Chelle follows each step of the monarchs’ violent dance from where she lays, captures the strained notes of their speech with tawny ears that emerge warily from the red sea of her mane. And yet— for all that their scufflings might serve to determine her fate, she cannot muster the will to care whether it is the wolf or the shadow-cat who claims her. The amber tobiano has chosen to take the only true freedom that remains to her: the freedom to do nothing at all. To endure as a stone in the face of this storm— letting the wind of their words and the rain of their blows roll off her back like they are nothing at all. Let them peck at one another like ravens squabbling over carrion. Rougaru will win no pleasure from the prize of her bones, and Faolain will learn to her regret why one does not snatch meat from a wolf’s jaws.

But how it hurt, to see her worth reduced to the warmth and willingness of her flesh.

The tempest moves on as quickly as it is born. One last whisper of wind (I’m sorry), the rumbling thunder of Rouaru’s hooves pursuing the dark woman into the jungle— and then, silence. Exhaling the contents of her lungs in a shuddering sigh, Chelle contemplates the ripples her breath has formed in the sand and feels a wistful ache at the sight. It looks like the Desert. Like home. And though she knows that she should move— that any peace on this beach will be short-lived, now that Rougaru knows she is here— overcoming the weight of her despair is not easily done. Before she has rallied the strength to so much as lift her freckled face, the Wolf prowls back out from the jungle, dipping his head so close to hers that she can smell the staleness of his breath when he speaks.

Do you always throw tantrums like this? The cinnamon girl’s anger ignites as quickly as if King’s words are a flaming brand thrust into the kindling of her resentment— the fierce burn of it tempered by an unexpected instant of gratitude. As content as she might be to drive one of her hooves into that smirking face, Rougaru's arrogant nettling has succeeded in one thing. It has made her feel alive again— even if it isn't in the way that she might have chosen. Tucking her ears tightly against her neck and wrinkling her dark lips back to expose her teeth, Chelle answers in a voice that shakes with fury. “You discarded civility when you tore me from Cain’s side. To hell with your false courtesies, and call me whatever you will. It makes no difference to me.”

Those words are not enough, though— not nearly enough. Surging upright amidst the smoldering ruins of her self-control, the slender mare takes a single step toward her captor. She might be more gazelle than wolf or shadowcat, but even a beast of prey could be dangerous when cornered. “And spare me your lectures about tantrums when you are half a child yourself. Taking something that lives and breathes doesn’t make it yours. Nor will I ever be.” She clips her teeth together to punctuate this last sentence, a strand of her forelock tumbling across one jade eye. And in this moment more than any other, Chelle understands the violence that has long driven the men of her family. She wants to hurt Rougaru for the pain that she has suffered. To erase his existence to simplify her own.

But she cannot— will not— let herself become Judas. And so she runs from her anger instead, turning in a swirl of red hair and golden fur to race down the beach until her breath abandons her.