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Tibarn almost doesn’t spot the folded-up sheet of paper that Naesala surreptitiously slips into his pocket. He likely wouldn’t have noticed at all, had he not been keeping a close eye on him already, wary of any additional treachery he may attempt.
Naesala has always had defter fingers than him, and a wont to stash away what treasures he finds before someone else ever sees it. Still, Tibarn isn’t so dense that he’d fail to catch the hushed conversation he shares with Daein’s general-turned-priestess, nor does he miss the way Naesala discreetly stows away the little sheet of paper he’d taken off the Begnion senator’s still-warm corpse. It’s enough to set off alarm bells in his head, his feathers still ruffled from the loss of his own men at Naesala’s hands not days ago, so he doesn’t hesitate to corner Naesala the moment he can, seizing him by the arm before he can slink off to some dark corner to hide until the next battle is upon them.
“Tell me that’s not what I think it is,” he demands without preamble, but based on the flicker of surprise that crosses Naesala’s expression for a split-second, he knows that it is.
Naesala is quick to compose himself, his shock swiftly transitioning to a muted scowl as he jerks his arm from Tibarn’s grip. “A little personal space would be appreciated, if you wouldn’t mind,” he says, his irritation masked behind a veneer of aloofness that never ceases to get on Tibarn’s nerves.
“Don’t change the subject. Micaiah already told us about Daein’s blood pact, so there’s no point in keeping it to yourself,” Tibarn bluntly insists. He folds his arms, glaring down at Naesala with an intensity that would make any hawk with even a little nerve fold instantly.
Naesala isn’t one of his men, though, and he’s known Tibarn for too long to bend to a little intimidation. He holds Tibarn’s fierce glare for a handful of long, tense seconds, then finally exhales a disgruntled sigh and admits, “The senator had two pacts on him; one signed by Daein’s little princeling, and one that belonged to a previous king of Kilvas. Seeing as it concerns my people, I took it upon myself to relieve him of his treasures.” He glances away, a scowl forming on his face. “Without it, Begnion loses its hold on me. I’m not about to let it fall into anyone else’s hands.”
Tibarn frowns, feeling his feathers bristle with barely-concealed anger. “Is that why you had all my men killed?” he growls, digging his fingertips into his bicep so hard that it stings. “Begnion waved a piece of paper at you and you rolled over like a dog and did whatever they told you? I didn’t realize you’d even sell yourself to make a little gold.”
It’s a deep cut, and perhaps unwarranted considering what Tibarn knows about the blood pact, but it’s difficult to keep his head on straight when his nation is in shambles and the long days of nonstop fighting have whittled his patience down to a tiny sliver.
Naesala doesn’t so much as flinch, though. “That’s basically how it worked, yeah. They gave me orders, I followed them,” he says simply.
His lack of any semblance of guilt or remorse only makes Tibarn more irritated. His scowl darkens, teeth clenched nearly to the point of pain.
“What did you expect me to say?” Naesala demands, narrowing his eyes defiantly up at Tibarn. “Did you think I’d get down on my knees and beg for your forgiveness? It wasn’t just about me, Tibarn, it was the lives of your men weighed against my entire country. I won’t apologize for putting my people above all else.” Slipping his hands into his pockets, he finally breaks the staring contest he’s been holding with Tibarn and adds, “Besides, it’s over. Now that I have the pact in hand, I can finally destroy the wretched thing, and then you can kill me to your heart’s content. How did you put it again? ‘I’m going to rip your wings off and feed them to you before you get to die?’ Ha. You always were a morbid one.”
He’s rambling, Tibarn realizes, filling the charged silence with a slew of words that reek of self-deprecation. Naesala’s bravado would normally serve to stoke Tibarn’s temper further, but instead, he finds himself deflating, the fight leaving him all at once.
Naesala looks tired, and beyond that, Tibarn senses the barest hint of anxiety in his tone, a deep-seated kind of worry that only someone who had grown up alongside him would be able to recognize. He lets out a long, heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I won’t forgive you for what you did, but I won’t kill you, either,” he finally, grudgingly says, forcing back the piece of himself that still screams at him to repay the slaughter of his people with a slaughter in kind. “Reyson would never forgive me if I did. Not before all three of us get the chance to talk, at least.”
Naesala blinks at Tibarn in surprise, and for a moment, the shadows under his eyes are stark. Now that he can spot them, they’re painfully obvious to Tibarn’s eyes—behind his bravado, he’s clearly not as put-together as he seems. “I see,” he slowly replies, as though he’s anticipating some kind of punchline to come and yank away the meager mercy Tibarn has extended to him. “I suppose I’ll have to thank Reyson later for coming to my rescue, then.”
He takes Tibarn’s words as a dismissal, moving to slip past him and make his retreat, and Tibarn lets him, but not before one last thought occurs to him. “Naesala,” he calls out, catching the raven’s attention one last time. “Leanne told me you were suffering. Is it true?”
A complicated looks passes over Naesala’s face just long enough for Tibarn to catch a glimpse of it before he turns away. “I keep telling her not to do that. She should really learn when to keep her mouth shut,” he murmurs in lieu of a proper reply, though there’s no real anger behind his words. A moment later, he disappears down a shadowy hall and out of sight, leaving not even a feather behind to mark his exit.