MELITA
Melita had learned very early on that life wasn’t fair. That if one yearned to rise, to triumph, they had to pick up the pieces, sever the broken ends, cut away the frayed strands.
So she thought naught of the impending trial, with lopsided numbers and figures – only hurt that she was on opposing sides (again, a sharp reminder of her battle with Remi) of friends, yearning to twitch a smile at Amalia, at Jigano, at Adam, with alternating colors aligned to their forms. Maybe it didn’t matter, in the end. Would it change anything? Would it obliterate allies and comrades? Or would they still be together, after everything? Her heart hurt, panged, twitched, a throbbing ache in her chest.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have signed up for this.
Her head tilted, listening to Wessex’s instructions (an age-old ritual; delivering her a confirmed nod, a twinkle of irreverent spirit in her eyes), ensuring her bow bracelet was in place, that her staff was humming in her hands, that Fangorn was blistering at her heels. The red patch glistening on her clothing, like blood, like fire, like the painted lacquer of the Dragon’s Throat blistered against her beating soul, and she tucked it into her pocket, shoving it deep, hoping it would be enough to safeguard the token.
Wessex bolted away, at the forefront, and there was a slide of motions and shifting, owl feathers, rapiers, and then –
Kiada.
Whatever held the youth back blasted away at the sight of her adversary – and a snicker, a smirk, an emblem of fire and ash and ichor persisted, pervaded through her entity – alive again, despite her trembling hands. Kiada seemed to have the same notion, predator upon predator, enervated by their shared outrage, hatred, and vehemence. Any misgivings were hushed, quieted, absent, gone.
The belligerence and abhorrence stuck to her senses, striving to duck out of the way as Kiada hurled her knife; and in one graceful motion, mimicked the drawing of a bowstring, allowing Arduinna’s gift to come swiftly into her hands – a beatific, rounded bow, grabbing hold of the arrows in her quiver, and notching one scorched by fire. Then she pulled the tangible, real string taut, rigid, and she allowed the arrow to fly – a searing munition in the wind – intending to ignite the Harpy.
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Melita tries to duck away from Kiada’s knife, and then uses her bowstring bracelet to bring her bow to life – stringing a fire arrow and letting it fly towards Kiada.
See I've come to burn your kingdom down
