The voice that ripples back towards her is not the echo of her own, but the supple dark lull of her dearest’s voice, the pitch shaped to the mold of the name her parents had given her at birth, a name that never sounded so lovely as it did when it came from the satin lined lips of her Empress. Her ears rise, her eyes burn with an overwhelming happiness that her assumption that they would meet on this night was not wrong, and while she does not entirely discredit the return of her call as a simple ghost of her hopes, she does make way towards the entrance to the cavern, her own voice calling out in greeting to the dark mare with the broken crown.

”Sister,” she croons with a smile, her golden horn breaking into the cavern that held her beloved queen of shadows, every inch of her frame expressing the sincere pleasure in finds in merely laying eyes upon her oldest and only true friend. That her friend lies to her and hides the softness of her heart behind a thin and morose veil of shadow slides past her, the illusion given strength by the Lady’s desperate need to find love and appreciation in the eyes of Psyche when she gazes into them.

She is not sure if she herself feels it in return for the woman who had saved her from a lonesome and brief existence; she only knows that she feels whole when standing near her, infallible and with endless grace and power.

Her dark hair sweeps across her features as she strides close to her friend, seeking to brush her shoulder against the black silk of the Empress’ body and to rustle the mare’s mane with her lips ever so tenderly should the subtle signs of her affections be allowed. Illynx does not usually touch others so openly, with such tenderness or such exposure of her compassions, but the recent events that have tried to sever their bond only seemed to strengthen it. No longer will the golden bitch recoil from her feelings of fondness towards those who have adequately proven their usefulness beyond mere manipulation, another step higher on a social ladder or agenda; whatever this warmth is she shares with Psyche, it is something that the woman is coming to understand as a thing to be proud of, to jealousy guard.

She remembers Torleik’s words of comfort, how he had been such a bleeding heart but one which hadn’t caused her usual reaction of violence or disdain. It had been such a fine display of the strength of his soul that the mare could now recognize her emotional reactions, in part, to be that of envy. She wished to be this consoling brute, a dark lined figure that prowls the boundaries of the home and seeks to guide and protect both the physical and spiritual well being of that home’s inhabitants. She sought company and things only for herself, and while she had made no secret of it, it was nothing she was truly proud of.

Who could be, after all? The woman was quite content with washing the blood away from herself so long as it was justified by her racist ideals, but that she could turn her blades so quickly from the hornless to her own should it suit her was something she wished to remain a cleverly disguised beast of prey in their mountain meadow. It was a part of herself that she believed Psyche understood, one that, if she was assuming right after heavy thoughts on behalf of their last conversation, had begun to die out in the heart of her dark counterpart as well.

”I had hoped you would come here this evening, she says, sweet and innocent as she has been to Psyche since they had first met all those fateful years ago, ”the lights should be growing overhead soon.” Above their heads, she gestures to the thin layer of ice over this particular cavern, one which during the day would let in the bright white beams of the Sun’s light as he watched over the day. The glow was currently the silver allure of the Moon, but soon the Lord who watched over the keepers of the mountain would paint the heavens with a million colors that rippled and weaved like a ribbon through the sky, and the glacial cave in which the two dark hearted women stood would burn with the myriad tones of his power. ”Almost as if we were back in my cave, hiding from the others.”

Her smile is amused and full of a sweet nostalgia, a mask worn to hide the sadness she feels at the distance that has held them apart; she has more to say, but withholds it for a sweet reprieve from business, a gentle stroll down the lanes of conversation with little to no purpose. She does not wish this to be a meeting of sorrow and dramatics as their last had been, after all; she has much to discuss with her dearest, namely the restlessness of the black iron souls running though the white spirit illusions of their vale, but also the consequences it is sure to have on her rule.

One must throw the wolves a scrap or two from time to time, lest they forget you ever fed them at all and turn their teeth towards your throat.