Fayre thumbs the empty space in her belt loop and frowns. She holds no particular regard for individual blades -- it baffles her why any weapon or tool would hold sentimental value -- but still a steady pulse of irritation thrums through her at the knife's loss. It won't be easy to replace it out here, and she likes having three knives. It feels right.

Winding her horse's reins around her hand, she nudges it right, listening to the shift in its gallop as they break from a harder earth path to the wide, open expanse of the crop fields. She's likely trampling something, though she doubts it matters anymore. At least there are specs of life edging this field, unlike the withered Oscensi town she's left behind. The air smells less of decay, the clouds less eerie, though the night's cool wind still presses up close to her side and shivers as if nervous.

To think of the raw, unlimited power that could cause something so devastating. No number of soldiers could end a battle before it began with such ease. Fayre hasn't believed in witchcraft since she was very young, and its reality feels even more unreal than the usual warning tales. She still isn't entirely sure how to feel about it.

In some ways, the knife doesn't matter. It's obsolete when compared to power that great.

And yet, it is best for Neyaibet, and her general's orders come from a place of nothing but plain, pure logic, the kind she prefers. Tangling her own feelings with it only leads to trouble. She shifts in her saddle, adjusting her belt, and throws a quick glance to check her subordinates have made it out. Their horses are dark silhouettes against the darker backdrop. Rhett is sharing a saddle with Esteban, likely out of caution for his wounded arm, while Ira follows at their heels with her bow still drawn. She's searching the shadows behind for any pursuers, but Fayre doesn't bother to aid. There's clearly no-one there. Finlay's strange powers don't make him entirely invincible, it seems.

A smirk tweaks her lips on instinct. Finlay will follow, eventually. He always was the clingy type, and now he's found a new blonde girl to hold his hand, much as the concept makes her grimace. It will all be worth it when the advisor's daughter and her traitorous witch run right into their trap.

Lord Diraldi groans as she urges her mount faster, though he doesn't stir. He's limp as a doll, tied in by a loop of rope to the horse's neck, his waistcoat's edges flapping in the chilling breeze. How far he's fallen.

A dribble of blood stains his straw-coloured hair. Maybe she hit his head a little too hard. Or perhaps he's as fragile as all these Oscensi noble types, too busy being carefree and orderless to learn safety. Perhaps he deserves to be hit. She shoves him harder against the horse with the heel of her palm and fixes a sharp, steely glare on the horizon, annoyance blooming into satisfaction.

Oscensi deserves everything that has already come to them, and so much more.

The thick, viridescent swathe of a forest has clambered up over the horizon, and now swamps the hills, shadows stretching like beasts of many claws amongst evergreen branches. She swerves to the left and dives onto a path that winds through the trees. The sharp scent of pine needles seeps into her nostrils, and she tilts her head back, breathing out a deep sigh. It's been a while since she's been swaddled within the embrace of home. Important as the mission is, she can't help but miss Neyaibet from time to time. After all, she must remember that she does all of this for her beloved kingdom. She is its soldier and its daughter. She will stain her blades with any blood, even dabble deep into the pits of magic and curses, if it means victory for perfect, star-blessed Neyaibet.

A dark figure blocks the path ahead. Thoughts severed, Fayre grabs hold of her reins and yanks, bringing her horse to a screeching halt. The thudding of hooves behind ceases as Esteban and Ira do the same. Though he's barely a pace away, the man doesn't flinch. Even in the shadows, Fayre knows his stiff form, the awe his aura inspires.

She pauses to check Lord Diraldi's binds, tugs a cord to tighten a knot, and then swings down from the saddle. She lands neatly on her feet and thumps a fist over her heart in respect. "General Rakis. It is done."

Beneath the shade of the pines, Harlow Rakis is all stripes of shadow. All the moonlight's long fingers can tease out are the sewn trails of green that edge his otherwise black clothing, his pale face, and his eyes, a perfect reflection of the forest drenched in night all around them. In the daylight, he's nothing but an ordinary man. It's in this scarce lighting, when he's reduced to these vague brushstrokes and the scratched-in detail fades to irrelevance, that the new whispers of magic that surround him truly come alive. There's something more hidden in the depths of his gaze, something subtle as a breath but powerful as the earth itself. Fayre straightens within its view, determined to meet it without fear, her spine stiff as a blade and heart swelling with admiration.

"Good," he says simply. In many ways, he's Finlay's polar opposite. Finlay glows and struts, feels emotion in great sweeping waves that pull at his features, as loud and as brash as the flames he's begun to conjure. The general's expression remains practically motionless. "There's a carriage waiting further down the road," he adds with an inclination of his head. "Take Diraldi there."

Fayre responds with a brisk nod, and turns to bark a command at her soldiers. They respond slower than she'd like, but get the job done: Esteban climbs from his horse and, after exchanging some muttered string of words with Rhett, heads to the white horse Lord Diraldi is tied to. He kicks its side, and the three of them continue on, hooves clacking against the road's cobbles as they pass. A breeze scrapes harshly past Fayre's side. She frowns, reaching up to adjust her braid. A few strands have come loose.

General Rakis raises a slanted eyebrow at her. "Are you choosing to follow on foot?"

"Apologies, general, but I'd like to speak with you." She touches her knuckles to her heart again, dipping her head in a brief, stiffened bow. "I'm curious about something. May I ask?"

He folds his arms. "Go ahead."

She hesitates for a moment, trying in vain to read him. He could be proud of her initiative in choosing to question. He could be irritated at the delay. He could be nervous, even, that she's prying into what she may have no place in, though she discounts that within the instant. Perhaps he feels nothing. All she can sense from him in reality is something blunt and blank, something like boredom but not quite.

His gaze flits beyond her shoulder, and two of his fingers flex, drumming a short beat on his arm. Perhaps he truly is nervous.

Shaking the thought away, she clears her throat. "Once the Anathe has fulfilled your wishes, what happens next?"

"I anticipate that decision will be in the hands of Her Majesty the Queen and her royal court."

She stumbles. "You mean you'll just end the war there?"

"The war is coming to a close already." He shrugs, as if he doesn't care, as if the purpose of it all means nothing -- though she's sure that interpretation is fiction and only more of her failure to read him. "Once we've dealt with the last few pieces, there will be nothing left of Oscensi to conquer. Does that concern you, Captain Wynn?"

Perhaps it does, somewhere in the colder part of her chest. She slips her finger through that empty belt loop again, occupying her hands while she steers the reins of her mind elsewhere. "What I more intended to ask is... what will become of this Anathe of yours? Will you kill him?"

A dark swathe flickers through the general's eyes. For once, it's an open fierceness, obvious no matter how briefly it lingers. "No." His gaze darts beyond her shoulder again as if sifting through the shadows. "I believe that would be wrong, don't you?"

He waits, seeming to search her. Courage flees for a moment. She finds it difficult to shake her head. "On the contrary, general, I believe that would be unwise. We've seen what he can do. I think he should be destroyed along with Finlay Hunter and anyone else who poses a risk to Neyaibet, if you'll pardon my opinion."

General Rakis taps that light finger-tapped beat for the second time. "You're aware Noli is my son?"

She bites her tongue, twisting her face aside. "Yes."

"Then you might pause to understand my point of view."

The words he chooses could stem from a place of anger, though it doesn't leak through in his tone. I don't see why that should matter, she thinks to herself, though the words refuse to rise to her lips as if caged in by some invisible barrier. Cruel as it might seem to some, she thought Harlow Rakis was better than this. Cold logic dictates that the boy is still the same danger. And he has no loyalty to Neyaibet. It would have to be drilled into him, and content as she would be to administer that if her general wills it, the risk remains. She can't let anything happen to her kingdom after all the good lives that have been laid down around her in strengthening it.

"Say what you want to, Fayre," General Rakis orders.

All of a sudden, the barrier is gone, and her voice breaks out without thought. "General, if I may, I'm concerned about where your exact loyalties lie."

"Go on."

"Maybe you care more about this boy than you do about our kingdom." She narrows her eyes, reaching for politeness even as her tongue grows sharp. "I've had nothing but respect for you for a long time, general, but I fear you're beginning to lose your way. We've spent too many resources chasing the boy and trying to tame him when we could've focused more on what is best for Neyaibet. I'd hate for your affection for him to sway your decisions into--"

Her throat closes up all on its own, silence sinking heavily into her jaw. She inhales, startled, then realises the general's gaze pierces a shadow behind her. She spins on her heel.

A small figure melts from the forest's darkness, and laughter shakes the air.

"Affection?" The boy grins, his teeth sharp and white enough to catch the light. He's leaning against a low-hanging branch a mere couple of paces away, his elbow propped upon it and a strand of flame twisting around his finger. Its colour is a void-stained black. Even Fayre's blood runs cold at the sight of it. She has to fight to keep her expression stoic, to reel in the fear that pools icy in her stomach.

She was afraid last time she saw it, too. But the Anathe didn't smile like that then.

"That is cute," he adds with a tilt of his head. His black curls are dripping wet, hanging limply in his face. His black gaze rests with precision on the general. "I am most flattered to receive affection from you, Harlow. I must say I have not seen much of it so far."

Fayre draws her two remaining knives. Their hilts cut into her palms, reassuring and painful all at once. Obsolete. I'm obsolete against power like that.

As if to reinforce the thought, General Rakis waves a dismissive hand at her as he steps forward, moving in front of her. "There was no need for you to destroy an entire town."

The boy -- Noli, Anathe, whatever monster lurks behind his empty eyes -- laughs again, dragging a hand through his unruly hair to wrench it back. She's sure his canines are long enough to be fangs. "It was a bit of fun, though, was it not? You enjoyed watching them suffer a little?"

Rakis's stare is blank. Noli rolls his eyes in return like a petulant child, pushing up from the branch to fold his arms. "I have been through a lot of pain to get here, Harlow. Let me breathe for once. Besides." He grins again, wagging a finger. "You do not own me, remember?"

Wrongness prickles over Fayre's skin. Something about his mannerisms, the way he speaks, the freedom in the dancing coil of his flame, feels strangely off. It's a world away from the broken little boy who trembled and glared at her when she last saw him. And yet his binds are gone now. Neither they nor his gloves are anywhere in sight. Perhaps their breaking has changed him, painted him in this image that, after all, was one she always expected.

She crosses her knives, sinking lower in her stance to adjust the way her weight rests on the soles of her feet. She should not fight unless her general orders her to, but she will not hesitate to defend him. His life is of infinite more priority, whatever he might claim. He will thank her once this fiasco is over and done with and Neyaibet can stop spilling blood in the wake of Noli's chase.

"I don't," General Rakis concedes, "but we have an agreement, Shaula."

Shaula? Fayre frowns. Of all the names she's heard given to him, this one is new and distinctly foreign. Its echo weighs heavy as iron, stinging shrill as a whistle in her ears.

Noli wrinkles his nose with a wince as if he hears it too. "Oh, that does not feel right in this form. Stick to Noli, please."

"Noli." Rakis looks unfazed. "Our agreement."

"Right, yes." He twirls to the side, taking a few leisurely steps in an arc. Dark flames prance around his wrist and lace his fingers like ribbon, and he observes them, some crazed kind of delight shining in his eyes. It's pure, unfiltered. Like a starving child finally eating his fill. "You know, now I am here, I have decided to make a small change."

Rakis shifts sideways as if to keep between him and Fayre. His stiff shoulders give away nothing from behind. "Which is?"

"Do not lure them to Neyaibet." Noli flicks his wrist, the black blaze twisting high enough to flicker in front of his face. In the smudged shadow, spots of soot seem to dot his white face beyond the flames as if arranged in a haphazard pattern. "I think it would be more fitting to stage my... celebration, shall we say, in somewhere more homely."

There's the slightest shift in Harlow's stance, just slight. "Noli, you can't--"

"I can do whatever I like." Noli's fist closes abruptly over the flames. His eyes burn, dark and suddenly roaring with deep, bottomless anger. "You do not control me. I control you." He smiles again, and this time there is no mistaking its deadly edge.

Fayre can take no more of it. This blatant disrespect -- these threats, even -- curdles her blood. How can Rakis stand there and simply take it?

She doesn't care who or what this Noli is. He has no control over her.

A growl rolling in the back of her jaw, she lunges forward, blade seeking out the boy's throat. Surprise streaks his gaze. He dodges, but not quickly enough; the knife instead slits his thin shoulder, opening up a narrow scarlet wound. Monster or not, he still bleeds.

She doesn't wait for his reaction. One knife plunges for the centre of his chest, a decoy, while the other goes again for his neck. She knows the mistake she can't make. She deftly avoids any prolonged contact, her weapons now claws designed to slash and then pull away. She won't be as wild and blunt as Edita or Oswin, her deceased comrades. She's smarter than that.

Her left knife nicks his wrist. He bares his teeth in a snarl, ducking around her, black flames licking at his edges until he's more fiery apparition than human. She strikes again.

Within the instant, a loop of flame leaps from his hand, elongating, solidifying. It knocks into her own blade. The hilt slides like butter from her palm. She gasps, her shock a blow to the chest, her heart a hammer.

The knife falls. He catches it with impossible skill, his gritted teeth curving in a grin, and it hits her.

This is no fair fight. He's toying with her.

He's enjoying this.

She steps back, but it's too late to run. He snatches her arm, gripping her bicep so tightly it aches, and she is suddenly colder than she's ever been in her life. This isn't snow or ice or the bitter winds that Neyaibet's forests shelter. This is a bone-chilling, razored agony.

He wrenches her towards him, and she can do nothing but stumble. It's nonsensical. His limbs are sticks. He's a child.

A presence far greater than anything childish swirls in his black, black eyes.

He flips his stolen knife over in his palm, gaze flicking from it to her. "I pity you, Fayre," he says, tone meandering as if he's deep in thought. "They say Cormé translates to 'those who live without', and I see truth in it. You are hollow, irrelevant, absent of meaning." He hums lightly to himself, and Fayre chokes on a scream, her veins alight and frozen over. The hum turns into a chuckle. "And they claim I am empty."

Her heart is a hunted animal wrapped in chains, cold, caging pricks digging in at a thousand different places. The teeth of a snare snap closed. She craves with every nerve in her body for him to let go, but his touch is coarse as sandpaper and sticky as sap, unpleasant in every possible way, and he has no mercy.

Darkness cracks the edges of her vision. The night crashes down hard, and her legs lose feeling.

A sigh rakes past her ear, drifting from somewhere to the side. The general. Rakis. "That wasn't necessary," he says, his voice like a drill in her skull despite how distant he sounds. Exasperation drags through it. "She was one of my better soldiers."

Noli exhales. "There is no soldier better than me, Harlow."

Anger is a storm clamped within the soft two syllables of that name. It's hot sand and fire and acid lashed at by winter's breath, and she feels it all between her ribs. Perhaps it's what finally does the job.

She can't smell the forest anymore, the scent of home. Death's taste sours her tongue. Dust fills her lungs, and she simply fades away.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

Maybe it's random to have a PoV like this, but I vibed with it. RIP Fayre, probably will not be missed.

I'm just gonna :catsip: and move on :D

- Pup