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Sveta was not a child of this world.
Her parents never kept it a secret. Though they treated her as their own, they loved to tell the tale of how they had come across a swaddled viera babe in the deserts of Thanalan on a journey to perform a fertility ritual. They'd been trying to conceive for years, praying with each pregnancy that Theaba would carry to term, only for those prayers to go unanswered. After their latest attempt had failed, Sveta appeared from a portal in the middle of nowhere as a blessing, a gift from the Twelve, everything they had hoped for and dreamed of.
In fact, all their hopes and dreams hung on Sveta. Her father, Geirrod, had been a gladiator in his time before his reputation had been shredded by an untimely arrest. His wife had been disowned by her family after she refused to leave him. They were both bitter souls, having tasted fame and fortune only for it to be snatched away before their eyes.
Sveta was to be their redemption.
"How was your training today, Sveta?" Theaba inquired over their meal: toad legs and snails in a garlic butter sauce, with a white chocolate cake for dessert. They still dined lavishly even though they could not afford it, determined to keep up the lifestyle they'd once had.
The Xanthos family owed quite a bit of gil to the Syndicate, as well as other lenders even less savory. Sveta was their only chance of paying it back, and she knew it well.
"Tiring," she replied, sipping at her grape juice from a crystal goblet. "But Hammelieur says that's a good thing."
Her mother giggled; the wine had clearly gotten to her. She always turned sweet and agreeable when in her cups, in contrast to how churlish she was otherwise. "Indeed. You are working hard. Keep at it, Sveta."
"She could be working harder," Geirrod pointed out from the head of the table. "You can still stand, can't you?"
Sveta set her glass down. "Yes, Father."
Geirrod humphed, unimpressed. "You'll never be the best if you don't push yourself."
"I do," said Sveta meekly. "I give my all to my training."
"You have to give more than that," her father replied. "Go beyond your limits. You'll do a hundred more press-ups after supper."
Sveta wasn't sure her aching limbs could handle a mere ten, but she still nodded and said, "Yes, Father."
"Go easy on the girl, Geirrod," her mother interjected, and Sveta winced. She hated when her mother, wine-loose and doting, would try to advocate for her. She knew it was temporary and ingenuine; she was just as hard on Sveta as Father was, when she wasn't addled by drink (which she often was, these days). And invariably, any objection to Father's methods led to an argument.
"If I may be excused?" she inquired tentatively, eager to leave before the shouting started. "I'd like to get those press-ups done."
"Yes, go on. You do well to pay no mind to anything you hear from your drunk harpy of a mother."
Sveta quickly covered her plate and pushed her chair back as Mother snorted. "My husband, the charmer. At least I'm fun when I drink, rather than destroying half the sitting room."
"Let us not forget what started that argument!"
Their voices grew in volume, but the conversation faded behind her as Sveta wound through the halls to get as far away as possible. She pressed her back against the wall and breathed in heavily, head in her hands, and that's how she was found.
"Mistress Xanthos?" asked a soft voice.
Sveta looked up to see the familiar face of their oldest servant, a miqo'te called L'laen. She could feel the tears spring immediately to her eyes as the woman reached out for her.
They were of a height, with Sveta at that age—a scant ten years old, her entire life already decided for her. She buried her face in L'laen's neck and cried. She wasn't sure why; it hadn't been a particularly bad day. She was just so tired of this, the training and the shouting and the way she was never, ever good enough. Nothing she did was satisfactory, from her footwork to her shield grip to the essays her tutor made her write. Her parents were preparing her to be not just the greatest gladiator of all time but also a political figure of import. They had her in mind for a seat of the Syndicate, a position of power and influence.
Sveta didn't want it. She didn't want any of it. She wanted to create things, to bring joy into the world. She was good with her hands; she'd taken to sewing with ease and quiet determination. She wanted to fashion pretty dresses and hats that would make people stare and say, That's the work of Sveta, the artisan. She'd craft jewelry, too, and fine leather garments people would wear and love.
It was a wish, a daydream. Such was not her destiny. She would walk the path laid out before her, even should both of her legs be broken on the way. She had to save her parents from ruin after everything they'd done for her. She had to chase fame and glory, even as she cared for neither.
L'laen's hand rubbed her back gently. "It's alright, child," she whispered into Sveta's long hair, the color of milky lavender tea. "You will persevere."
"I don't know if I can." Sveta pulled back, sniffling. "They ask so much of me, L'laen. How will I ever accomplish it all?"
The servant brushed a few wavy strands out of Sveta's eyes and said, "You are a gentle soul, but there yet lies a great strength in you. You've the will to always be yourself, Sveta. No one has the power to make you into someone you are not." She wiped away Sveta's tears. "What's your task tonight?"
"A hundred press-ups." Her lower lip quivered. "I don't know if I can-"
"You can do anything you set your mind to." She let her hand fall to Sveta's chest, pressing over her heart. "I am here with you always. If ever you find your strength lacking, borrow mine. For I believe in you, Sveta, and I always will."
She placed her hand on L'laen's. "Thank you," she whispered.
L'laen smiled gently. "You are loved, Mistress. Let that carry you through, and you can weather any storm."
Sveta nodded. She would think of those words, later, standing before an army of amal'jaa with her friends at her back. I am loved. I will weather this, too.
***
The years weren't kind to Sveta. She suffered many injuries in her training, so many that her father decided to keep a healer on retainer. The conjurer blamed her trainer, Hammelieur, for every scrape, and the two were often at each other's throats. Sveta tried not to get in the middle of their altercations, but since they were about her, it was hard to keep herself out of it. Just like with her parents. Someone was always arguing about her, and it made Sveta feel small and turn in on herself.
Tutoring wasn't going any better. Her teacher was an old hyur who had never liked Sveta and thought her ill-suited to academic pursuits. She often drifted off in lessons, finding it difficult to pay attention with how weary and heavy her body always felt. The tutor would rap her knuckles and tell her to get her head out of the clouds.
Sveta applied to the Gladiator's Guild at fifteen. It was the first step in her grand journey, and her father made it very clear that he expected it to go perfectly.
Mylla came to inspect her personally in the guild hall, in front of everyone. "Bold for the blood of a traitor to apply, don't you think?"
Sveta gave her a thin smile. "And what should I be if not bold? How many songs are written for the meek?"
"So you think they'll write songs about you, do you?" The guildmaster chuckled. "We'll have to see just how misplaced that confidence is." Her sword rang as it slid from her sheath. "Draw your weapon."
Though Sveta was afraid, she did not let it show. Fear was commonplace for Sveta. She lived every day in fear, didn't she? That she wouldn't be strong enough or fast enough? Clever enough? That she wouldn't measure up to the pedestal she looked up to each morning when she rose and each night as she performed her ablutions? It would take much more than fear to stop her.
So Sveta drew, and she waited. Mylla circled around her, and Sveta matched her footwork. She'd been taught to let the enemy have the first strike. Knowing your enemy is the key to victory, said Hammelieur, and the way you get to know them is by paying very close attention. Mylla's center of gravity was lower than hers. Sveta was taller and had more reach. Her sword was longer and straighter where Mylla's had a slight curve. The guildmaster would try to close the distance.
Sure enough, Mylla attempted to corner her, herding her against the back wall. Sveta let her come in close, but not quite close enough. She countered and spun in the precise moment Mylla moved to strike, then made an offensive lunge at her opponent. When the parry came, she leapt back and defended, predicting Mylla would attack. She did not. She merely took a step forward, testing to see whether Sveta would step back. But she did not. Doing so would only give Mylla more room to maneuver.
A tight smile spread across Mylla's face. "Are you testing me, little girl?"
"No need," Sveta answered. "You've been fighting a long time, Guildmaster, and I've been watching."
"Hmm. So you think you know all of my moves?"
Sveta nodded slightly, not taking her eyes off her opponent. "Which puts you at a disadvantage, since you don't know mine."
She chuckled and said, "I don't need to know your moves, Xanthos. I can make you move in any way I want."
Before Sveta could puzzle out what she meant by that, Mylla went on the offensive. Her moves were perfect: violent, graceful strikes, a swift cascade of action-reaction that left Sveta dizzy. Still, she kept up. For awhile.
Where she messed up was the leg sweep. She saw it coming—Mylla telegraphed it, and Sveta had seen her do it a thousand times. The guildmaster was short, so she employed moves that used her opponents' strength against them. She would hook her foot around the back of Sveta's knee and pull her forward, knocking her off-balance and putting her in the perfect position for a follow-up pommel strike that would knock her flat.
Sveta quickly stepped to the side to avoid it, not realizing until it was too late that it had been a fake-out. She had seen the move coming and reacted accordingly, but Mylla was just setting her up for a sharp left hook. Her helmet rang as it collided with Mylla's metal gauntlet, stunning her for a brief second. That was all Mylla needed to disarm her. Sveta's longsword went flying across the room, too far out of reach to dream of retrieving. Even if she could have, Mylla's sword was at her throat.
"Yield," she commanded.
With no other option, Sveta locked glares with her and said, "I yield."
There was clapping and jeering from every corner of the room. Sveta had failed. It was over. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, quickly retrieving her sword and scurrying for the exit. She only halted at the sound of Mylla's voice.
"Where in all the seven hells do you think you're going, recruit?"
Sveta froze and turned around slowly.
Mylla showed her teeth. "Not the kind of welcome you were hoping for? Too bad. You'll soon learn that words don't mean much around these parts. You'll have to prove yourself, like everyone else." She sheathed her sword and gestured to the front desk. "Go put in your paperwork and get your first assignment. Do it quickly, and do it right. That's all I ask."
Hope burned in Sveta's chest. She nodded once, and Mylla turned and strode from the hall.
Sveta… had done it. She'd taken the first step. With a deep breath, trying not to feel her guildmates' eyes crawling all over her skin, she submitted her name for the guild records. Sword in hand, she would go forth and fight with everything in her to be the strongest, the fiercest gladiator Ul'dah had ever known.
It would take years, but Sveta had learned a long time ago that defeat was not an option. It would be victory or death.
***
The stage name was Kovir's idea.
"If you're going to fight in the coliseum," the roegadyn said, "you'll need a more intimidating name than Sveta."
Sveta raised an eyebrow at him, turning her attention away from the battle taking place in the guild hall. Utemia was putting a new highlander recruit through his paces, and she was toying with him. He wasn't half-bad, really. Sveta could already tell that with some practice he'd shape up to be a solid guild member, but he was clearly no match for Utemia.
"Somehow I doubt a purple-haired viera with an intimidating name would invite anything but jeering," she commented. "Being underestimated is an advantage, as far as I'm concerned."
Kovir shook his head. "That's not going to work in the arena. You can't think of it the same way you'd think of a fight against common bandits or beastmen. Once you've got a few battles under your belt, you can bet that your opponents will have studied you enough to get a good measure of you."
Sveta rolled her eyes and said, "And you think calling myself… I don't know, 'Fleshripper,' will make them quake in their boots when we fight? If they've the measure of me, they know what I'm capable of. What does it matter what I'm called?"
"Ah, but you need something your fans can put into a song!" Kovir grinned, spreading his arms wide. "Don't you want the whole crowd singing songs for you?"
"I'm not doing this for adulation. I'm doing it to prove something."
"Which is…?" he prompted.
Sveta shifted, glancing at Utemia again as a shout from the crowd made it clear she'd done something clever. She really should just put the boy out of his misery. "I have to be the best, Kovir. Otherwise what's the point?"
"Exactly!" The roegadyn waggled his finger. "And part of being the best is winning over the crowd. You can't rely on your skill alone to get to the top. The coliseum is just as much about the spectators as it is the fighters. It's a different battlefield than the one you're used to."
She sighed. What he was saying made sense. Her father hadn't lasted long in the arena, so most of what he'd taught her was on how to get there. Her first match wouldn't be scheduled for a couple of weeks more. She had learned much from Mylla, but then, Mylla was a bit of a special case. She was famous even still, years after retiring and becoming the guildmaster. She hadn't bothered to play the crowd at all, in her time—her skill stood on its own.
As much as Sveta would have liked for that to be true in her case, she didn't quite have Mylla's raw talent. She had years of grueling practice under her belt, and she'd flourished since joining the guild, but she was still missing something.
Maybe Kovir had a point. She needed all the help she could get.
"What sort of name would fit me?" she wondered aloud. "Preferably one that doesn't sound ridiculous."
He grinned and rattled, "Skullcrusher. Hammerfist. The Predator."
"Did you just come up with those off the top of your head?"
"I've had a lot of time to think about this," he replied.
Sveta fought back a smile, rolling her eyes. "What made you choose 'Bloodletter Roe'?"
"The way I fight!" He pounded his chest. "I like to make it bloody. Give everyone a good show."
She gave him a flat look and said, "Maybe I'll ask Mylla what she thinks."
"No no, hang on," he insisted. "Maybe I'm going about this wrong. Maybe we need something less intimidating and more whimsical."
"I don't know that I want to be considered whimsical."
They both turned back as applause erupted from the crowd. The fight was over. The highlander certainly looked worse for wear, but having seen Utemia go all out before, Sveta knew that he'd gotten off easy. She could've done much worse.
The crowd began to disperse. Kovir was determined, though, and he was clearly thinking hard. "It's about selling an image. It helps to lean into stereotypes a bit. I'm a roegadyn, so I'm violent. 'Bloodletter' works for that. You're a viera, so you should have something that sounds pretty and sort of melodic. A fancy word, but easy to rhyme."
Sveta thought on it for a moment. Kovir was frowning hard.
"You're a dreamer," he went on. "You're clever, too, always thinking a few steps ahead. Sometimes that's a strength, sometimes a weakness. Your thoughts are so big, you get lost in them."
"Reverie," said Sveta suddenly, recalling the word from one of her lessons. "It's the state of daydreaming."
"Reverie," Kovir repeated. A slow smile overtook his features. "I like it. It could work."
"I could even be a Hollow," she went on. "Hollow Reverie sounds a little haunting, doesn't it?"
"Why Hollow?"
"Because dreams are useless, Kovir," she said bitterly.
From the moment she said the name, Sveta knew it was perfect. It just clicked, the way some things do when they're meant to be. So when the match was scheduled, Hollow Reverie was the name she put down. It was the name her fans screamed, it was the name they began to sing every time she entered the arena.
That was how Sveta Xanthos became Reverie, even when she wasn't fighting. Soon all who knew her called her by the name. It was more than a stage name at that point—it was an identity. It was a mask she wore at all times, too afraid to let it down lest people see her real face. Soon it began to feel less like a battlecry and more like a burden.
Still, Reverie was who she was. And this was what she always wanted, wasn't it? To be known, to be adored. Had she wanted something else, before? It seemed so long ago now, so far away that she'd forgotten.
***
Do you believe in Reverie?
In rivalry
And revelry in victory?
Do you believe in Reverie?
I believe, I believe, I believe
The refrain ringing from the stands pounded in her ears alongside the rush of her own blood. Reverie had done it—it had been six years since she started fighting in the coliseum, and she had reached her peak. She was quite possibly the most well-known gladiator of her time. People from all across Eorzea would come to watch her fight. She routinely sold out the coliseum. She couldn't walk the streets of Ul'dah without being recognized, pulled aside for a photo or an autograph. She was a household name, a legend. Reverie had all but written her name in the stars.
So why didn't it feel like victory?
Gone was the girl she used to be. She used to have such vivid dreams, such longing for a life where she felt fulfilled and content. Reverie had everything she ever wanted now, short of a seat on the Syndicate (and she was making progress there, too). Yet something niggled in the back of her mind. This… wasn't what she wanted, was it? What had Sveta wanted?
Reverie shook herself, diving back into the fight with her sword in one hand and shield in the other. It did not matter what a child had wanted. They'd been idle fancies, nothing more. Reverie was an adult. Reverie was a legend. She didn't need to be happy. She just needed to win, and win, and win.
She lunged at her opponent, spinning mid-way to avoid his counter, and wedged her shield into the crevice between his helmet and gorget. It released with a forceful screech, and she drove it into the air before bashing it aside with her shield. The tip of her blade stopped an ilm from his eye.
Panicked and panting, her opponent dropped his weapon and said, "I yield!
The crowd roared. Reverie sheathed her weapon, removed her helm, and gave them a dazzling smile. She stood waving mechanically for several seconds before retreating underground. Her attendants awaited her with water and healing potions. She let them fuss over her and congratulate her, smiling all the while. As soon as she was in her room, alone at last, she let the expression drop and slumped into bed.
Fighting in the arena paid well, but the gil wasn't really Reverie's to spend. Though she was certainly old enough to decide what to do with her earnings, they still never really felt like hers. The gil she made went towards paying off debt and buying the Xanthos family more influence and power in the city. The estate had been lavishly redecorated, Mother hosted salons there weekly, and Father had several high-ranking officials in his pocket. The city was at their fingertips.
Unbeknownst to her parents, Reverie had been setting aside gil of her own for years. She had quietly hired a retainer to assist her. She didn't have a plan for the money yet—at least, not a good plan. Her only idea was to sail far across the sea and start a new life. She'd be a mercenary, a wanderer, or she could even pick up a new skill.
Reverie frowned, looking up at the ceiling. What did she want? She could think of so many things, so many possibilities, but none of them brought her any joy. The truth was that she didn't know what another life would be like. She just knew she didn't want this one.
It was so meaningless, fighting for entertainment. What was she really accomplishing? It wasn't like her early days in the guild, where she fought to protect the people of Ul'dah. That had been fulfilling, at least. What was there to look forward to in the arena besides another fight? Why was she still going along with this, after all these years?
A knock came at her door. She sat up straight and called, "Enter!"
The door swung open, and there stood her mother. Reverie did a quick assessment, trying to determine whether she was drunk or not. "Reverie, darling. Taking a little rest, are we? Do you really think you deserve it?"
She begrudgingly got to her feet.
"I just wanted to let you know," said Theaba, "that servant you're so attached to is on her deathbed, apparently, and she's asking for you. The nerve, I swear-"
"L'laen?" Her mother nodded, and Reverie's heart dropped into her stomach. "Where is she?"
"The servants' quarters." When Reverie pushed past her and darted out the door, Theaba let out a scoff and called after her, "Don't stay too long! Dinner is in an hour."
Reverie tore through the estate on her way to the servants' quarters, her heart thumping fiercely. L'laen was old and had been sick more than once, but she always pulled through. Still, Reverie had known since she was a child that this day would come. Time was a cruel but ever-patient master, and it would get the better of them all in the end.
She burst through the door and was at L'laen's bedside in an instant, kneeling before her and taking her hand. "I'm here, L'laen."
"Sveta," she croaked. L'laen was the only who still called her Sveta. When she was gone, there would be no one left. "Tis good to see you, child. Full glad am I for the chance to say goodbye."
Tears pricked Reverie's eyes. "Don't talk like that," she protested.
L'laen smiled sadly and said, "It is my time, I'm afraid. I can feel it." She was wheezing audibly with every breath. "I wanted to tell you something before I go."
Not trusting herself to speak, Reverie nodded for her to go ahead.
"All these years I've believed in you. Your courage, your strength. Now there are others who believe in you, too." She reached out, trailing her fingers over Reverie's cheek. "I've heard your song. It warms my heart to know how many have faith in you." Her mouth pulled into a frown. "But I sense there is one who lacks faith still, Sveta, and it is you."
Reverie hung her head, looking away.
"Child," she said gently, lifting her face up by the chin. "You've spent all this time seeking something. Have you found it?"
"I- I-" Reverie stuttered. "The people adore me, L'laen. They come from all corners to watch my matches. I've gained power and influence. I've grown strong enough to rival great foes. I-" She halted, knowing that none of this was what L'laen wanted to hear.
"So you haven't," she said faintly. Reverie hesitated a moment before shaking her head. "What are you seeking, Sveta?"
She closed her eyes and said, "I don't know."
"And that's exactly why you haven't found it. You're looking in all the wrong places." She took a few deep, labored breaths. "Promise me something."
"Anything."
"Look elsewhere. Look within. Trust yourself to know what is right and good, and when the opportunity comes to seek it, have the faith and strength of character to pursue what you cherish."
"I don't know what I cherish, L'laen," she whispered. "I don't know what I desire for myself."
"Believe in Reverie." Her voice had grown hoarse, her eyes struggling to remain open. "Allow yourself to dream again. I remember when you were young-" She cut herself off with a choked noise.
Another servant pressed a cool cloth to her forehead. Reverie took her hand again, giving it a light squeeze. "Don't waste your last breath on me, L'laen."
She gave Reverie a small, pained smile. "No one is more worthy of my breath. If I can help you before I go, I will consider myself to have led a fulfilling life."
"You've helped me so much already. You've done more than enough."
"Yet you are unhappy."
The tears at last began to fall. "If I swear to seek happiness," she said, "will you depart with your heart full and your mind eased?"
"It would make my final moments the greatest of my long life," she replied.
Reverie wrapped both her hands around L'laen's small, frail one. "Then I so swear."
It was some hours before L'laen's eyes fluttered gently closed, but when they did, she wore a smile.
***
Reverie had set aside enough gil to purchase an apartment in the Goblet, which she did quietly through her retainer. She purchased enough furnishings to be self-sufficient, coordinating their delivery and arrangement. She stocked up on non-perishable food and splurged on a private summoning bell. She wanted everything set up before she had the conversation with her parents.
Even still, she found herself putting it off. She was as ready as she could be to start her new life. Kovir had offered to officially enter her employ as a second retainer, and Mylla had arranged to start sending her winnings to a new account as soon as she gave the word. Her Flames squadron had been reassigned, her superior officers informed that she would be stepping back. The miners' guild had a new up-and-comer take over her contracts.
It wouldn't be an entirely new life, and yet the idea was still terrifying. What would she do with her free time? She hadn't the slightest idea how to pursue happiness. But to honor L'laen's memory, she had to try.
In the end, she was found out before she could gather the courage to tell them. A family servant appeared at the coliseum training grounds, informing her that her father required her presence posthaste. Reverie's heartbeat pounded in her ears as she made her way to the estate. She knew what was coming. Geirrod had never once interrupted her training. To do so now meant that he was angry, perhaps angrier than he had ever been.
Reverie appeared in the sitting room in her training gear, bowing her head to her parents where they were gathered on the sofa. Geirrod immediately sprung to his feet. "What in the seven hells are you playing at?" he demanded. "Do you have any idea what it took to get you that squadron?"
It wasn't the worst thing for him to find out about, and it was bound to happen given his connections with the Immortal Flames. Reverie had thought she would feel anxious having this conversation, which was why she had delayed it so long, but a strange sense of calm overtook her then. She stood up straight, with perfect posture and a polite smile.
"It is a time for change, Father," she said. "I've chased your goals long enough, and it is past time to pursue my own."
Geirrod stared at her in shock, his mouth hanging open. Never had his daughter talked back or disobeyed. Reverie had done exactly as she was told her entire life, and he was entirely unprepared to hear she'd had a single thought otherwise. He truly hadn't believed her capable of defiance, had he? Reverie couldn't blame him—she hadn't believed it of herself, either. Not until the moment came.
Reverie's mother gave a delicate laugh. "Adorable, isn't she? Fine time to grow a spine, darling."
"I realize it took awhile," she said, "but you can't have expected to keep control of me forever."
Geirrod's mouth snapped closed. "I am your father, girl. You will show me the respect I am due."
"You are due nothing," Reverie replied. "You have benefitted great from my success, but no longer. I can admit that without your training and guidance, I wouldn't be where I am today. So thank you, Father. Thank you for being a shameless, horrible piece of shit. You made me who I am today: a daughter who is finally capable of defying you."
Theaba let out another shrill laugh, while Geirrod clenched his fists. "No need to be nasty," her mother cooed. "You've always been weak, darling. Your skill in the arena has not afforded you the kind of strength you need to survive in this world. You've been propped up your entire life, and now you've got the idea that you can stand on your own." She gave her daughter a cruel little smile. "I can assure you that you're mistaken."
"We'll see," said Reverie sweetly. "If that will be all?"
"It will not," said Geirrod through gritted teeth. "I could ruin your career in instant, girl. Cut you off, cancel your sponsorships. The Immortal Flames will want nothing to do with you. The Brass Blades will be watching you like a hawk for the slightest slip-up. You'd be nothing without me."
"You've got that backwards, I fear. It is you who would be nothing without me." She gave him a little smile. "You put all your time and effort into one strategy, Father. Did you never think of what would happen to you if I turned against you? Why don't I tell you?"
Reverie put years of resentment into her next words, her voice strengthening with each syllable. "One word to my captain, and the Immortal Flames will never entertain your company again. Mylla holds a grudge against you still, after all these years, and she has ten times your influence. If I told her I wanted revenge, she'd be in my corner. And the Brass Blades? They like my shows. They sing my songs. You might be able to line some of their pockets, but I think you'd be surprised how much the common folk like their heroes. And let's not even talk about my sponsors. Do you have any idea how much money they've made off me? The tourism industry in Ul'dah is booming. People come from all over to watch me fight.
"People like me get written into history books," she went on. "People like you don't even garner a footnote. You are insignificant, an insect beneath my boot. So I'm only going to warn you once: don't give me a reason to squish you."
She turned on her heel and left them behind, heedless of her father's rage and her mother's hysterics. Her heart felt like it was about to explode, and her hands shook, but Reverie was finally free.
As she lay in her bed that night, her first night of her new life, Reverie stared up at the ceiling and wondered what in the hells had taken her so long. Had she been weak all these years, like her mother said? Was it really a matter of strength, or a matter of will? It'd never occurred to her before that she could fight back, not until L'laen gave her permission to dream again. She found, to her surprise, that she did have something worth fighting for.
It was both victory and death. It was the burial of her old self, the putting to rest of a girl who'd been afraid of the consequences of standing up for herself. A girl who didn't realize how much power she held in her hands. That power would change the world one day. That power would be the difference between peace and annihilation.
Sveta was truly dead now, but Reverie didn't mourn her. She had needed to die so that Reverie could burst forth from the ashes, so that she could spread her wings and fly to places unknown, lavender hair fanning behind her in the wind.