Bonesplinter Ravine [M] Be the First to the Feast, Let's Choke on the Past

Machiavelli didn’t flinch when Herod’s hand clapped down on his shoulder, though the touch made his muscles coil, tight as a wound spring. The smile he forced onto his lips felt brittle, thin, as though it might crack under the strain. To dinner, then, he rasped, throat dry. He swallowed hard, trying to smooth out the edges. Dine, not serve. How kind.

Herod’s command lingered in the air, silent but clear as though it had been spoken aloud. Follow. And so Machiavelli did, his dove-white paws crunching softly over the carpet of dried leaves and twigs beneath them. The forest whispered around him, the sounds of twilight filling the spaces between their footsteps. Shadows stretched long and low across the path, the last remnants of daylight painting the sky in dusky hues of violet and amber. The scent of pine mingled with the earth, but none of it touched Machiavelli’s senses as it should have.

His mind was elsewhere, tangled in the past, tied to the man walking just a few steps ahead. He’d learned long ago how to pretend, how to mask his thoughts behind a smile, how to bide his time. He was good at that, wasn’t he? He’d been playing this game his entire life, and for now, that was the role he would continue to play.

Just long enough.

Long enough for Herod to drop his guard. Long enough to gather his strength. Long enough to escape. He let that thought simmer in the back of his mind, warming him like a flame. He could endure this, endure him, for a little while longer. After all, Herod had provided a convenient opportunity, hadn’t he? A chance to heal, to eat, in relative safety—two luxuries Machiavelli could not afford to ignore. Let Herod think he had won, think he had reclaimed his lost Prophet. Machiavelli would play his part, wear the mask. For now.

His mind drifted briefly to Eira. They had been close once, and he found himself wondering if she could be convinced to leave with him when the time came—to break free of the web they both were caught in. She was sharp—she must have noticed the cracks in whatever lies Herod had spun.

But that was for later. Right now, he needed to focus on surviving the present. He would smile when Herod smiled, nod when Herod spoke, and eat the meal set before him like a good guest. He would regain his strength, piece by piece, until he could escape.

The Prophet had returned to Godsmouth.