She hadn't thought Confutatis would leave.

Nymeria had always distantly known that they would not remain together, for more reasons than one. They were too alike, and yet all too different. What Confutatis sought in brute force (and often to her failure) Nymeria chose to do in stealth, in calculated decisions—a roll of the die, a gamble, but only ever made when it was in her favour. Confutatis wanted chaos; Nymeria wanted order, a hierachy with her clearly crowned as Empress. What was the point, after all, in ruling if there was nobody to rule? To devour the world, to crush enemies—it lost the taste of games and took on the taste of needless bloodshed.

When Nym was young, she looked up at her mother and saw only a ruler, a god. Now when she looked upon Confutatis, she saw but an old woman, one who clung desperately to her sexuality and passion and yet, for all her efforts—was nothing. Nobody loved her, nobody admired her, nobody cared to live beneath her rule; they didn't fear her, but scorned her. What mother preached she had always failed to attain herself.

And yet she understood.
That hunger, ingrained in her bones; that desire, thrumming through her blood; she had to rule, had to conquer, had to forge a name. There was no way to adequately explain the relentless need to uphold her bloodline, to be made into legend. It was what had driven her to this decision, this recklessness, so out of nature for her—the decision to plunge into action, heedless of the consequences.

Except that was a lie.
There had been nothing unplanned about this. The eventuality of failure had been acknowledged and mapped out, as had the remote possibility of success.

Aunt Ophelia was regarded by many as something greater than mere mortal, an Ascended, a favored of the gods. Nymeria did not know the details of the Amaranthine's deeds, but she did know her prowress, her skill. When Nymeria tasked herself with an attempted capture, when she decided to make her move, it was not without careful thought. And while she had certainly not expected this furor from her Aunt, she had given it thought too—she would not be going unprepared anywhere. Arguments, defenses, and implorations had already come together in her mind as she trotted towards the Rotunda.

Volterra was there.
Her heart leaped, rising in fleeting joy—she longed to go to him, to press her body against his, to melt into his caress and his anger and the security of his flank. With mother gone, it was all the more important that they stayed together—and insofar, that had hardly been the case. Ever since their... spat, they had strayed clear of one another. It would soon be time to remedy that; soon be time to come together, and reunite, to coax their plans into action. (Her plans, at least; what Volterra thought of Confutatis' previous desires she wasn't certain.) Now, however, was not the time. As much as her heart and mind reached out to him, she had to focus on carrying out her plan.

Without a second glance, she moved by Erthë and Volterra, towards the crux of the problem.

"Aunt," she says, soft and gentle, the edges of her voice all sanded off. Placating. Imploring. "I didn't ever think I would best you. I... just didn't know how to get your attention. Please, I'm sorry for any harm I caused."