A M A L I A
"The New Gods," the girl repeats, dislike and fear hot on her tongue. She has heard stories of them, of course, has read - and believed - that they were responsible for the loss of the Old Ones and this imposed isolation, but to have it confirmed sends a shiver of fury down the baker's spine. They, the arrogant, have brought about this ruin- and she has brought one of them back, found it in the Underground and freed it from its prison. Nausea rolls at the pit of her stomach. What have I done? "I met one... the Voice," the girl confesses, dark eyes downcast in sudden searing shame. "She was locked away, I think, but we.... I... freed her. She asked if I wanted to be 'bright'. I am sorry." Tears burn, bright and hot, at the girl's dark eyes.
She cannot withstand the small chuckle that escapes her, though, or the warmth that blooms within her at the mention of Vi. "Is there no way to stop them? Nothing we can do?" She does not expect much of an answer- if they could be quelled, would not the Gods have done so already? And in truth, does Amalia wish to slay the New? She thinks of the Ascendeds she knows, of Wessex. Strong, brave, secretly kind. The girl would will no ill fall upon her, yet she is part of the problem, the things that apparently helped bring down the world. Fists clench and unclench in Amalia's lap as she struggles with this knowledge, acceptance and refusal at war in her mind. Perhaps this was the best option, a part of her concedes.
But still, now that she has tasted it, the girl yearns to be free.
One question remains unanswered, tugging forcefully at the girl's brain, a puzzle piece that no longer fits with her newly updated worldview. "If the Old Ones are without, and the New Gods roam free... what is in the Spire?"
