Luneshale Pass Fingers Tearing Through the Ground

Machiavelli held his ground as Legend’s cries tore through the air, a cascade of anger and wounded disbelief breaking like the tide against the cool mask he wore like a shield. Beneath the calm, however, a hollow ache stretched, a brittle crack widening in places he had hoped to keep whole. But he was practiced, so practiced at sealing those cracks before they could ever show.

Legend, he started, voice low, steady, meant to calm but sharpened with a note of unmistakable hurt. I know better than to take you for a fool. You're brilliant, incredibly so.

Her wild gaze seared into him, the Jackdaw's once-familiar eyes looking upon him as though he were a stranger, something horrifying. Machiavelli forced himself not to recoil, though the sight of her retreating from him gnawed at his insides, leaving the remnants raw and exposed. He remained seated, quiet, while her tongue lashed whip-like against his skin, biting deeper than he let on.

Do you truly believe I would make up such a tale? You believe me capable of cruelty so callous? His opalescent eyes softened, their pale depths catching the moonlight, reaching for some glimmer of understanding through the furious haze clouding her face. Tell me, then—why would I desire to avoid you? To harm you?

He exhaled softly, his gaze drifting downward as he chose his words with care, as though speaking to a wounded animal—one that might spook if he spoke too suddenly, each one carrying the weight of what he could not otherwise express. If you think me a liar, he continued, his voice hardening, then by all means, hold to that notion. His paw dragged across the tip of his tail where it curled at his feet, the faintest tremor betraying the strain in his voice. I was under the mistaken impression that we understood one another. That perhaps… our time together was something of value.

But I see now that that was the lie, he murmured, an edge of bitterness sharpening his tone. This is what you truly think of me. Very well, then.

He shook his head with a faint scoff, the sound barely louder than a breath. Turning from her, he straightened, standing tall, his frame casting a long shadow across the scintillating ground. I am going home, Legend, he stated, each syllable clipped and cool, but beneath the smoothness of his tone was an agony that he could not entirely mask. His tongue slipped over the pinprick scars haloing his pale muzzle. I suggest you ask Lady Eset why you were not informed.