Shield Meet Crown

And then Zariah... laughs? Amalia's frown deepens her eyebrows drawing together in bewilderment, utterly unsettled by this turn of events. Was this her goal, to ignite her fury; does she enjoy seeing the baker incensed? If so it is working, the girl simultaneously irate and nonplussed, her hair standing on edge as the bizarre false queen continues to smirk and goad. Perhaps the woman is truly mad, as irrational and insensible as the girl always feared. Perhaps this is some other obscure test, another mask she hides behind, another obfuscation of intent. Amalia is tired of dancing, of guessing. She has never been good at this sort of game. The woman continues to lob insult after insult, each one driving like arrows, like needles, deeper into the girl's skin. Shouldn't a queen be better than this? Shouldn't she find satisfaction in something other than pettiness, crowing the inferiority of someone she knows nothing about? Amalia thinks of Phoebe's comments that she ought to give the woman a chance, the lines in her face hardening, her grip on the staff growing tight. Enough chances, enough patience, enough pretty words. Amalia will be damned if she lets a madwoman run her home into the ground. This time when Zariah comes forward she does not step away, holding steady despite her anxieties, defensive fire ablaze in her chest. It is one thing to insult the girl- it is quite another to assault her kin, then claim that she has done no such thing, laughing in her face. Staring into those large, hazel eyes, Amalia forces herself to be calm, to keep the raging fury within her from rising too close to the top. People respect her? Listen to her? Who- but oh, it doesn't matter, does it? At the end of the day, Amalia does not give a flying fuck if Zariah finds her worthy or not. "And?" Amalia Her eyes, they know too much. She'll treat you like somebody but you just can't touch.