She has learned how to look meek—to look gentle—but it is not without cost. It hurts her pride to do so, and she finds that it is uncomfortable the older she gets. It is uncomfortable to pretend that she is lesser than she is. To pretend that she does not know how to manipulate most souls like clay, applying pressure and molding them beneath her palms until they take the shape that she wishes from them. To pretend that she does not hunger for more, that she does not know she has the wits and the strength to get it.
But, most days, she is able to remind herself that this is but a game.
And playing doe to hide her viper teeth is a strength of its own.
So she continues to simper sweetly, continues to look up from behind her lashes, playing at bashful as he asks if she has seen herself. “Not recently,” she breathes, her laughter coming a few seconds later at the right pitch as though to cover up her nerves. Of which she has none. “I am not much to look at.”
This, in some way, is true she knows. She is a pretty thing, but she is not exotic or beautiful. She does not have silver eyes or a body made of pearl. She is not exotic or strange. In most ways, she is perfectly ordinary. She has plain brown eyes and a body made of browns, whites, and black. It is only the ivory armor that sets her apart at all and in most lights, it looks merely like bone creeping from under the skin.
Her powers are what lie below the surface.
“An enigma?” she replies, her eyes widening just a little, as though caught off guard by the assessment. Internally, she thinks it an apt descriptor, but she prefers to keep that to herself. Instead she smiles, playing at both amused and flattered when in reality she wants to tell him it is an obviously correct answer. “I have never considered myself one.” She nods. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Skandar.”
She does not bother giving him her name.
Not yet at least.
but in all chaos, there is calculation