Arrow Lake one breath, it'll just break

“You lay with the devil,” she clarified for him—a tactician she was not. But she was a woman who held her friends close to her as fiercely as one would family—for they were the only family she ever had. And in this matter—the tears of Tamar and the heart-wrenching sobs that had seemingly torn at the woman’s throat—that alone could only bring about a wave of protectiveness from the silver arrow.

She would have argued Reyson was not ready for it—had never been ready for it. Had begun to fray in the realm of Akashingo—

—or had it been her, that acted as the catalyst, when the Pharaoh had demanded time alone with her?

He insisted her incompetence at delving into the land—she did not argue it, could not argue it—never had she been prepared for what had emerged from what had been such a simple decision at the time: to spend some time with Reyson. What stirred an arch of her brow was the demand of his tone now—an order to her—a wolf of Epoch—

—she was not his. He had ensured that.

“You lay with the devil,” she reiterated to him, eyes locked upon him, “and then demand of me to tell you the intricate details of my visit?” The Pharaoh had used her for information—she had given it freely and naively. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that I am not a pawn in your strategies.”