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Summary
“What a diligent detective you are,” Remielle says bitterly. “Do you enjoy humiliating me?”
Sigrid softens. “Humiliating you?”
“What now? You caught me,” she says, voice low. Her gaze catches Sigrid’s through the mess of her bangs. Something strange stirs in Sigrid’s chest. Pity, or the brush of Remielle’s hair on her sternum. “They’re missing their dove down on Vyrium, I’m sure.”
Sigrid remains firm in her position, even as Remielle slips past her blockade. She makes no attempt to stop her. “From my deductions—you are unable to fly, and I trust that you will not hurt me. With the way things stand, I have no reason to deceive you. My intentions are pure.”
The tremor in Remielle’s knees is evident through the slit of her cloak. The moonlight against her back only makes her look more frail, deepening the shadows of her eyes and highlighting the lame, feathery tip of a wing drooping beneath the hem, barbs matted and thoroughly stained. “I don’t care about your intentions,” she says, voice splintering. “Why do you think I want you to help me?”
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Sigrid investigates an injured bird during a late-night patrol; Remielle happens to get in her way.