Brinly
When Brazen surges forward she tenses reflexively, even though the other girl’s skin hardens to stone and logically Brinly knows she can’t burn her. She wants to pull away, she wants to put even more of a shield between the two of them than there already is. But she had learned that avoiding Brazen was impossible; that she paid no heed to Brinly’s sharp warnings, and that short of disappearing altogether, there was really no escaping her.
And maybe, she realizes, with the other girl pressed into her, she doesn’t want to.
It’s a fleeting moment, but, for an instant she relaxes. She wonders what it would be like to touch her when she wasn’t covered in armor and stone; she wants to feel the warmth of her skin, the kind of warmth that just comes from being alive, and not essentially on fire from the inside out.
But then Brazen is pulling away, and she matches her scowl with a taut purse of her own lips before saying tersely, “I didn’t exactly have a choice now, did I?” For a moment her own ears fall flat, her muscles growing tense beneath her auburn skin as she clenches her jaw. She already hated being seen as weak; being forced to submit to the whims of that draconic beast was already something that didn’t sit well with her, and she didn’t care to be reminded.
When she softens, though, and she recognizes the look of regret on her face, her own anger loses its flame and slowly dies away. “It wasn’t your fault, Brazen.” There is an uncharacteristic softness to her words, the sharp edge to her voice dulled by the sadness on Brazen’s face. She reaches forward, her lips gently brushing against her stone-armored cheek in a rare show of affection. “Are you alright? That…thing didn’t try to hurt you when you were in Pangea, right?”
— burn until our lives become the embers —