Redsand Canyon but the room is so quiet

Potential interested Finley as much as an escaped hunt; you either had what mattered or you didn’t, end of story. Teeth were useless without cause.

Of course she hadn’t entertained the possibility of takeover; Finley was not an ambitious soul, bred and born and molded under the banner of useful muscle—nothing more. To live and die for a worthwhile commander was the pinnacle of existence; such grand purpose strangled individual ambition and gobbled the bones. If a subordinate’s goals aligned with the leader’s, all the better, but such idealism came secondary.

And yet. The ego of Finley Grebe had, if nothing else, a staunch refusal to bow for the frolic of hormone-driven fools. So away it led her, with a mindless conviction the pledged “Grandmaster” had scarcely offered since the move to the mountains. It was impulsive, foolish, flaring a target on her own neck; it made more sense than anything had in far too long.

So what did Renard see in it all?

“Boredom.”

Ah.

It should have been evident from the beginning: by his own admission he’d “missed most of the fun.” The truth had stared her in the headlights; she’d been too busy wiping at a speck on the window. Renard didn’t care, had never cared, for the future of the Saints, no more than Finley did now. The smiles, the talk of mutiny, the watching, always watching, all rooted in a smug satisfaction the burning building wouldn’t explode in his face and take him down with it.

Sounded awfully familiar there, darling.

You’re smarter than this. The words tugged at the curl of Finley’s lip, but it wasn’t as though Renard didn’t know. The hybrid didn’t care. So much for expectations. Smarts, then, were also useless without proper application.

Trees thinned as the mountain sloped ever higher, marking the end of the Saints’ land. Renard had stopped following and Finley had little time to waste on dramatic delays. Any frustrations that the encounter threatened to dredge had been vanquished in the dance of the rain, flowing back downstream to a newfound object of her projections. Of course what Finely was doing made sense. Death and catastrophe were life’s unfortunate byproducts; when one saw them as stagehands, something had gone horrifically wrong.

At least Renard was honest. For that alone Finley could offer her best excuse for an encore.

“Enjoy your mirage.” Whatever distaste festered had been supplanted by her typical monotone. Thank you for your time, good fellow; now she must be on her way, as should you if you’ve a brain left. Whether or not Renard heard, Finley did not care—but, just as unintentionally as her earlier snarl, she’d raised her voice. The words were sardonic; the sentiment drying her tone, less so.

Finley offered nothing else. The Saints weren’t her concern anymore.