As Isra’s voice moved on and the stars turned overhead and unicorns paced and thunderbirds flapped their wings and goddesses listened, Acton wondered where he’d be if not for the queen at his side.
Surely not here. The buckskin had never been the patriotic type; no promise of meeting a goddess could draw him out to meet homicidal birds. The Crows had always come first, and any loyalty he’d felt toward Denocte came from his brotherhood with Reichenbach and his time spent among the merchants and barkeeps, the alley-rats and sailors.
Now he looked at Raymond and Calliope, at Katniss and the others. There was no stirring in his breast for them, no love or even really curiosity; as far as Acton was concerned he owed them nothing. And yet, and yet.
At last came the dawn, light creeping up the edges of the mountains and making even the unnatural lightning seem less bright. As it arrived the birds left, and Acton only rose after Isra did, shaking out his coat, blowing a silver breath into the cold morning air. He still held his tongue as the goddess spoke, so dark and lovely she was almost painful to look at; he held it as first Isra and then Calliope questioned her.
Caligo’s answer settled nothing, but the buckskin had never put his faith in gods. After she disappeared he only stepped toward Isra, grimacing at the way his muscles groaned, his bones creaked like an old man’s. He ghosted his muzzle across her cheek, murmured “Well done, queen,” and was gone, too, vanished not in a scattering of particles to wind but in a slow lope back to the castle, and an escape from his tangled thoughts, and sleep.
we have a flair for the shade and in-between
world's worst acton post/closer
