[SE] sky full of song

Amalia I took the stars from my eyes, I made a map He comes close again, a growl in his chest, and the thing Amalia feels in response is nothing close to fear. "I thought you doubted your advantage." Lightly teasing, her voice echoes with remnants of laughter, the mock severity crumbling beneath a million delights. An arched eyebrow meets his intensity, dark eyes staring defiantly into his face. She does not break or bow beneath him, though she is sure she must be trembling like a leaf, cheeks colored rosy by some emotion she cannot name. The rules of the game keep changing, and he always seems to be at an advantage over her- and despite her exhilaration she is nervous, too, learning the steps to a dance she does not know, but he seems keenly adept at. Or are they dancing it at all? In that moment she remembers who they are, their differences, the disadvantage she is at. Surely he is skilled in this sort of thing, whatever its name may be, has taken these steps with countless partners, cavorted and waltzed again and again. Indeed, he must have his choice of cohort, his pick of lither, prettier things, less shrouded in the shadow and more adept at the game. So why is he here, looking down at her, the brilliance of his grin and the fire of his mischief an emblazoned brand on her fragile heart? And again he gives her another chance, invites her to continue where she has clearly failed. To say she does not consider it would be a lie: though never the most competitive girl, the taste of victory is a sweet one indeed, and she would love to taste it between her teeth, lord it over him and extract a prize. Would she ask him for a drink, a dance, an adventure, a tale? Will she beg of him fealty, friendship, fellowship in the days to come? What treasure can she take from him, to hold like a memory of today, dear and permanent and cherished and loved? She wants whatever he will give. He has already given her so much, and yet she wants and wants and wants, yearns for something she cannot name, fears to look too closely at. And herein lies her deepest insecurity: for while she wants the world from him, she does not know what he wants from her. Shaking her head, the baker declines the chance at redemption, instead turning her eyes back to his. "I think you have won, fair and square." Amalia's smile softens, though her expression does not fall. There is curiosity there, a searching in the way she scans his face, lips twitching, fingers still, sable eyes ardent as they sear into his blues. Hopeful, helpless, earnest and young and naive and exposed, she says more in her expression than the words that pass her lips. "What boon would you ask of me, Mr. Shade?" And I knew that somehow I could find my way back