i feel small, but so are stars from a distance
T
he woman across the table was giggling.Giggling in that high-pitched, indulgent sort of way, the telltale sign that a first-timer was finding the Scarab exceedingly to her taste. Either for the gambling — though the five card spread in front of her disagreed; laid bare, anyone could see just how much gold she was going to lose next round — or, thought Aghavni, for the company. It was always one of the two.
A sapphire suit drifted silently up to the woman’s now-empty decanter of merlot, accepted the handful of coins she pressed into his palm — one coin too much, but who was the wiser? — and filled it up to the fluted neck. After corking the bottle, he turned to bow to her, tucked the coins into a black pouch secured around his leg, and stepped around the table.
Aghavni’s eyes followed him, curious. She hadn’t called for a drink.
And it wasn’t for her. “A refill, sir,” the server murmured as he tipped another bottle, amber-red this time, to the half-empty glass belonging to the bay besides her. She arched a brow, watching as the gold stream curved smoothly into the crystal glass. Was that...
Every crate of alcohol that came off the twice-weekly caravans passed under her nose for inspection. They had gotten that one in just last night — Denoctian brewed, aged to perfection, five crowns a bottle. They didn’t sell them by the glass, but by the bottle, which explained the server’s unsignaled visit.
How, then, had this boy, with his fading blood-smell and mercenary’s smile, spared such an extravagance?
Before the server could melt back into the milling swathe of silks and amorous laughter, Aghavni tugged lightly on his trailing sleeve. His grey eyes fixed on her, before a look of recognition bloomed across his face.
“I’ll have what he has.” She swept her eyes to the gold-streaked bay and smiled. “Charged to the Proprietor’s tab.” Father won’t mind. I’ll pay him back.
The glass was placed just to the left of her cards, a bead of bourbon sliding down the crystal like a drop of petrified amber. She raised it to her lips and sipped slowly, languidly. It washed down her throat like fire. She'd made her position clear to him. Nobleman's daughter, at the least. Director, if he knew more than he was letting on.
"Does it appeal you?"
She tilted her face towards him, intrigued. She pursed her lips as she spun his question around and around in her head, ignoring the attentive, raking gaze he swept over her, one that lingered too long, she thought, on the curve of her throat. She’d arranged her curls to cascade over half of her face, shadowing the nervous fluttering of her eyes from view. They were forever the part of her she could never fully control.
Finally, she settled for a simple, innocuous, “Yes.” It wasn’t a lie — she’d never seen a style like that sold at Denoctian market, nor carried by any of the patrons. And ever since childhood, she’d always fancied herself a collector of sorts. Did it matter how an item came to be in a collector's collection?
The dagger would look pretty atop her shelf.
“Have you? Then you are not Denoctian, I gather. It’s not a style commonly seen here.” She kept her voice light enough, though somewhere in the middle of her sentence she’d unconsciously brushed her hair back, and now her eyes stared much too keen, much too bright, into his.
Her heart thudded in her chest, as rapid as a hunted rabbit’s. She tried to tell herself that she was far from prey. She’d approached him for a reason and he didn’t know that, for one; and for another, she doubted he saw past her looks. Knowing all of that, and repeating it in her head like a chant, her heart still refused to settle. She was not Minya, nor — her heart jerked again — August. She wasn't like them; couldn't carve hearts out onto a platter, couldn't ply secrets with a promise of a kiss.
But it wasn't too late for her to learn.
The round ended with the triumph of her hand confirmed. Gold was dealt or swept away, new bets laid at the sacrificial altar. Aghavni merely pushed half of her winnings forward, her mind an ocean away from calculating odds. The giggling woman and her new acquaintance had sauntered away in the hubbub, waved politely aside by the thin-lipped dealer when their purses came up empty. She suspected that they hadn’t minded much. One moment longer and one would’ve devoured the other.
The antler dagger gleamed like a sunbaked bone in front of her. She’d won it, and its previous owner had barely spared a glance of remorse for his loss when she’d slid it smilingly over to her side. "I suppose it's yours now."
“I suppose it is,” she replied, before a peal of gasps ripped through the Floor like a tsunami. Someone had spilled half their wine all over their white cape. It looked like a bloodstain, and the cape was ripped off with a cry.
The real tragedy, however, was that the other half of that wine was, at present, soaking into the carpet.
The fool, Aghavni cursed, before dragging her eyes reluctantly from the offense. It wasn’t her business — servers had already descended upon the mess like a flock of sapphire vultures. Besides, it wasn’t a memorable night at the Scarab if an incident like that didn’t happen with clockwork regularity.
There was an hour left until closing. An hour to — to do what? Aghavni's glass sat half-empty besides her, and she dared not move too quickly lest her limbs betray their wobbliness. She was a terrible drinker, yet every time she couldn't help but test her hypothesis. Sighing, she rummaged through her mind, banishing the fog from it (to no avail), before she remembered.
She was investigating him, the boy with the pretty golden eyes.
She hadn’t called them — him — pretty before. Though, with only a cursory glance it was obvious he was. In a rugged, wolfish way, the gold streaking through his dark pelt as brilliant and regal as the livery of the king's guard. Different, so different, from the silk-slathered types she usually saw. And the way he looked at her... her skin suddenly tingled.
When she turned back, biting her tongue to fight the dizzying effects of the liquor, a gleam of gold on the table where there hadn't been anything before snagged her attention. It looked like a medallion. But of what?
Her eyes widened when she recognized it.
A sun sigil. That looks just like... she sucked in a breath. The sigil of the Solterran monarchy, burned into her left eye. Or — something similar? Sun symbolism was popular in far more places than Solterra, no matter how much the monarchs had tried to claim the sun as their heavenly dominion. She couldn’t be sure of its authenticity, and she hadn’t drunk enough bourbon yet to jump foolishly to conclusions.
But she’d drunk enough to do something else. Golden sigil shifted slowly into golden eyes. He was so tall, and she so far from his ear. The commotion hadn't died down, and speaking was like shouting into a cavern that screamed back. Irritation flooded through her, thick as syrup; it was also becoming a chore looking up at him. She was left with little choice.
Her telekinesis reached out and alighted like a sparrow upon his horn. She smiled when she felt her grip tighten, and, leaning towards him, gave a smart little tug to drag his head down. Just a little — he wouldn't mind, would he? Her lips blew softly into his ear as she looked down at the sigil. “Now where," she murmured, "did you get that?”
Her grip was gone as quickly as it came. And with their distance just shy of touching, the lighting just enough, the emerald edges of a sun arose as a pale phantom in Aghavni’s pupil.
@Erasmus | oooooh
