It is nothing harder than taking a breathe to realize that the girl with the sea-eyes is nothing more than another fledgling in a nest too afraid to fly. She wonders if she'll ever learn, or if it's only a life of doe-eyes and satin for her.
Amaunet is made for another world.
She is another world.
Laughter meets the other girl's words, laughter both cruel and warm. “How disappointing you are sea-creature. Poetry that you keep locked away does not belong to you in any way that matters. Perhaps someday you'll be dangerous enough to realize it.” Amaunet does not look at the girl again.
Not even when her breathing and her words turn to breathy, almost-hungry stutters does Amaunet bother again with her.
Her golden gaze looks only at the boys and their black expressions. She can see the hunger in their eyes, earthy and feral and dirty enough that she wants to become the flood. And where the sea-girl retreats she steps forward with that cold laughter still on her lips like the aftertaste of fermented fruit. The other girl has already dissolved into the crowd by the time she snaps her wings out in a challenge the stallions are too-drunk to read.
And when she steps towards them, driving them back into the darkness, there soon is more than cruel laughter and challenge lingering on her tongue.
There is blood.
There is poetry.
Hers.
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