Chapter Text
There is a split second when Mal thinks it is the end.
She has given them her neck, and they unhesitatingly ripped into it as she deserves.
Because she does deserve it.
She has arguments at the ready, the same things she's heard from others and that she tells herself hour by hour when worries creep in.
But the decision hurts, and though it was the right thing to do-
(it has to be; a leader can't show doubt even when that's all they feel)
-a lie is a lie.
Snitches and liars get stitches and fires.
Her The crew does a good job of making them, and she bears it with Isle grit.
But Celia plucks the Ember from Mal's hand-
(fingers deftly shuffling cards, twisting strings together, and pulling coins from behind ears)
-and throws it in a nearby fountain.
It sputters, and ice electrocutes her veins immediately, magic torn from her once more.
Faintly, she thinks she must have been in Auradon too long.
Ignored her roots, maybe.
Because the rules of the Isle instantly flash into her mind.
And though part of her wishes Celia had not done what she did, Mal knows why and wishes she had been ready - thinks she should have been.
A year ago, she would have been.
And if you want it, take it
And if you can't take it, break it