He hadn’t been quite near enough to make out her words, but the gist of them was clear enough - the way she made herself into some new and shining god, promising retribution and wrath. For a moment, when he watched her walk, it was her approach through the Night Markets he thought of. Only then it had been torchlight and not sunlight she shimmered like new-wrought gold under, and he had been the sole subject of her rage.
Sometime he should ask her what kept her from killing him. Sometime he should ask her how close she had come.
But not today. Instead his heart stuttered when her blue eyes found him, instead he was laughing at her retort. Good thing thing Acton wasn’t the religious type, because right now he’d be wondering how the hell he got so lucky (never mind her scar, never mind his knee, and all the burning and breaking they had done), and who he ought to thank for it.
“There’s that loving welcome I came all the way for,” he said with a grin, and when the spark of her magic leapt across his skin, too, he didn’t even jump. He was sure it would have felt the same even without her gifts; touching her was always like passing your hand through a flame. “And I never flatter myself.” The little lie, too, felt familiar on his teeth; like he was the Acton of the old days, where anything could happen, and the only disasters were the ones of his own doing.
For a moment he let himself just enjoy it - the press of her against him, her familiar scent, the sun beating down on them both. But Acton could never stand still for long, and a moment later he was nibbling at her ear, blowing a warm breath where the slim gold circled her throat. “I like watching you work. Got anymore poor merchants to threaten?”
The moth don't care if the flame is real
'cause flame and moth got a sweetheart deal
@
