REXANNA
i was born with a knife in one hand
She had known what she was good at, and Deimos had seen it too — had given her the opportunity to prove herself and rewarded her when she did well. And she went from a lowly sneak to the Thief, charging up the ranks with determination in her heart, conspiring and learning and growing. At least until she had shifted gears, a regret she’s claimed more than once, of putting aside the brilliant mind of hers in place for reading and bearing children for men who couldn’t seem to care less. When had she become so dull, a flickering flame dulled into nothing?
She asks him what happened next, what happened to the children and the wars waged to retrieve them. And for a moment she’s hopeful. Until it’s dashed with the way he speaks. And a frown finds her face once more when he tells her they had lost. Again. She’s sure it burns on his tongue to say it, and she lifts her glass to her mouth to take another small sip as if she can feel the flame beneath, feel it burn down her throat, even though nothing happens. And she regards him when he mentions that he’d called them out on the mishaps and mistakes, and she nods.
Yet the names that fall from his lips, she’s heard of one of them. “Ulrik, the one who made the sentinels, right?” She asks with a light tilt to her head, those giant towering machines that stood watch over the Basin for as long as she had been there. She wonders if they’re still there, cast into darkness with crumbling rusty pieces. She tries to imagine the man, the fighting, with Deimos in between ever the watchful guardian himself. Saying nothing and letting it happen, seeing what could come of it. And she can picture it vividly almost as though it had been painted before her.
Her brows raise when he tells her that Ulrik had been the one to give the crown to him, and she gives him a slight quirk of a smile. “And that’s how you became King of the North.” She says with ease, a raised eyebrow before it falls and she looks to his hewn face. “What happened with the children?” She asks quietly, wondering if things had changed when he became the ruler, when he could call the shots.
She asks him what happened next, what happened to the children and the wars waged to retrieve them. And for a moment she’s hopeful. Until it’s dashed with the way he speaks. And a frown finds her face once more when he tells her they had lost. Again. She’s sure it burns on his tongue to say it, and she lifts her glass to her mouth to take another small sip as if she can feel the flame beneath, feel it burn down her throat, even though nothing happens. And she regards him when he mentions that he’d called them out on the mishaps and mistakes, and she nods.
Yet the names that fall from his lips, she’s heard of one of them. “Ulrik, the one who made the sentinels, right?” She asks with a light tilt to her head, those giant towering machines that stood watch over the Basin for as long as she had been there. She wonders if they’re still there, cast into darkness with crumbling rusty pieces. She tries to imagine the man, the fighting, with Deimos in between ever the watchful guardian himself. Saying nothing and letting it happen, seeing what could come of it. And she can picture it vividly almost as though it had been painted before her.
Her brows raise when he tells her that Ulrik had been the one to give the crown to him, and she gives him a slight quirk of a smile. “And that’s how you became King of the North.” She says with ease, a raised eyebrow before it falls and she looks to his hewn face. “What happened with the children?” She asks quietly, wondering if things had changed when he became the ruler, when he could call the shots.
and a wound in the other
