Chapter Text
Nightfall has tells. Everyone does. That’s why she has them. She has one for the broadcasts, one for visitors, one for classes, and so on and so forth. That’s how she stays above the radar. That’s how she got to where she is today.
Her problem is that she can’t control this tell. She can’t stop clicking her pen right now. It’s impossible. It’s not her fault, but Nightfall is the one who has to give the report, and Handler is scary. Nightfall won’t face the brunt of the consequences, but she’s not looking forward to being anywhere near this conversation.
“You okay, Fiona?” Millie asks, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Going last is the worst!”
“I’m fine. Thank you.” Fiona tries to give Millie a small smile, and it must pass muster, because Millie just says goodbye and takes her files down the hall to Authen’s languages class.
“Last but not least,” Handler says as she steps in front of the wall Fiona is waiting against. Her eyes narrow and her expression sends a metaphorical bullet through Nightfall’s heart. “Frost.”
The wooden door closes behind her, and a flight of stairs, so does a metal one. Twilight waits for her there.
Twilight…
Nightfall will never compromise a mission for her infatuations. Even though she suspects Handler of knowing about that, she’s never once told Nightfall off for it. She doubts Handler will start now.
So yes, she would like to marry Twilight, and yes, she has all the attributes needed to excel as Queen Forger, but no, she will not interfere if interference means compromising what they’ve spent a generation working on. If nothing else, she knows Twilight would never find love in someone who discarded work for selfish gain.
“Nightfall, the girls first.”
Nightfall swallows and assumes her usual detatched style of reporting information. “They’re not happy, to put it mildly. They don’t accept the mercy angle.”
“Well, if they don’t understand, then we can–”
Nightfall hastily cuts Handler off. “No, no, no. They understand. They just don’t care. They don’t like the King, and there’s a Seven, a Five, and a Three with no main provider left in the competition. Three of us are from contested, underfunded border Provinces, and even Campbelldon and Tamaryba are feeling the tax strain. It’s a political pressure cooker. Alessa and I are the only ones without younger siblings, and the response to all this has ranged from shock and dismay to near-riotous levels of rage.”
She doesn’t say the name, but they’re all thinking it: Briar.
Twilight nods. “She’s furious. She’s a threat to the King’s sense of order, but not ours yet.”
“I’m more concerned that she’s a threat to you, Twilight,” Nightfall returns.
She does not like Yor Briar. Twilight clearly has his sights on her. Nightfall has no clue why, but he does. But beyond Nightfall’s personal feelings, she firmly believes Yor Briar is A. the only person who could kill Twilight like she’d kill a spider and B. that she is not what she seems. She just doesn’t have the evidence to back up her belief…yet.
“She’s upset and angry, but I doubt she’s going to try and physically maim him, Nightfall. But to put it in the kindest possible terms…”
Handler stalks over to Twilight, who even Nightfall can see is tired. “You made a rookie mistake, and it was followed up by a catastrophe neither of you were capable of handling.”
“The decoy wasn’t his idea, Handler. We were on telegraphed orders to Twilight’s office. They were authentic.”
“Check with me, Nightfall. That’s step one.”
“We didn’t have time. If I’d had a copy of his schedule instead of sprinting to his office like I asked, maybe I’d have–”
“You shouldn’t have needed one.”
This is maddening. Nightfall has made her peace with pining, but she wants nothing more than to just…do her job effectively.
“You’re talking like I was the one scaring her, ma’am. I just passed the information on.”
“Whoever called the shots also sent her sprinting at full speed into the woods. That’s my fault in her eyes.” Twilight’s voice is hollow. “I should have known.”
Nightfall looks hard at her mentor. She’s always concerned for Twilight’s health, of course, but how she missed this is beyond her comprehension. It’s been barely a week since the beating, and while Nightfall expects Yor Briar to be a mess, she is not prepared for the mix of negative emotions clouding Twilight’s face. The gloom and sickness about him are punctuated by the dark circles around his eyes. When did he last sleep?
“I’ll review our agents today,” Handler says, “That action was a miscalculated risk.”
“Was it?” Nightfall asks. The thought occurs and disappears in a flash, but she has to ask it anyway. Normally she’d dismiss this as unlikely, but even she isn’t sure what she’s fighting for anymore. “What if it was intentional? That kind of mistake is sheer stupidity, not a slip-up. Twilight’s schedule is well-known. It’s posted on his office door!”
“Watch yourself, Nightfall.”
“It’s a consideration,” Twilight says before Nightfall can bite back. “Especially since I didn’t know how atrociously it went until nearly twelve hours later.”
“You’re saying there’s someone here with anti-WISE motives that’s threatening our Selected?” Handler asks to confirm. She’s done this long enough to know it’s at least possible.
“That’s the King, Handler. Everyone has an anti-WISE motive. I think it’s somebody else.”
“Then who?” Nightfall asks. “And quickly. You have five minutes before budgets.”
“I know. The Red Circus is a possibility, but the Westalian Senators who visited last time all completed their drops just fine.” Twilight rubs his face with his hand. “And the intelligence checked out.”
Nightfall won’t be believed if she says she thinks Yor Briar may have a secondary stake in this game. She doubts the girl is in espionage, but she’s in something, and it can’t be good. She can’t say that, not while Twilight is here, and Handler may well call her on it too.
So she holds her tongue until Twilight leaves. Handler turns to her with a raised eyebrow. “Go on.”
“I think Yor Briar might have motive against us.”
“Motive to fake her own assault?” Handler is incredulous.
Nightfall soldiers on. “No, at least, not knowingly. But if I’m correct, and she does, I’d be she’d be linked to a larger organization.”
“And your proof is?”
Nightfall’s blood boils. She can actually feel her face warming. Why can’t they just believe her? Why can’t her points at least be given consideration?”
“Her strength and reflexes are extraordinary, even for a Seven, and she knows the catacomb entrances. She was whipped across the cheek and remained standing. Her sense of justice…it implies something she won’t tell anyone about.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Nightfall. You need proof.”
“I know.”
“Don’t let him get in the way of your task. You know why you’re here. You know how this ends,” Handler scolds.
“This isn’t about him. It’s not. I know something isn’t right, and it’s not because I feel one way or the other about anyone. I don’t like Yor Briar, but I also don’t like Franky and I still work with him because I trust his motivations.”
“You’re already in a position to investigate her, so I won’t stop you, but do not get ahead of yourself, Fiona. This won’t end with you, and if it’s any consolation, it won’t end with her either.”
“I’d be good at it,” Nightfall mutters.
Handler rises from her seat, eyes wide. Papers and photographs spill from the edge of the desk. “What was that?”
“I’d be good at it. Not for his sake. I understand why I won’t win, but I also understand that I have the political and social knowledge to run this country. I’d be good at it.”
Nightfall holds Handler’s gaze for a long while, but she ultimately breaks first. It’s not defeat. Somewhere in that, she eased back into Fiona Frost.
“You’re dismissed.” Handler turns to the corkboard and pins a sheet of expense reports to it. “I’ll see you for tomorrow’s broadcast.”
-
Fiona has never been a deep sleeper. It’s a fault of being a spy. There’s always something to be alert for. Tonight she sweeps the halls for enemies, posing as a sleepless Selected who “just needs to tire herself out a bit. Big day tomorrow, you understand.”
There’s a light on under the door in the legal library. It’s been on for her past three rounds of this part of the Palace. Well, she won’t sleep anyway. Maybe tax law will help with that.
The walls in this room are shelves. There’s no clear wall color, because the shelves are dotted with volumes of laws that all have different muted colors. Maroon for property law, black for civil codes, navy blue for…the navy, and so on. It’s patchwork, and the only certain things are the dark brown shelf frames and lamp-lit desks that clerks and secretaries compile information for the Cabinet to consider when they want to change the law.
Tonight, there’s someone else in here, and she puts Nightfall on edge. She’s alone, first of all, which is a bad thing for Fiona if her hunch about Yor Briar is correct. She’s got a small stack of books next to her, and she’s scribbling in what better be a notebook.
“Yor?”
The Seven’s head snaps up, the last strands of hair falling out of a hastily-made ponytail. “Fiona.” A flush is on her face, like she’s reading a raunchy romance novel and not several tomes worth of the Ostanian Civil Code. “Can’t sleep?”
Nightfall slides her mask on and anchors with welded steel. “No. What are you looking at?”
“The rights of prisoners,” Yor says with a long sigh.
“Not going so well?”
“No.” She hiccups a few times, then she presses her hand to her mouth and laughs. “It’s going terribly.”
“That’s the trouble with Kings,” Fiona says, sitting across from her. “They like to do what they want when they want it.”
Yor smiles and sets the stack of books aside before reaching down to the floor for a second. She comes up with a mug of red wine, and the bottle hits the table a second later. She shoves it towards Fiona before she stands. “There’s a tea tray in here. I’ll get you a mug.”
“Yor, it’s l–”
“It’s late, the world is on fire, and I’m sifting through the Civil Code with a fine-tooth comb. Please have a drink with me.”
Fiona can handle her alcohol. Yor can’t. She takes the mug with the hope that she might weasel some answers out of her counterpart. It’s too much wine for any sane woman their age to handle in one night, but if she sips, she’ll be alright. Besides, neither she nor Yor are particularly sane, and this has to be Yor’s second mug at least. It’s good wine too.
“Rich people,” Yor hiccups after a minute or two of silent wine-drinking, head drooping to the side and resting awkwardly on her shoulder. “You know how much this costs? Almost 4000 Dalc. It’s from some country West of Hugaria…probably smuggled in. It’s even got a stupid name. Clos de–hic–de Vougeot.” Yor stares at Fiona for a moment. Fiona doesn’t bother trying to console her. They both know she’s not here for that. “That’s eight times my yearly commission for cleaning. On one bottle of wine. And I didn’t even seek it out, you know. I just went down to the cellar and grabbed the first one–the first red one–I could find without turning on the light. I didn’t want white wine.”
“It’s a little absurd,” Fiona concedes. She feels it’s very absurd, but espionage won’t allow her to share that.
“A little,” scoffs Yor, turning to look at her. A fire crackles in a grate farther back in the room. “I could’ve bought a house with that wine. And this isn’t even the most expensive it could be. I looked it up! There’s books on it. Some people will buy this stuff for 8000 Dalc, just to drink it or let it gather dust.”
“Is that why we’re here?” Fiona asks after another sip. It’s certainly worth the price tag to her tastebuds, but that might have a lot to do with that time she disguised herself as a sommelier.
“Maybe. I dunno anymore. I don’t know why I’m here. Loid’s gonna kick me out soon enough, and I’m not sure if I should just ask him to let me go or run down the clock.”
Fiona pushes on that crowbar. “Why’d you think that?”
Yor lets out a loud, loud laugh, and it echoes off the shelves. “Isn’t it obvious? He can’t stand me. I stood up and said I’d rather be a traitor to my country than marry him in public, and then I told him he didn’t deserve me in private. It’s more the other way around though…I’ve done too much stuff to deserve a husband at all, so–haha–so I think I’ll just bow out when he tells me to leave.”
Fiona sees the opening, and she waits for Yor to imbibe even more, just to soften her up that little bit. She even has a gulp of the stuff in her glass as a premature celebration.
“You’d be better for him,” Yor mumbles, “You get along like old friends.”
Fiona stares at her for a second, because she just…did not see that coming. Then she snatches the bottle and fills her mug to the brim before downing about half her mug in one go. She needs alcohol to do this.
“I’m here because I want to be,” Fiona says.
“You’d be a great Queen. Level-headed and reasonable and–” Yor drinks and wipes her mouth with the back of her sleeve. “Loyal. You actually get politics. Every time I think I understand, someone says something and I get angry or say something harsh, and we go back to the beginning. You don’t do that.”
Fiona tilts her head towards the ceiling. Her and Twilight have been in the same boat since they were in onesies. It’s not easy to watch him marry someone else, even if it won’t be Yor Briar. The whole thing is rigged anyway. Nightfall’s seen the polls and the notes: It’s Millie or Alessa. Those are Twilight’s choices. Yor is too volatile, Kim’s Province isn’t useful right now, and Fiona is basically emotionless in public. Chloe was the first choice, but that didn’t pan out hope anybody hoped, did it?
“I do want to marry him,” she says after a minute. “And I feel very strongly about him, but I don’t think he feels that way about me.”
She’s known this all along. She’s never admitted it, but she’s known he doesn’t love her the way she loves him for years now. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt–absolutely not. It feels like getting stabbed in the gut, and Fiona has had two too many experiences with that feeling to mistake the sensation.
“If it makes you feel better, I don’t think he feels any way good about me,” Yor says.
The wine is definitely getting to Fiona’s head because she laughs, actually laughs. It’s deep and rolling, and she cannot stop it. Yor joins in a few seconds later, and then they’re off to the races for the next however many minutes. By the time their hysteria eases, Fiona’s cheeks hurt and there are tears in her eyes.
“He does like you,” Fiona confesses. “And I know he’s devastated.”
Yor goes quiet, tracing the rim of her empty mug with a black-polished fingertip. “I spent so long ensuring Yuri would have a good future. My hands are scarred so his aren’t. He has callouses beneath his middle pinky fingers from taking too many notes. Can you imagine?” she asks with a giggle. “Note-taking! But I worked so he could go to university. I gave up an education for him the day we were orphaned. He’s my little brother, but I’ve been more of a mother than a sister, I think. I’ve certainly never had a mother. I figured if I gave Yuri opportunities it might compensate for not having parents.”
“But now…” Fiona says, and this deceptive way of interrogation hurts even her hard heart of ice.
“But now he’s an Eight. He’s never going to have that. He’ll live every day with scars on his back, and Chloe–Chloe–”
“Chloe signed a contract.” Fiona sets the mug down. “But it’s not like she deserved a beating.”
“They’re supposed to at least have trials. I read about that.” Yor slaps the stack of books. “But then I read more and remembered that the King can do whatever he wants even if the Cabinet or Sylvia or his own son says he shouldn’t.”
Fiona’s mouth gets ahead of her. “Loid didn’t want to hurt them. He wanted to let them go quietly. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but he really did. I think he still does, but the Palace didn’t find them. A news crew did.”
Why is she saying this? Is it the wine? It doesn’t feel like the wine. She should be more in control of herself. “And it was live, so Sylvia wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it.”
“It’s not mercy,” Yor says to her mug. “It’s not. I’ll never believe that.”
“Mercy would be death, I think,” Fiona says. “They wouldn’t have to live in poverty and pain, but I think Loid knew there’d be riots. It shows his clemency. How kind the heir is, not letting his father kill people.”
“It’s unfair. It’s so unfair. I hate it. I hate this. I sit here and try to fix things, and it never works. I get one chance, and what happens? My brother is whipped. I grew up fast so he wouldn’t have to, and I just–”
Yor wipes her eyes this time. Fiona picks up on the thick quality of her voice and does her best to pretend Yor is acting or in disguise. “He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows the consequences, but knowing of and knowing aren’t the same.”
“You don’t know the severity of what you did until you face the price.” Nightfall knows that. She does that every day she stays alive in this opulent house of horrors.
“And teenagers are so well-known for their level-headed thinking,” Yor jokes. “I wouldn’t be as mad if it weren’t those two, but…it’s still wrong. I couldn’t live with myself if I let that happen to you either, you know.”
Drunk actions are sober thoughts, or so the saying goes, and Fiona isn’t sure what to make of that saying in this context. Yor has no obligations to her. Fiona’s been a piece of work for her, honestly, and here the woman is saying she’d go through getting permanently scarred if it was Nightfall at the whipping post. A wave of gratitude hits her at the words.
“It’s–what if that happened to Millie’s siblings? Or Bettina? Karen hit me in the face; should she be caned for that? It’s not that it’s Yuri. It’s that it’s not right. I can’t stand that it still exists. I thought we did away with that when we did away with drawing and quartering, but apparently we can throw oil on some fires.”
“Those are dangerous thoughts.”
“I’m not really known for playing it safe now,” Yor adds. Fiona snorts.
Nightfall thinks for a moment. “If Loid is actually doing what I think he is, then Yuri and Chloe are probably close by.”
Yor sits up. “What?”
She’s helping Yor to figure out what’s going on behind the scenes with her, no more and no less. “Twenty strikes means the skin definitely broke. There’s no way they’re up and moving yet. Maybe…I could find them. Or you could. Someone.”
Yeah, she’s definitely drunk if she’s offering help to Yor Briar. Sylvia did give her the green light.
“You think they’re in the Palace?”
“Probably.” Nightfall takes over and begins deducing what she doesn’t know from what she does. “They have to be close by for Loid to be helping them, and I think he is.”
He may not feel so strongly, but Fiona does, so she defends him against Yor’s scowl. “You know he wouldn’t do that if he had any other option. And he is helping them now; I fully believe that.”
“If you say so.”
Nightfall won’t get anymore blood from this stone, so she lets it drop for now. “It’s late. We’ve had too much wine.”
Yor giggles, and Fiona almost has to catch her at the door, but she stabilizes herself. The flush has spread down her neck by the time they’ve returned to the Selected hall. “ Thanks for staying up with me.”
Fiona smiles. “Anytime.”
It takes Nightfall an hour of staring at the ceiling and not sleeping to realize that she really does mean that.
-
“You ever notice how tense people are here?” Damian asks, resting his head in his hands as they wait for the bread dough to rise. Anya kicks her feet and narrowly dodges alerting the entire Palace to the collapse of a pile of colanders.
“It’s a Palace,” Anya says, sticking her little finger in the bowl of unused frosting they’ve been passing back and forth for the past fifteen minutes. “Everyone’s tense.”
“More tense than usual,” Damian amends.
“I guess. But I think people are mostly just sad.” She doesn’t think, actually. She knows. She won’t say that yet. Like he’d believe her.
“Yeah. Minus the Briar girl. What’s she like?”
Anya scoops out some more frosting. “Some days she’s sad and stays in bed. Other days she doesn’t wake up until dinnertime and then does who knows what until way too late. Sometimes she goes to the gym and doesn’t come back except to try and get around the law. She’s really sad.”
Anya knows she feels like a failure, but she tries to block those thoughts out. She also tries to block out the thoughts about assassination, because she doesn’t like to think that Yor can do those types of things. She doesn’t want her to, but she knows Yor does.
“That makes sense. I don’t know how I’d feel if that happened to my brother.”
“Anya’s brother’s the one who ordered it, so…”
Damian claps a hand over his mouth. He should not laugh. That is not funny, even if Anya is silently laughing her heart out and wants to hear him. This is what he gets for hanging out with her and her pitch-black humor. His shoulders shake in spite of his clear internal battle.
“Did he actually?”
“No. The King said he had to do something, so he negotiated the punishment down. Something about looking pen-eff-o-lint.”
“Benevolent?”
“Yeah.”
“Does being a maid really give you that much information? I know you’re next in line or whatever, but you have to know way more than even His Highness.”
“Anya knows what he knows.”
Damian frowns a little. Anya doesn’t want to admit that it’s kind of cute. She doesn’t want to admit that she totally missed his thoughts because she was looking at him.
“You have to know more than that, stubby legs.”
Anya whirls around. “Just because you have legs that rival a giraffe’s doesn’t mean my legs are stubby!” They are not. In fact, they are longer than average. Longer!
“Cute.”
“Maybe I’m average and you’re just short,” Damian teases, leaning in to tease her.
“We both know that’s a lie, Sy-On Boy.” She can play dirty too.
“Playground insults, really?” His eyes roll.
“Cute!”
“You did it first.” She crosses her arms. “But no, Anya doesn’t know more than her brother. Not really. I only–”
She shuts her mouth. Best not.
“You only what?”
Anya shakes her head. She should change topics. They shouldn’t even be talking, but the kitchen is the only place Miss Sylvia or Commander hasn’t ordered someone to put a listening bug thingy. It’s also one in the morning, so she doubts anyone really cares.
“Ship them out to Luwen at the first…Be glad to be rid of the nosy…target the first…as soon as we get…Westalis won’t know what…”
The thoughts are cutting in and out like the person is weaving through hallways. The servant’s quarters, maybe? Or one of the twisty-turny stairways?
“What is it? Anya?”
“WISE won’t…he’ll have to…ah, the roach himself.”
She grabs Damian by the collar and yanks him underneath the stainless steel kitchen island. She drags the curtains that line the side facing the sinks and fridges and bread dough shut, even pressing the Velcro strips shut–she never does that. The other three sides are covered by metal, so as long as the people coming down aren’t looking for pre-sliced onions or an overabundance of parsley, they’ll be a-okay.
“Stop moving your legs,” Anya hisses.
“Not my fault I have long legs!” Damian retorts, tucking his calf up against a tub of rice.
“Oh, so now you have long legs.” Anya braces herself on a little corner shelf and marvels at the size of this thing. She’s worked on baking up here before, but it really is spacious below.
Damian finally stretches a leg between them at the curtain, effectively locking them in and letting Anya have a little more room (‘cause he thought he should, for sure, she knows).
Damian’s eyes go wide when actual people arrive in the kitchen, and Anya makes a shushing motion to stop him from gasping. There’s a dishcloth in reach and she’ll gag him if needed.
“They will get over this, sir. There’s no reason to suspect otherwise. They’re relying on each other, but Lady Myers did go on a date with His Highness this morning.”
“And the sister?” Anya glares Damian into silence. Just ‘cause it’s the King doesn’t mean they need to scream.
“She’ll take more time, sir, but we suspect she’ll reconcile with him fairly soon.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“She’s spoken to the other Selected about asking His Highness to dismiss her if it gets t that point. It’s my opinion that she’s either waiting to be dismissed or will ask to be if enough time goes by. A strong hand to guide her and she’ll be back on track.”
“We cannot afford any more disobedience, not from her or the Five. There are reports of violence in the outer Provinces and we cannot fan those flames.”
“Not yet. As soon as we get the West angry, we can begin airstrikes.”
It’s Damian’s turn to silence her. He’s not as nice about it as she was, kicking her in the side. She glares at him.
“Do you think any of them will follow in the Shellbury girl’s footsteps?”
“No, sir.”
“Does the Briar girl have anyone else?”
“If we can get her under even the slightest suspicion of infidelity, we can get her out of the competition permanently, and nobody will be the wiser.”
No, not Yor. Damian kicks her again. “What’s going on?” he mouths. Anya just shakes her head. It’s not like she can say anything.
“...if she does, I expect it to be brought to my immediate attention. So, is there any evidence of an affair?”
Whoever is up there must be really jazzed about stalking because Anya can hear the chuckle in his voice. “No, sir. There’s nobody. She’s not that stupid.”
“I’ll need more convincing. Thank you. You’re dismissed.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
They wait and wait and wait until Anya can’t hear either of their thoughts anymore. Only then do they clamber out of the hidey-hole and fall into a heap on the ground.
“What–” Damian pauses to extricate his leg from several boxes of pasta. “Was that, stubby legs? You looked like you’d seen a ghost! You still look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
Anya needs several minutes. This is why she never talks. Talking never leads anywhere good. Talking leads to accusations, and it’s not in any way useful. She presses the backs of her hands to her eyes for a second. Patterns burst beneath them.
“It was…it was…it–” She’s forgotten what it’s like not be able to talk, and she loathes it more than anything now.
“Hey, breathe. Take your time. I’m sorry for being a jerk. Your legs aren’t that stubby.”
She scoffs and pulls her hands from her eyes so she can slap his shoulder. “When you’re sorry for being a jerk, you stop being a jerk.”
“It’s not mean if it’s true.”
“It is not true!” she squeals.
“Suuuure.”
She shoves him a little. He shoves her back. They go like this for a while before she finally works up the nerve to speak.
“Wait!” Damian stands up and knocks into what sounds like an entire restaurant supply store’s worth of kitchen utensils, but he comes back with the frosting and some chopped peanuts. “Okay.”
Anya smiles. “Thank you, kind sir, but I believe serving food is my job.”
“Not today. Today, you’re the only Princess of Ostania, and Her Highness is going to tell me what’s so devastating about a basic, if not crass, debriefing.”
Anya could tell him. She tried once. He didn’t believe her; which is kinda reasonable. Her story is far-fetched. This time he might…well, if he doesn’t believe her it won’t make much difference, will it?
She traces the cornucopia pattern on the centermost of the nine tiles she’s sitting on with her ring finger. “You remember what Anya told you at the dance? The masquerade?”
Damian’s brow furrows and he runs his hand through his hair. He looks nice when he’s thinking. Also, his freckles are more obvious this way, and that’s really pretty. “Yeah, I think so.”
“You didn’t believe me.”
“Why would I? It’s way too out there.”
Anya gnaws on her bottom lip for something to do. “And if it was true?”
“I wouldn’t let anyone know about it if it was. That’s too much for a Palace.”
“The King is going to start airstrikes once the West is angry. Anya doesn’t know where, but she knows that’s what he was thinking just now. And he’s gonna try and frame Yor for doing what her brother did.”
Damian’s brows shoot up. “There’s not–no way.”
“Yeah way.” She is dead serious.
Damian shakes his head. “I can’t–there’s no way. You’re joking with me.”
“Nope.”
Damian’s flush is visible even in the almost two in the morning darkness. “She better be!”
“I’m not!” she reiterates. “Think of something; I’ll do it!”
“Fine!”
“Just…I don’t know, have some of the frosting.”
She obliges almost immediately. “See?”
“That could have been a total chance!”
“Fine. Try again. I’m going to prove this to you, Sy-On Boy.”
Damian stares at her for a few moments, searching her face for something she doesn’t know about. He’s been doing that a lot recently.
“...if you can really read my mind, you may as well kiss me now and spare me the embarrassment of having to ask.”
Anya closes the gap between them to kiss him slowly, because she doesn’t quite know what she’s doing, but this seems right. His hand finds her shoulder. Hers finds the back of his neck. His hair is soft. Really soft, actually.
She pulls back first. She needs air. The kitchens are dead silent, as is Damian's mind. They’re only inches apart, but now that she’s finally kissed him, it feels like miles. Still, she’s proved herself, so she asks between breaths:
“Do you believe me now?”
