sweet lies, sweet lies, sweet lies
“Your formalities are lost on me,” she says, and Caine’s smile mellows at her dismissal of a greeting. He flicks his gaze across her, head to hoof, searching for traces of blood – not for confirmation; her voice matches the one he heard in the mansion precisely – and hums to himself when he finds not a spot of crimson on her save for the ruby of her eyes.
“Good – I never cared for them much, anyways,” he answers glitteringly, leaning further into the cool stone wall to make room for her to pass. His dagger digs into his wings, a reminder of his purpose. A reminder that whispers savagely to him: “you are not here to jest.”
He narrows his eyes at the chocolate and white patchwork of the woman's retreating back, trying – and failing – to discern where he has seen her before. If he has learned anything of Solterra, it is that its underbelly, like a snarling hyena with hackles raised to the sky, pretends to appear larger than it really is.
The same faces commit the same crimes, their actions as predictable as the rising and setting of the desert’s scorching sun. It is the only thing he can depend upon in a kingdom more committed to burning itself to ashes than a dying phoenix.
He wonders if he should follow her – the papers he had snagged rest securely inside a leather satchel he has tucked behind his wings (the only convenient aspect of his twin set of wings is their uncanny ability to conceal almost anything within their feathered depths) and there is nothing left for him to do. He had gleaned all the information he could from Abazar’s bloodless lips (more realistically, the contents of his office), and he deems the effort good enough.
Caine doubts she is surprised when he slinks casually after her, as at home in the shadowed alleyways as a king in a marble castle.
“I hope that you were not expecting to meet Abazar — alive.” He glances sidelong at her, marveling at the crimson horns that sprout from her ears in a perfect circle, narrowing to points just shy of her cheek. “I’m afraid you would be disappointed.”
He thinks of all the things that have disappointed him. The length of the list comforts him, because it reminds Caine that there are worse things out there than him.
“I’m afraid that I am. There were some things he had needed to tell me that he cannot say now.” That he is dead, but Caine lets her fill in the hanging parts of his sentence for herself.
“An inconvenience for the both of us,” he finishes drily, like he is remarking about the inconvenience of a particularly ill-timed thunderstorm.
To him, it might just be the same.
@Vendetta | "speaks" | notes: <3
