Another misjudgment -- one of many, one too many -- proved deafening. When she thought her fangs were at the boy’s throat, he expertly dodged her venom. He’s a boy no longer, she thought. He could be called no one’s lesser now.
That did not mean he was innocent. All he had answered was that her words were woefully tactless, unable to get at his heart. There was someone else who had mastered that tactic, a lifetime ago, in a World that was whole and without danger. Now, she stood looming over a different threat.
Alcohol had never been to her liking. Acknowledging a loss of face was its own torture, and would prove a potent chaser. Still, there were expectations in this little game. Lifting the glass, she murmured irony --
“To your health.”
The liquid slid fiery down her throat, vision swimming unseen. The prophet had taste, at least, though her body was loath to thank him for his choices.
“Do I keep going, or is it your turn?” // @holdonescards, cont.