[P] no man escapes his destiny

[Jahin]

Catch. It’s barely a whisper. Almost a question. Something flashes in the moonlight and makes a hissing noise. He catches the elegant dagger deftly, immediately shocked by the weightlessness of such a solid looking weapon. He is accustomed to roughly made weapons hewn from the earth. Wooden spears, sharpened stone arrowheads. Practical and crude, like himself. This is different; this is a work of art created by a master blacksmith. Even someone so uncivilized and coarse as Jahin can see it is so.  The craftsmanship is flawless and the serpent holding a glittering emerald in its jaws was clearly created with the utmost attention to detail. The scales are so detailed it almost makes the serpent seem alive. It watches him distrustfully, as he is not worthy to hold such an elegant piece of art. He would have to agree. It does not suit Jahin; who doesn’t adorn himself in fine things and keeps none of the jewels and ornate weaponry he raids for his people, but he can admire it wholeheartedly nontheless. “It’s beautiful,” he says. “It suits you.” He tosses the dagger back. Such an intricate weapon doesn’t belong in his company. It has one master and he has no doubt that the weapon is loyal to Tieran and Teiran alone. She has inched closer in the past few minutes, but she remains a healthy, cautious distance away from him.  He doesn’t blame her. Davke can’t be trusted. Or so he’s been told throughout his life. But does she even know that he is from the desert, created from sand and sun? They had met in the capitol. They had both defended the captiol in a time of unrest and chaos. Would she have trusted him to hold her dagger if she knew his true origin and loyalty? Davke are simple souls. If only people would understand that. But it’s easy to make a monster out of something that isn’t understood. “Teiran…you work for Seraphina?” It’s something of an assumption and a question combined. He’s hoping to create common ground here. It’s the least he can do after she extended such an interesting olive branch. He recalls the riots that night (so long ago now) and the way she had threatened to slit throats if the thugs so much as breathed a word suggestive of treachery. Her hood has fallen gracefully around her slim shoulders; the planes of her serious face are serene and proud, but a hint of something like sadness lingers in her emerald eyes and he wonders why.