I only feel alive inside the flame

MELITA

Much as Melita had tried to soften the discord, her eyes had narrowed, staring down at the ground as they wandered deeper into the desert, eyes on the surroundings but not really taking them in. She suddenly wished she had her companions with her, instead of safely tucked away back home, as some kind of calming buffer to whatever was unsettling her. All signs pointed to the way Ludo had given a clear warning – the sentiments surrounding helpful gestures not wholly liked by her herald. She couldn’t even remember a time it had seemed cross with her, and she felt like she’d somehow failed a guiding figure.

She could hear him talking about the bones, the way his father had carried them, struggling to come up with something helpful to add while her mind was clearly elsewhere. All her father had ever given her was a complex. “There’s always some landshark bones too,” she uttered, a little more subdued and quieter, glance going upward, trying to scout out bleached portions on the horizon. They’d certainly killed enough of them here.

Swallowing down the manifested apprehension didn’t seem to matter though; Iskra wasn’t going to let it slide by. Any chance of just smushing it down and avoiding it altogether, one of her favored ways to deal with a problem (since she couldn’t beat this one up), dissipated quickly, and she caught his stare, her features turning into a complex motion of a wrinkled nose and furrowed brow. “Oh, no, I know,” she offered in return. “I only wanted to help. I didn’t think you were taking advantage or whatever,” and the demigod shrugged, despite Ludo’s insinuations. She’d like to believe she understood Iskra better than that – but between implications of Abandoneds and that primordial disdain for magic users the heralds still seemed to carry, maybe she’d just been caught foolish and stupid, thinking more with her heart than her mind. A common circumstance – bullheaded and impulsive. “But it’d probably be wise to go alone for a bit.”

This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight