The morning sunlight filtered through the cracked windows of the dining hall. Golden beams danced across dust motes and old silverware. The table was long enough to seat twenty, but only two people sat at it. Opposite ends. Like rulers of rival kingdoms.
Alara stirred her tea with the tip of a dagger. Her eyes never left Kieran.
"You know,ˮ she said, "you could at least pretend to eat. I went through the trouble of not poisoning it.ˮ
"Iʼm touched,ˮ he replied, dryly.
The tension between them was constant, humming beneath every glance, every word. A string pulled too tight, waiting to snap.
"Why didnʼt you kill the boy with the red ribbon?ˮ Kieran asked suddenly.
Alara blinked.
He leaned forward. "You spared him. I read the report. His older brother didnʼt survive. But the boy—he ran.ˮ
She set down her cup. "He looked like my brother.ˮ Silence fell.
"I couldnʼt do it,ˮ she said. "I saw his face, and for one moment, I wasnʼt a killer. I was a sister again.ˮ
"Thatʼs what they donʼt understand about you,ˮ Kieran said. "Youʼre not just a weapon. Youʼre still human.ˮ
She stood up abruptly, chair screeching against the floor. "Donʼt romanticize me,
Kieran. Donʼt paint me with your guilt.ˮ
"Iʼm not.ˮ
She walked to him, blade in hand.
"Youʼre afraid of what Iʼll do.ˮ
"Iʼm afraid of what I wonʼt stop you from doing.ˮ She paused.
Then sat beside him.
"I hate you,ˮ she whispered.
"I know.ˮ
And still, they stayed there. Together.