Telling somone you are fine when you aren’t doesn’t count as lying. Everyone does that. It’s a social custom to pretend you are perfectly a-okay even when you are dying from the inside out. So that’s a terrible example, try again. And then try to live like you’ve had all the experiences you’ve had. Prove you have been somewhere other than Helovia, and no, the Threshold doesn’t count as exploring, so don’t try that one either. Act like you own the place. Act like you are everything you want to be. That you’ve gone everywhere you’ve wanted to go. The results are amazing, because slowly, those things begin to be true. Be reckless, don’t just think of childhood memories where you played a trick (doesn’t count as reckless). Be savage, even if that savagery is only to push the Basin to be the very best (keeping that desire hidden will not make it come true). Or, if honor is the right thing, then be honorable, and own that too.

In the end, what you decide to be doesn’t matter. Weaver is who she is because she doesn’t bat an eye, because she doesn’t doubt herself or double back or apologize for speaking her mind. She owns every flawed trait, and she’s perfectly happy with who she is. Which is a little bit of everything, though in this moment, she has rolled entirely to a little sister talking to her big brother. Petulant, ridiculous, but caring. He gives a sarcastic huff, and she rolls her eyes in response. “I. Don’t. Hate. You.” she says, emphasizing every word. “Do I have to spell everything out for you?” But as she says this, she is all playful teasing, amber eyes gleaming, smirk wide.

“And that’s a fine approach to teaching, but not the point. It wasn’t personal, so don’t take it personally. That’s the point.” She is slightly more sober as she says this, still trying to find the words to make it okay, feeling like she can’t find the right ones. But then again, there’s a reason she’s not a diplomat. Words have never been her strongest suit. She leaves herself behind after ever spar, lays her heart bare in those moments for all to see. That is who she is. That is what she has to give. She cannot do that with words, and does not want to. Words are fickle, uncertain things. But pain and punches don’t lie.

She doesn’t think him a fool. She thinks he’s a very clever boy hiding behind a fool’s mask. A clever boy with big dreams that no one knows, because he does not voice them. She hopes one day he has cause to flick her between the eyes with that horn of his. Hopes one day his army is everything he dreams, because those are her dreams too. To be powerful, to be feared, to be everything. But she cannot help him, because she does not know it. Because he does not say. Words are, yes, fickle things. But still, they are necessary.

Because sometimes, they lead to conversations like this. Ones where they stand on the edge of a sword, where they both come out on the other side tattered and torn but hopefully, hopefully, stronger. Better. More than they were before. Normally words are things she throws about in the air, careless, to fill the space. But sometimes, like now, they are calculated and intentional, hoping to serve a purpose the way a spar serves a purpose. They fight and train and bleed to be stronger, better, more than they were before. She holds a dagger to his chest to ask him to do that, just in a different way.

“By being you, whatever that means” she says when he finishes, and her voice is soft, not unkind but like always, she doesn’t mask the truth. Life does not come in a candy wrapping, and she’s not going to sugar coat her words either. “You are not him, so don’t try to be. But you can be better. Whatever you define as better. Whatever you want that to mean. Better doesn’t mean you have to follow his legacy and be exactly like him. It means you can choose an entirely different path.”

Follow your dream, little prince. And scream it to the world, because so many would follow with you.