BEXLEY BRIAR
In the low light, a hundred wild things: shifting sand and tumbleweeds, the hard fingers of saguaro, shards of silver glitter on the water, all moving incessantly, all uncontained. And within this, Bexley’s body, drowning in braids, in bolts of silk cloth, in a gilded shine that follows her even now, as the sun is only beginning to rise. At her feet the corpses of so many unlit torches, clumps of desert flowers bound with twine.
Maxence has asked her to host a feast, and so she will. Far bigger and more luxurious than those of Dawn or Night, something that will be spoken of for years to come, a gauge against which to measure all other celebrations. Excitement glimmers under her skin. She’s asked Eden to help her, and all the other commoners, and can only hope they’ll show up - but regardless, the day is young, and Bexley is ambitious, unafraid, more powerful than she looks. Suppressing her shiver at the touch of a cold autumn wind, Bex picks up her first torch and sends it deep into the sand, letting out a violent exhale.
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