[AW] And like the cat I have nine times to die;

[Marisol]

with sword
and salt

Marisol thinks of them like rats.

Rats are scavengers. They have a keen sense of smell, and hundreds of generations worth of practice squeezing in places they’re not supposed to be. On top of that they have an inbred penchant for sifting through what’s valuable and what’s not—there’s a reason bakery walls need more strongholds than those of a florist.

Prudence is valuable. Beyond valuable. And the Commander’s disgust alone is not nearly enough to drive away the rats that come slinking into Terrastella with its name on their lips. Droves of them, and not all strangers. (She thinks of Senna and her lip curls a little.) Every day more of them come in, from all corners of Novus, and every day Mari’s teeth are set a little more on edge by the knowledge that she and her cadets are not the only ones on the hunt.

But it won’t matter. As long as the Halcyon find it first.

A small group of them are patrolling Susurro. It’s beautiful today, especially beautiful under the warm glint of the sun and the slow spring breeze that ruffles the sea of grass. Butterflies flap their lace wings overhead. Marisol wishes she could relax, wishes she could soak it in, but now is not the time (is it ever?). All the cadet’s noses are to the ground, their ears swiveling, eyes watchful: she counts herself among them, stalking in circles around torn-up graves, scattered headstones and stacks of clues and maps. 

Everyone is on high alert, which is why she notices the stranger so instantaneously.

The girl is still yards away when Mari hears her. She snaps her head over her shoulder and turns—the cadet’s eyes flicker up to watch the disruption, but she dismisses them from participating with a nod and steps forward, alone, to greet her. Scrawny and smelling of sand. The Commander’s gaze is somewhere between cold and enticing. Rat.

By her Hand, she says instead, with the mildness of a criminal or a politician. Do you need something?

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