AMALiA
We need to talk. Tonight.She'd baked the note into a loaf of bread delivered to the Guildhall, innocuous enough- unless he noticed the paleness of her cheeks, the fear and exhaustion she tries to hide from underneath her eyes. Then she returned to the bakery, doing her best to go about her day as though nothing were wrong.
As though Zariah had not threatened the very fiber of her world.
When the strain and anxiety became too much - when even Jyoti could not calm her - she went into the garden, channeling her energy into physical labor, hoping cool air would still her raging thoughts.
And when even that was not enough, the creeping fingers of terror and fury too much to possibly ignore, the raging thoughts inside her head pounding and crying and calling out and threatening to break her apart, she went down to the basement, her staff in hand, a grim set to the line, and began to train.
So she is now: sweaty, grim-set, her face a mask of fury and her movements fast and tight. Violence is not an answer, but damn if the idea of whacking Zariah upside the head with the crimson antlers is not appealing. She is distracted enough that she does not hear the door open, does not pay mind to the world: she is a machine, brutal, efficient, enraged, a far cry from the gentle baker who most would likely expect.
the darkest nights produce the brightest stars
