you don't recover from a night like this; ramiel / any

[weed]

she is the lamb; he is the slaughter

They close ranks against him and Weed lets himself feel confusion instead of the anger that would normally course through his veins—let him indulge in that fury later. His expression is mildly bewildered and then sad, meeting each of their gaze before shrugging. “Camrynn did not send me,” he finally admits, and he frowns, his lips pulling downward. “Yael did.” He had heard enough of the golden mare to know that it was more likely for her to be altruistic than the magician Queen, and if they had suspicions about his behavior, which seemed obvious, perhaps they would attribute it to an internal mutiny within the Deserts instead of what it really was: a snake, a rabid dog who only wanted chaos brought upon the land.

“She asked me to come alone and give you the warning—in hopes that it would give you enough time to prepare,” he nods at Tiphon, “or do as you see fit. She knew I agreed that you deserved to know.” Dark eyes shift toward the mare and his expression is again apologetic. “Unfortunately, I do not have proof. Just the warning.” He swallows a little, his gaze sweeping across the group. “It is obvious, however, that my presence has been most unwelcome.” Weed dips his gray head down, “And for that, I apologize. I will see my way out.” He begins to back away, looking back at all of them with a somber gaze.

“Be careful, and be well.”

And with that, he takes his leave.

WEED

© oscar keys