I can give you freedom from your guilt with a flick of my wrist
Whether she meant her tone to be sharp or not, the fire in the diminutive woman is better than Nephele had seen in the others she’d felled and harmed alike. Her own fire - draconic, intentional in contrast to Maea’s - rises to consume her insides. “Hand-me-downs? Don’t make me laugh, child,” her teeth gleam like a starving wolf’s maw as she snarls, more threat than smile and with decades of anger hiding in the shadows of it, “you threw Ludo’s gift in its face. You spat on every boon and bounty the second you sold your soul to the Pretender. You disgust me. You disgust Ludo. You were never fit to wear its rags, and I should pluck your eyes from your skull for daring to gaze upon them again after you threw away everything it gave you.” Her words strike like steel upon an anvil, never missing its target. Her tiny frame vibrates with the weight of her prejudice.
Advancing a few steps, she lets her chakrams fall from her elbows to her palms in a practiced move. “Ludo granted me both of these the day it set me on my mission to stop the spreading plague of your kind. Was it intentional, you think?” Now her voice becomes a croon of sadism. Mockingly kind. “Perhaps it adorned me knowing we would meet, hoping it would hurt all the more - maybe it’s a sign that it has forsaken you.” Her eyes narrow cruelly, hoping each word is a twist of the metaphorical dagger.
Advancing a few steps, she lets her chakrams fall from her elbows to her palms in a practiced move. “Ludo granted me both of these the day it set me on my mission to stop the spreading plague of your kind. Was it intentional, you think?” Now her voice becomes a croon of sadism. Mockingly kind. “Perhaps it adorned me knowing we would meet, hoping it would hurt all the more - maybe it’s a sign that it has forsaken you.” Her eyes narrow cruelly, hoping each word is a twist of the metaphorical dagger.
I can give you death with the look upon my face
