Chapter Text
"This is why," the Stormherd snarls to her Ghost. "This is why, I keep saying, we can't just leave--"
"But it's been decades since the last raiders came. Raider s . Plural. Look. This is just one."
She feels a strange prickling along her skin, the air almost electric, like it is right before the many hazy electrical storms that filter through the pass.
She aims her sights down the valley, where a stranger dismounts his sparrow and walks into the village. Such a different time, she thinks. The younger ones among them don't even have the sense to be wary. Elders pull them back, but the more curious ones wriggle out of reach.
The robed stranger keeps his helmet on, but his stiff posture is instantly familiar. He speaks with the villagers, respectful of their distance, their jumpiness. Always good to be wary of strangers to this mixed community, but his stoicism seems to put them at ease. He looks like he's asking a question. She sees the Matron, a human, shake her head. Tries to read her lips. ... No, none like that here. Not for some time. Not since--
She cuts off as a youngling, Kellikin, jumps forward, excitedly pointing up the sheer cliff that shadows the valley. Her cliff. An approximation to her position.
Traitor! she thinks, but not without fondness.
The stranger's dark faceplate follows the young one's indication and looks right at her .
At least, that's what it feels like. Even with an enhanced visor, she knows she's too far to see. Too well hidden. Still, she freezes. Watches. He wanders away from the villagers, searching the ridge. Her ridge.
Surely he knows that if she's up there, that she's capable of such a shot, even from this distance. Surely he hasn't forgotten all those competitions they'd had to settle past disagreements. And what a day--she couldn't be asking for more ideal conditions! She keeps the crosshair aligned on his head. He's a safe enough distance from the others. She could pull the trigger anytime she wanted. Death from above. Divine intervention. It would terrify the poor villagers, yes--and worse, give away her position--but maybe it'd dissolve that bitter knot of resentment left in her chest once and for all.
She hears his voice in her head, his attempt to hide his smugness making him sound unbearably so, talking about the odds of winning when allowed the first move.
And she remembers always choosing black anyway, just to spite him.
Oh, who cares? Nebula would just revive him, anyway. And he'd make some remark on how she's still so emotional, so quick to anger. She can't give in just to prove him right.
She takes her finger off the trigger, and invites her old rival to make the first move.