M E L I T A
I won it sounded phenomenal; and Melita was instantly full of questions again, a roaring, tumbling hive of bustling inquiries. Where had she received such a prize? How did she acquire it? Had it been a competition? Were they holding another one soon? The ravenous, covetous contortions in her soul fueled the fire, but then were held in check by the layers, by the undertones, in Ronin’s response. She tilted her head, curious all the more, attempting to decipher all the lacquer in between, but everything moved on quickly (purposefully, she narrowed her eyes and speculated; Fangorn’s stare furrowed in the same instance).
Her first lesson, likely one of the many to come, encountered a bristling faction in her membrane. Her initial instinct was to seethe, because Wessex had no idea of what the child had experienced. She’d survived the descent of Helovia, the shadows, the death waves and knells, the outcries and bedlam; only to continue enduring hardship after hardship, agony after agony, anguish after anguish, along the Rift’s chambers. The crackling kingdom’s anthem and banners had been dipped, etched, and stitched in the seams of kill or be killed, hunt or be hunted. She’d been in the grip of acrimony and vehemence, had come out on the other side, had remained despite the scars, the nightmares, the quandaries and destruction, because of her ability to withstand, because she looked danger in the face and opened her arms. Did that count for something? Or had she measured her, sized her up, simply due to her youth? She fought the urge to huff, to pout, to begin growling or roaring in distaste, crying out against the injustice. You don’t know what I can do.
But as her gaze swept over the older individuals, who had likely seen just as much, if not more, of the world’s intertwining treacheries. Maybe they’d slayed more monsters. Maybe they’d survived more wars. Maybe they’d acquired skills, tactics, and precision she’d yet to even dream of.
So the girl was forced to merely nod, and not shove her chin out in defiance, in sedition, in revolutionary habit. She reined it in, attempting not to pulse the insurgent tendencies throughout her fiery essence, and swallowing down the barbs, quills, and thorns piercing her tongue. The honeybee child nodded towards both of them, accepting the order, shouldering her spear once more, ready to embark into bones and mist.
Melita didn’t ask why
