Dynasty

ix. LANGUAGE OF BIRDS

Hiro nudged Fallon with her arm, flicking her sharply-drawn chin towards the throne. Fallon's thoughts were interrupted again, the chain broken. "Kryze," Hiro hissed. The side of her face had been grazed. Her blood dried dark.

Fallon blinked again. Satine looked at her expectantly, her hair threaded tightly from her scalp, so fine and silk-like it could have been strung to carry pearls. (Pearls would look nice on Satine, Fallon decided—they would have matched the white of her lilies, of her skin.) "Fallon? Are you feeling alright? You've gone pale."

          "I'm fine," Fallon said curtly, more so than she had intended. "I was just... distracted. Is everyone okay?"

Satine nodded. "Everyone is alive, Fal." Her words were petals, soft and gentle and kind, but underneath was a hidden firmness, like the features of a statue smoothed underneath a pale sheet. Satine was veiled at all times. She rose from the throne; a goddess, the hills and valleys of her dress shifted with her, the fabric like a spectre spooled into mist, blue and green and fading. "I've arranged for one of my personal starships to take you home."

          Home. Fallon's jaw locked at the word.

          "To Coruscant," Satine swiftly corrected herself, smoothing over her misspoken words like they were mere wrinkles to be ironed out of her dress. "Hopefully, your next visit will not be so short-lived."

          "Hopefully," Fallon repeated. The smoke and sun had combined forces, forming an alliance to cloud Fallon's head, choking thoughts and concealing memories behind phantom spots of floating light and colour. In the fresh air of the throne room, the girl found her reprieve: with every breath, every inhale, every exhale, those tricks were beginning to fade—and, in its stead, anger was taking hold.

In, out.

          There is a group that calls itself Death Watch, Satine had said, only an hour before. They are traditionalists, loyal to our old martial ways.

In, out.

In periphery, Hiro bowed her head, poised to depart. Fallon didn't move. There's nothing I need to concern myself about, according to Satine. And yet, she thought to herself, a building burns, and smoke has settled in my lungs.

In, out.

Anger began to unravel in the pit of her stomach, a loose thread picked and pulled taut, thickening, growing scales and fangs and venom. There was no room for pearls or petals here, not in the husk of her body, the cavity of her chest—nothing pretty grows in the dark.

How Fallon hated being kept in the dark.

          "Fallon?" Fallon lifted her gaze to meet Satine, forcing her jaw to loosen. Beside her, Hiro halted, her back to the Duchess and her eyes on Fallon. Dark and vulturelike, Hiro surveyed her like she was the next meal—like she was indeed a corpse, a piece of carrion, waiting in restless decay to be feasted upon.

Fallon was glad for the confirmation. It comforted her. "Yes, Satine?"

          "The outcome of our last holo-call inspired me to organise a small convention for you to attend, one staged with myself and a few other politicians." Satine's mouth drew into a smile, her lips flicking up at the corners. Just like Fallon's did. "They will all be women, of course. I believe you should have female role models, and I haven't grown so vast in ego yet that I believe I could satisfy this criteria on my own."

Fallon bit back a scoff. She already had her role models; there were almost too many to count. Adi Gallia. Aayla Secura. Depa Billaba. Luminara Unduli. Jocasta Nu. Alula Ajik. Nadya Saxon.