who: @domericstone when and where: the witching hour within the queen's tower within the royal apartments of the falcon queen, a snake slithers from its bed - and it is time to cut off its head.
ravella lay sprawled against the silk-draped mattress, her body still flushed from exertion, but her mind had already moved on. the candlelight flickered against the high stone walls of her chambers, casting shifting shadows that curled and stretched like spectres. the air was thick, heavy with the scent of sweat, of spent desire, of something else she could not quite name—something cloying, something sick. outside, the wind howled against the tower, rattling the glass panes with a ferocity that mirrored the storm brewing in her chest.
her gaze drifted upwards, unfocused, fixed on the dark canopy above her bed. her limbs ached, the dull remnants of hands that had held too tight, teeth that had grazed too deep. but the pain did not bother her. she had never been delicate; and when orbs of ice glanced over to the outline of his back, the knowledge of having broken skin was more of a rush than his touch ever was. ravella did not look at him immediately. she did not need to. she could feel him there, just as she always had—watching, waiting. his presence was a weight against her ribs, a pressure that had once been exhilarating but now felt suffocating.
for so long, she had found use in his silence, in his cold detachment, in the way he existed only in the space she allowed him to. but now, it grated against her skin like a dull knife. slowly, she turned her head, her eyes dragging over him in the dim light. he was as unreadable as ever, his face smooth, expressionless. no lingering hunger, no satisfaction, no curiosity. just patience. always patience. as if he had expected this moment.
her lip curled, the beginnings of a sneer forming before she swallowed it back. she would not give him that. “this is done.” her voice did not waver. the words fell into the space between them like stones into a deep, dark well. no flourish, no cruelty, no hesitation. the finality of it did not feel as heavy as she had thought it would. ravella pushed herself upright, letting the sheets slip from her bare shoulders. her dark hair tumbled forward, tangled from where his hands had twisted into it, but she made no move to smooth it. the cool air of the chamber ghosted over her skin, sending a slow shiver down her spine, but she ignored it.
"it was inevitable," she uttered, and she did not turn her head. she did not offer him the courtesy of meeting his gaze again. inevitable. because she had always known she would grow tired of him. because she had never needed him, not really. because she was not a girl playing games in the dark anymore. because she needed a son. a true heir. a body that could not be questioned, a name that could not be whispered about in doubt. not his. “you will continue as hand.” her voice was even, measured, as though they were discussing matters of coin rather than the end of whatever this had been. she tilted her head slightly, considering. "you are good at what you do. that is all you will do."
outside, the wind shrieked through the towers, a keening, furious wail. inside, domeric said nothing. ravella let the silence stretch, let it settle into the space between them like a final, unspoken truth. she could feel his gaze on her, unblinking, cold, calculating. but he did not move. he did not protest. he never would. he knew better than to ever do such a thing.