elif
A stiff breeze whips down the corridors of Solterra, scouring the pathways of sand and debris. It is an echo of Elif’s own mood, jittery and half-feral; if it weren’t for the girl beside her the pegasus might spread her wings, might ride that wind until she was wrung-out and slick with sweat.
As it is she glances back at O, her green eyes too wide and bright in her narrow face. Around them the bazaar bustles on as normal, but there is a tension like a coiled snake running through them all. Even the rugs flapping in the wind seemed only to urge them on into savage frenzy.
Seraphina has fallen, a murderer once again rules the desert kingdom, and anxious energy runs like molten gold through Elif’s veins.
It is a perfect time to purchase a weapon.
“How did you come by that, anyway?” she says, voice low, and indicates O’s hurlbat with a flick of her dark tail. Her gaze never leaves the crowd around them, each face reflecting her own tension and suspicion. Where was Solis now?
She pauses alongside a table of scimitars, each glint a promise and a warning. Their curves make her think of the sickle moon, cool silver; it spurs nothing in the begging of her blood. A row of slim whips catches her eye next, and she sidles over, red-shouldered wings tucking more tightly to her sides.
Before she can get a good look at them a walking shadow makes her lift her head, and Elif’s green eyes narrow like a desert cat’s as they fall upon Caine.
“It’s you,” she says, and her sharp voice manages to make it sound like an accusation - but then, Elif is a naturally suspicious creature, anyway, haughty and wary as a hawk.
Besides, there is some part of her (though of course she feels shameful for it) that leaps at any chance for a fight. The beat of the sun, the snarl of the wind, the covert stares among the crowd - today’s is the kind of tension that can only be lessened by a blood offering.
