in, though it had less to do with cider than with her.
“You didn’t win,” he said finally, answering the jab about their spar with a steady calm. Not defensive, not stung—just sure. “We traded. You landed blows. So did I. Call it even.” A pause, and then the faintest tilt of his head, like he was offering her something without making it sound like one. “Next round, with steel in hand, we’ll see.”
She’d asked him what he was thinking of. He let his eyes tip toward the fields, where the last sparks of the chosen lantern drifted up like embers into the night, then back to her.
“Axe,” he said simply. “Not for trees.” His hand mimed the swing without thought, a sharp arc through the air, then a flick of the wrist like throwing. “Something balanced. Heavy enough to break, light enough to carry. Maybe even throw.” His mouth pulled faintly, like the idea sat well with him. “Feels right.”
He leaned back against the table again, close enough that the warmth of her shoulder brushed the edge of his awareness. His eyes stayed on hers a moment longer, the barest tug of a smirk threatening again. “Still think you’ll win?”
'til you set fire to my atmosphere
