Sawtooth Spire i do not love the bright sword for its sharpness

the boy bobs his head in what praimfaya assumes to be excitement at her question; a yes, as she takes it to mean. of course, there was nothing that said that he had to be a warrior; she only asks because of his apparent interest in her strength. she makes the connection only because she's never wanted to be anything else: a warrior, a commander. they were things found in the very stardust of her bones; wholly apart of her. praimfaya regards him with a soft smile when he asks if he, too, can have kill marks like her's.

it is a future that she has no right to shape for him; a culture that she has no right to impose. her frostbound gaze shifts from him to what she can see of her shoulder before it rests back upon the eager boy once more. though her kill marks are badges of great pride for her, they are also a solemn and grounding reminder of the lives she had to take to become heda.

perhaps, praimfaya replies enigmatically. but they are not easily earned. she warns gravelly, having no intention of telling the truth of how she got them.