[ P ] Ophelia lives

The door softly clicked shut.
And yet Nassar could not take her eyes off of it.

Rotting wood and rusted hinges concealed her mother's pale, sun-kissed fur and luxurious gait. Her fur smelled faintly of candle smoke as if she had recently roused herself from an evening of idle reading. As though this were an evening of casual affairs, not the night upon which she informed her daughter of an impending marriage. One that Nassar did not agree to, nor know about, prior to entering this crumbling cathedral.

Stained glass cast a rainbow down on the pair that had been informed of the red string tied around their paws.

Nassar felt his presence but dared not look to her right, for she knew what she would see. Auburn and coal and cream, eyes like gems that glittered as though a pool of witch's brew. Kvothe.

Her throat felt dry. Her tongue felt heavy. Each breath was sharp and each inhale slow as she tried to stop herself from battering her body against the dilapidated door. Inside, her heart pounded within her chest and blood roared within her ears. And her stomach wrenched as a splitting pain shot through her body.

This pain was an echo of her loss, the phantom of her vows that she had uttered to Kohl two years prior. It was raw and inflamed and this marriage was salt in the wound.

"...Matricide is still illegal, I imagine?" Nassar questioned stiffly, internally bracing herself to hear Kvothe's voice.

It was rare that his father summoned him to the Castle proper. Kvothe had frowned when he'd received the missive, but like a dutiful son, a good soldier, he had diverted his plans to comply with Orestes' wishes. The man was old, and infirm, but his name and the reputation of his noble line still carried the weight of command - and one did not spurn so decorated an arm of the crown.

Kvothe had certainly not been expecting his father to blithely inform him of his own impending nupitals. The monochrome male, all steel and smoke and iron glory, had delivered the news with the weight of finality, the contract already signed, the plans already laid. Orestes had been trying to convince Kvothe to marry for years, even if only to carry on the Immortalis name. 'I did not legitimize a bastard only for him to squander our legacy,' the noble had spat. But Kvothe had thrown himself further into service instead, counting on his military record to offset his father's ambitions. It had been a stopgap, at best - but it would work no longer.

Orestes' gaze was steely, a cold spark of devious triumph held aloft in his blindly questing gaze. Kvothe had managed to growl out an acceptance, coldly inquiring as to which family his father had managed to beg, steal, or barter a bride from. His rank in the military aside, his impure blood had always tainted his interaction with the nobility; he was expecting some minor baron's third daughter, some poor soul whose parents were willing to settle for what little tie to royalty a union with Kvothe might offer.

Instead of telling him outright, however, Orestes had summoned a servant to escort him to the girl directly. The Colonel had stalked out of the square both fuming and, somehow, defeated, his agency captured and curtailed, shoved into a neat little box in keeping with his father's wishes. But as the servant led him further into the palace, confusion replaced his ire. And Kvothe froze, blinking, when he was ushered into the Tiamat's antechamber. The servant left him, and Kvothe automatically moved forward to make polite noises, trading empty greetings tinged with confusion, his gaze repeatedly drawn back to and lingering on Nassar as if the virtue of their long acquaintance might provide him with an explanation. But the answer, when it came, was not from Nassar - it was from Ankh.

His wife-to-be was not some nameless, faceless girl, no second-rate noble, no courtly leach. No - his wife was to be Nassar. Nassar, wife of the late Kohl, who had been his friend. Nassar, whom he had not spoken to in months, for the sake of the shared grief that lay too strong between them, for the distance that painful association had spurned. Nassar, who stood staring after her mother, the door closing quietly on the news. Kvothe was silent, emotions closeted, unsure of what to feel. There were layers to this, political connotations that likely reached far beyond their own personal history...but he was still in shock, his thoughts jumbled and disorganized. It was not a feeling he was particularly used to.

The bold Tiamat spoke first. '...Matricide is still illegal, I imagine?"

He almost laughed - and would have, were it not for the churning, dark sensation in his gut."Lamentably," he noted, courtly tones set into a wry drawl. "As much as patricide - more's the pity." He steeled himself to take a step towards her, though his attention, like hers, lingered upon the door that Ankh had vanished beyond. "I was not party to this decision, my Lady." It was important that he tell her that, for whatever reason. He was just as much a victim as she - though that hardly improved their circumstance, one way or another.

©

Kvothe's arrival had been marked by the scurry of paws and the churning of gossip. The servants under Ankh's employ had whispered and giggled as they passed through the corridors of the family home, commenting on his striking beauty and decorated military tenure. Nassar, having arrived alongside her mother, had regarded him with a mix of emotions. Pain, for he brought forth memories of Kohl, but comfort as well for this trauma was shared. Although they had not spoken since the funeral, Kvothe's very existence had offered her some respite from her sorrows.

She had lost a husband and he had lost a dear friend. Hardly identical pains yet similar enough for her to recognize the heaviness in his steps and see it reflected in her own.

And so she had thought that this visit was one of friendship, to provide her stability in the wake of her mother's company. Kohl had always been her rock during these journeys and Kvothe was no doubt privy to her complaints. It had not been a secret within their small circle that Ankh had grown to dislike her daughter after Nassar's early union with Kohl.

Was it not ironic, then, that Ankh saddled her with another improvised wedding?

Nassar felt her blood boil, her cheeks hot and red as if Ankh had physically slapped her.

This was the calculated revenge. The aha moment that Ankh had waited three long years to have.

"I was not party to this decision, my lady."

Nassar's ears twitched and she was brought back to the present. Her mother was no longer there, in fact, her footsteps had receded from earshot.

Flinching somewhat, Nassar glanced at Kvothe -- and this time she truly met his gaze. Blue and purple eyes stared back, his gaze like a witch's brew. Sincerity melded with the beautiful cool colors and Nassar felt her throat close up. The muscles in her jaw jumped and she fought to hold the reigns of her feelings. This rage... it was not directed at Kvothe. She believed him, and yet he was the closest living being. He would serve as a fine punching bag -- but he did not deserve it.

Forcing out a breath, Nassar nodded stiffly. "The Matriarch informed me that it was a strategic choice made behind closed doors." Amber eyes drifted to the rotting wood of the closed door. It was a wonder it still clung to its rusted hinges. "And once again I am reminded that I am merely my mother's puppet." Her brow furrowed and her lip curled.

"What do you think of this?" When she stared at him, the word husband did not come to mind. Only another victim of shared trauma, for fate found it fun to tie their ankles to the same anchor before dropping it into the ocean.

Their past lay heavy between them, laden in the breaths between the silence. Kvothe had been friends with Kohl, first. Equal in the army, they had been comrades in arms, equal in esteem. Their friendship had been fast and fierce and fraternal - and had waned only when Kohl's attention had been captivated by Nassar. Kvothe had not resented the woman for stealing his friend away; indeed, Kvothe had been happy for Kohl, watching the unconventional direction of their bonfire courtship with patented bemusement. When the couple's whirlwind rivalry had blossomed into the full flower of romance, Kvothe had expanded his regard to include Nassar, and for a time, the three of them had been nigh inseparable. It had been Kohl that held them all together, the string that bound their fates to the same path. And when that string was severed, the frayed edges drifted apart.

And now, they were to be married. Like pawns on a chessboard, their parents played a game to which their lives were only a part. Kvothe was no stranger to the rules, loathe as he was to admit himself as a token to be manipulated at will. He knew the music, had memorized the steps of the dance - but that would not mean he ever actively enjoyed the masque.

He met Nassar's gaze squarely, sympathy - empathy - swimming within bi-colored depths. It was anger that stared back at him, the fires of rage barely banked. The undercurrents of the Matriarch's revenge whispered at the corners of their conversation. 'The Matriarch informed me that it was a strategic choice made behind closed doors. And once again I am reminded that I am merely my mother's puppet.' The words were foreboding, but Kvothe acknowledged the truth contained therein. A growl underscored his reply, though it was swiftly curtailed. "We are all puppets. To our parents, to our legacy, to the crown. The only distinction lies in who is holding the strings - and when we feel the keenest pull," he mused. His initial confusion was slowly beginning to wane, and now his ruthlessly pragmatic mind was taking root.

Rebellion was a possibility, but it would suit them ill. They risked their family's reputation by railing against their parents' decree. Kvothe had worked for too long, too hard, to throw it away now - and Nassar... Her fire might run hot and fierce, but her blood ran Tiamat red. He and she would hardly be the first couple to join at the behest of their elder kin, and society would doubtless greet their union with keen and eager anticipation.

He sighed, folding his legs and sitting on the cold stone ground. It was a break in propriety, but he felt like the circumstances warranted the lapse. 'What do you think of this?' Nassar queried at last, staring at him as if his answer could actually mean something. Kvothe blinked, his brow furrowed. "Truly, my lady? I had feared my father had set me up with some gormless child. That he'd finally managed to coax another downtrodden line out of a sacrificial lamb - or that he'd folded to the pressure of an eager vulture picking at the bones of the Immortalis' name," he offered wryly. "You are neither, and none of those. I am thankful for that, though I grieve for the circumstances of our reacquaintance."

Formality had ever been his sword and shield. Structure and duty had been his guiding light for so long, it was now wrapped intrinsically in his being. But he was no less sincere for the flowery cadence of his speech. His chin dipped, and he nodded towards the proud Tiamat scion. "If I must needs be married, I would rather it be to a woman I respect - and if we must needs dance to our family's tune, then I can picture no more worthy partner." A pause, and then he closed his eyes. "But for what it is worth, I am sorry."

©

"We are all puppets," Kvothe answered and Nassar bit her lip to stop herself from snapping. Air rushed noisily through her nose as she turned her head away, fiery gaze training on the rotting banisters above. Within, her temper had turned feral. Its cage had broken open and now its chains -- the last vestige of domestication -- were rusted and weak. Enough tugs and it would break free, leaving only havoc and self-destruction in its wake. "Must you be this way?" Nassar asked, voice hot with the anger she failed to conceal. "Objective. Distant. Philosophical." The adjectives rattled off of her tongue, each one with a lashing, and yet it was nothing Kvothe would not have heard before. When they had been younger, he had always brought a pragmatic mind to their problems. Meanwhile, Nassar had been more prone to focus on the deeply tangible and the immediate woes.

Where Kvothe was cerebral, Nassar was a bonfire blaze.

But he did not lack in honesty, be it brutal or tame. Where Kohl was a stone wall that would conceal a blade if it would cut, Kvothe would hold it as a surgeon would a scalpel. And he would make the incision, pressing it in as deeply and dispassionately as the knife demanded.

Of Kvothe's choices -- of the girls that Nassar had seen at noble engagements and fanciful festivals -- Nassar was the best bride he had available. "Used goods" due to her past marriage, yes, but respectable still. A high ranking military official, a member of an old and untarnished line, a woman still of breeding age that had proven her ability to whelp strong and capable pups.

And with the boxes rightfully checked, he would not rebel. A sensible choice.

"So you will do as they say?" Nassar pressed, the fur along her nape bristling. Rebellion was far more familiar to Nassar than obedience -- something that had been difficult to contend with in the army. She had made as many enemies as she had made friends, and for that her popularity was a fickle thing. "You wish not to rebel because--" and here she paused, groping for words. "--Because your friend's widow is the best option? His body is not yet cool within his grave and you offer mere apologies?"

Sparks flew and though she knew that there was no recourse save for elopement, she dug into the hurt and pain because it brought a selfish form of catharsis. "Shall you just bed me right here and now? Call it consummated, call your father and let him know to save on the wedding itself?" Ears flicked back and a deep furrow formed in her brow. "That would be practical after all."

His words seemed only to fan the flames of Nassar's mounting rage. Though he'd intended the sentiments as supportive reassurance, his speech may as well have been mere kindling. Nassar's eyes flashed, sunshine caught in the guise of an infernal tempest. 'Must you be this way? Objective. Distant. Philosophical.' She spat the words as if each one was an insult. And to Nassar, proud daughter of Ankh, they might as well have been. The members of the Tiamat clan were not known for their biddable natures - their bloodline threw many more warriors than scholars, and far more politicians than peacekeepers. Once, Kvothe's ability to maintain a courteous, dispassionate mien had helped to smooth the burrs and barbs inherent of Nassar and Kohl's initial courtship. But without the latter's balancing influence, fire and ice must now needs meet directly.

But the traits Nassar scorned were ones Kvothe had carefully cultivated. After all, a bastard could not afford to wallow in emotion. A bastard could not justify his existence, his worth, with mere feeling. Nassar, Kohl...they had the luxury of rebellion, of passion, because they both had the whole and unquestioning strength of their heritage behind them. But Kvothe...The legitimacy he'd wrenched from the heart of Orestes' desperation could not be so easily revoked now that his name had been announced to the court, but Kvothe had never forgotten that he'd been forced to earn it in the first place. His entire life had been a series of tests - and even now, as the last acknowledged scion of House Immortalis....even now, he stood on uncertain ground. The kingdom looked for any excuse to judge him, and his father looked more closely than most. The lower echelons of society might see his rank and hail him as a hero, but the peerage did not so easily forgive or forget the tainted circumstances of his birth.

He sighed. "What else would you have of me, Nassar?" he asked. His control was the armor and shield that protected him from the world's disparity. He did not - would not - lightly cast it aside. But she answered his distant objectivity with raised hackles and a poisoned dagger. 'So you will do as they say? You wish not to rebel because...because your friend's widow is the best option? His body is not yet cool within the grave and you offer mere apologies?' Her words were a blunt blade, lancing through his chest to crush the heart that beat within. He knew her well enough to recognize that she struck out in pain and frustration more than any true resentment of him specifically - but that did not mean her words did not effect him.

She continued to taunt him, insulting him now, twisting the knife even deeper. Kvothe's gaze grew distant as he worked to withdraw, as he strove not to meet her anger with his own mounting ire. But his nostrils flared, and his ears twitched back, the porcelain mask cracking beneath the strain. He took a deep breath, trying to maintain the decorum expected of his rank - and the structure enforced by his tenuous bloodright. "You know very well that I will do no such thing," he answered, each word carefully enunciated, his tone as cool as mirrored ice. "If I do not rebel, it is because the prospect of a marriage to you is not as distasteful as the alternative. I will forgo love for the promise of trust and respect - and for all our differences, I should like to think we at least merit the latter. Believe whatever you will, but I am not my father, and you are not a broodmare. Not to me. I will not touch you if you do not will it so." He paused, allowing the admission to settle heavily in the air.

He met her gaze for a moment longer - before he glanced aside. He was resigned, if not wholly defeated. He wore sorrow the same way that Nassar wore anger. Like a cloak, rich but well-loved, molded to the hollows of their innermost truths. "Nevermind. You -" He stopped, forced to contend with his emotions once again. He did not want to blame her for anything. He understood her frustration, because he shared it. Even worse, he could not fault her for her instinctive rejection. No woman of any standing should ever have to settle for a bastard. No matter his rank, no matter his deeds, blood would always out. And even were that not the case, the specter of Kohl lingered far too tangibly between them. However their marriage had ended, she had loved him once. She had known passion, had fought for a familial future. Was it any wonder that she was not willing to settle for a second-rate substitute?

Orestes had been a fool to think that this union might work. And Ankh...she had been a fool to underestimate the degree of her daughter's independence. Most of all, Kvothe had been a fool to hope - even for an instant - that fate might have dealt him a kinder hand.

He squared his shoulders, nodding to himself. He had already halfway turned away from her. "I will return to Orestes and try to convince him to annul the contract." It was a sincere promise, for all he knew it was a fool's errand. Even if his father agreed to dissolve the agreement, it would only be to force him into a worse alternative. Assuming it was even possible, it would be a hard blow to the last shreds of the Immortalis' dignity. But whatever else might happen, he would not force Nassar to marry him. He would not even try. Not because she was not worth it - but because the blade she used against him was one that he wielded with practiced familiarity. And if one of them was to be hurt, he would rather it be his blood alone that stained the cobblestones.

©

Although he did not speak it aloud, Nassar was naïve to her own privilege. She was blind to the fact that she was Ankh's chosen successor, the spark of flame that had brought a warm smile and a laugh to the matriarch's lips. It was this pedestal that had made Nassar's fall from grace so painful and she still carried the bruises. Her heart was tender, especially when probed by Ankh's pink eyes and knife-like smile -- and perhaps that was why she nursed her pain first without pausing to think of Kvothe's. His situation was a passing detail, one easily waved away because she did not need to live his truth. Wherever she went, she was still Nassar Tiamat. With or without Ankh's ire, she was the chosen successor. In fact, it was this warped favoritism that made her mother so bitterly overbearing. The future queen could not fail nor falter. Their gold could not be tarnished by tears or toppled regimes.

"What else would you have of me, Nassar?"
"More compassion," she spat almost instantly before digging in her heels and embarking upon a tirade with more vehemence than was deserved.

And even as she gouged at his honor, a stray insecurity resurfaced. It was a weak, awful little voice that Nassar had tried to eviscerate time and time again. Yet it always returned, whispering that perhaps Kvothe would soon understand why Kohl had struggled to love her. It caused her to falter for a moment, stunned by her own accusations.

His measured response did nothing to soothe her guilt. If he had yelled in turn, she could have waved away her attitude on some poor decorum on his part. Instead, it was obvious who the brute was in this conversation.

Rather than knock her ears off of her head, he offered icy compliments. They served their purpose and she stared at the ground, finding comfort in the marble rather than her friend's frosty gaze.

"Believe whatever you will, but I am not my father, and you are not a broodmare. Not to me. I will not touch you if you do not will it so."

Nassar closed her eyes and sucked in a steadying breath. When she released it, it was shakier than she would have liked.

"Nevermind. You -" Kvothe began before his voice cut short. She looked up to try and catch some scrap of feeling but the gates had closed shut far too quickly.

"...Forgive me, Kvothe," Nassar said at last, and it was the closest thing to an apology that she could muster in this moment. "I..." Was lost for words, truly. In her mind, this was the greatest betrayal to Kohl that she could possibly perform, and so to accept it without protest was to abuse his memory. And yet, for those still living, it was not without merit.

She had planned to live as a widow, but if her mother would not allow it, was it not better that she married a friend? A man she knew and trusted rather than a stranger? For how long could she fight against her mother's will before she gave up or ruined what chances Cairo had to ascend to their family's throne?

And what of Kvothe?

Vicious as she had been, his words had just started to sink in. When she looked at him now, she saw the tired lines of exhaustion amidst the iron sense of duty. Handsome as he was, his options were few. A widow from a fine family could be tossed with a bastard and the romance sold as a fairytale, the two having bonded over their dearest friend's passing. It'd sell well among the servants.

Without this, he would have... well... a broodmare, truly.

Sighing, she shed most of her anger as though it were armor and she approached him, slowly. "Ask and I will do the same," she said. It would not sit well with her not to try even though the writing was on the wall.

"Know that it is not with you that I take issue. You are a worthy soldier and would make for a loyal and devoted husband, this I know." Amber eyes searched those of blue and violet. "But it is too soon. If your father will give no annulment, please ask him for an extension." It was within autumn that she had told Kohl that she had loved him, in winter when she had lain with him, and in spring when she had had their children.

"I will marry you in summer but no sooner."

Would that be enough?

She demanded that he offer compassion. Kvothe's nostrils flared and his gaze grew distant as he bottled up the hurt inflicted by the insinuation. Had he not apologized? Had he not sympathized, empathized, offered what comfort he could? What else did she expect from him? Would she rather that he rail and rage, weep and wail? He could not - he did not have that luxury. But while it was true that he usually kept his emotions under tight control, that did not mean that he didn't feel anything at all. He was not a robot. We was not made of steel, nor carved of stone. Instead, he wore a mask, formed of fine porcelain, so familiar and so fitted that few had ever seen him without. But Kvothe had barely taken a breath to respond before Nassar took hold of her dagger, deadly poison gleaming along one vicious, serrated edge. She twisted the blade and dug in deep, her rage adding fuel to the flames.

He withstood the deluge of her damnation, each vicious word another blow against the stalwart walls of his habitual defense. A part of him accepted her condemnation all too eagerly, and without protest. Nassar was not entirely off base, after all. She was his best option. Was it not better to live together, as friends, in middling mediocrity, than suffer alone and apart? He would have been content, accepted the marriage, as the best-case scenario available to either of them. Certainly it could not be worse than any other alternative. He hadn't appreciated the ham-handed way Orestes had fashioned it, nor his own lack of agency in the choice - and at least in that, he and Nassar were the same.

But the rest...He knew that the Tiamats' anger blazed brilliant and bold, oft bright enough to blind. She struck out specifically to hurt him, and her aim was true. In all other circumstances, he would have been content to absorb her ire, to stand as the punching bag against her righteous rage. The idea that she thought so little of his honor, of his integrity, to make such claims, and that she protested the idea of their marriage with such violence that she would throw the memory of his friend so viciously in his face... It hurt, in the way that only a bitter truth could. She dug gleefully at the sorrow and the guilt that lurked beneath his carefully courteous exterior. And he knew that in that moment, at least, she would have smiled to see him bleed in truth.

Even still, Kvothe stood strong, bent but not broken - until her blade deliberately cut too deep, until her taunts grew unconscionable. He cut her off with a swift and immediate denial, speaking in defense of his intentions. He saw the moment that her rage was banked, that the flames faded. But his own gaze had grown cold, his person pricked beyond palpable acceptance. He watched the light of rebellion die in her eyes, replaced by sorrow and shame. It had not been his intention to make her feel that way, but even so, he felt no guilt in clarifying the truth. He was silent as she sucked in a breath, and in a smaller voice, as she asked him for forgiveness. Kvothe shook his head - not in denial of her unspoken apology, but in an effort to eschew the topic.

No. She had made her feelings clear. If she objected so strongly, he would demand an annulment. His promise was made, the intention cemented. He would ask no woman to accept him against her own will, just as he would not force himself on an unwilling woman. Even if he could not dictate the terms of his own future, he could at least refuse to bend that far. He would cling to his honor, if nothing else. It was all he had owned that was ever truly

But then -

Nassar stepped towards him, her breath a warm wind in the frigid amphitheater. 'Ask and I will do the same,' she spoke. He picked his gaze up off the ground, tainted pools of amethyst lake water filled with wary exhaustion. Still, he recognized this as her attempt to compromise. A token - if earnest - effort to shuck the weight of their parents' chains, an acceptance of the similarity of their mutual circumstance. He knew better than to expect much more.

But much to his surprise, she elaborated further. "Know that it is not with you that I take issue. You are a worthy soldier and would make for a loyal and devoted husband, this I know.' Her words soothed some of the hurt, bandaged the bleeding wound. 'But it is too soon. If your father will give no annulment, please ask him for an extension. I will marry you in summer but no sooner.' Witchcraft eyes widened ever so slightly, before his strategic mind took root, and understanding blossomed. An annulment would be unlikely, potentially even disastrous...but an extension was more probable, even possible. Either way, he would try. For her - for Kohl - he would try.

"As you will, my Lady. I will make every effort," he promised. His courtier's voice was soft in the echoing room, pain and grief making merry at the edges of the cool, cultured tone. He inclined his head towards her in a deliberate gesture of respect. When he straightened, he met her gaze once more - and sighed, releasing some of the tension coiled within his body. "I will send a bird with news...unless you would like me to call on you here, instead?" He would give her the option, grant her the comfort inherent in control.

©

"As you will..." Kvothe murmured, the complexity of his thoughts shielded by azure and amethyst. When she stared into those eyes, she felt the same mix of emotions that came with gazing at stained glass: appreciation for the beauty, wonder at how they were made, and a stark sense of her own mortality. Nassar was a mortal that held her beating heart upon her sleeve. She fought against gods and beasts and mothers just like the Egyptian goddess Bast. It was not in her nature to consider the broad ecological web and wonder where she fit... and perhaps that was because a spot had always been made for her. Kvothe, on the other hand, had to stitch himself into the hierarchy. He was like a piece of costume jewelry glued onto the crown jewels: stunning yet worthless once the masses learned he was a fake.

He'd never had a will worth voicing because no one would have stopped to listen.
And even in this conversation where they were both powerless, her desires were heard first and foremost.

Now that Nassar had glimpsed the faintest crack into Kvothe's world, she could not help but recede into herself and reflect more. Just how much had she been blind to? And did this ignorance make her just as culpable?

... "I will send a bird with news...unless you would like me to call on you here, instead?"

Nassar glanced up before shaking her head. "A bird will serve, thank you."

After a moment's pause, she bowed her head in a polite farewell before taking her leave. There was much to consider... and still so much left to do in this quickly fading day.

- exit nassar -

It was not that he was without sympathy. Behind his stoic mask was a mortal man, and organic blood fueled his fundamentally clockwork heart. But he had, by virtue of persistent practice, perfected the art of playing pawn. The lessons he'd learned in early childhood amounted to one singular truth: whatever his feelings, and no matter how desperately he struggled, there were some things he could not change. By accepting that fact, he could move passed it, work with it, and sometimes even manipulate it to best advantage. In a world where blood and power reigned, Kvothe had learned the rules and fashioned a game piece as sturdy as any other. He'd pieced together a costume and painted on the jewels, and under anything but the closest scrutiny, his artful artifice was analogous of his effort.

That had always been the primary difference between himself and Nassar - and even, to an extent, between himself and Kohl. With his bastard blood in play, Kvothe was confined to the boundaries of the board. He was a master of it, true, but he must always be careful to act within the rules of the game itself. Conversely, Kohl and Nassar had the freedom to break down walls and burn down bridges, secure in their heritage and careless with their place within the hierarchy. For Kvothe to act with the same recklessness, to even whisper the same tune of rebellion...it would be akin to throwing away every effort, every sacrifice, that he had made up until this point. No - instead, he would remain silent, and he would don his porcelain mask, and he would ensure that his every step was beyond reproach. He would take what scraps the world threw at him, and he would polish them to a mirror shine - for he was always aware that such false treasures could be snatched away as easily as they had been granted.

The tension in his body had bled out as Nassar's fire banked itself, the high flames simmering down to a more manageable smolder. He was not so foolish as to assume her completely spent - even seemingly cold coals could light again - but the familiarity proffered by their old friendship offered him some small degree of comfort. 'A bird will serve, thank you,' she noted. If Kvothe was disappointed that she eschewed a further meeting - that she preferred communication via bird over a secondary reunion - he did not show it. They were both busy, with lives and duties independent of one another, even without the possibility of an arranged marriage weighing upon their shoulders.

And so Kvothe nodded in understanding, and watched as Nassar took her leave. He lingered, alone in the Tiamat's antechamber, for a few long moments thereafter. The ghosts of the past taunted him in this place, and both grief and frustration warred against one another in equal measure. It was only once he'd gotten his emotions under control again that he turned and slipped out of the room, his steps firmly measured against the cracked and crumbling tile.

[Exit Kvothe]

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