Volterra is larger than Nymeria remembers him to be, but that does not surprise her. It’s always been that way with him. Even when she grows (and not literally), he is a step ahead of her. Away from him, she might be a walking paradox of kindness and cruelty, womanliness and manliness, without a doubt self-absorbed and proud; but beside him, she became but a dewy rose. Rich, beautiful, armed with thorns: but still a flower easily cut, a flower easily disarmed and dismantled.

She hates him.
She loves him.

What flourishes on his lathered skin is not her—their—scent anymore. It’s not the familiar old musk of Vérvés, dirt and adolescence, with faint undertones of warm milk. Now, he smells to be richly fertile, ripe with ungiven seed. A memory forces its way to the forefront of her mind, a glimpse of shining water and dragon flame, monochrome silver and hard gray eyes. Heat had coiled through her veins then—heat originating at her groin, and emanating throughout her entire body. Unwillingly, she flushes at the thought; her eyes flicker away from Volterra's bloodied body, her lips twisting down into a grimace of dissatisfaction. Shame douses her judgement; she shouldn’t be thinking such things around her brother.

There is a splutter, an incredulous gasp—she raises her brows, her tail hissing across her flanks. Looking at Volterra is overwhelming, but she does it anyways. Her brother will not intimidate her—and he is intimidating, isn’t he? Not merely for his muscle, or height, but because he knows her in all ways that really matter except one. It brews a foul span of emotions in her—uncertainty and confusion and loss, bitter remorse and nostalgia over their brief youth… but mostly fear, fear of him that leaves a foul taste in her mouth. The fear does not originate just from his size or his prowress—it grows and spreads and takes seed in her heart and soul because her false and pretty face will not deceive him. He knows all her way;, her greed, her ambition, her lies… yet she knows nothing of him. Not anymore.

There is a rustle of red-stained grass and he moves aside. Sunlight gleams down on something golden and glistening, so bright that it hurts to look upon; at the back of her head Lilómiel inhales sharply, his breath a quick and rattling intake. Uncertain, almost afraid, Nymeria sweeps forward, cloaking her insecurity in confidence. She lowers her head, lashes coming together as she narrows her eyes: an egg. Not any egg, but a massive one, a royal one.

Immediately she is hungry—greedy—full of poisonous and insidious desire. She doesn’t say anything, not at first, for more reasons than one. First, this close to Volterra, his testosterone-buoyed reek gives her a headache; but mostly, because of her savage want. It’s a cruel and wicked thought, but she wonders if she could get away with stealing the egg from him.

… Or if she could defeat him for it. Isn’t that the real question? They were made for one another, groomed to rule together, and perhaps Confutatis' plan had backfired. They were too equal, too similar. Neither wished to concede defeat, and both were imbued with an instinct to win whatever the cost. She knew they both wanted to rule, whether it was a week or a month or a year from now. And when it came down to it, Nymeria didn’t think there could be two rulers; and perhaps that was what had driven such a rift between them over the last year. Maybe she was wrong—maybe it was only her that harboured these desires that went against blood, harboured thoughts she hardly dared to think…

How bitterly she wants to take that fucking egg.

Instead, she turns her face to Volterra, with his red eyes and his red bloodstains, with his war-marks and his sweaty haunches. Nymeria should’ve congratulated him, should’ve smiled and embraced him, but she couldn’t bring herself to. It felt like—like admitting he had won something, and she had lost. Instead she spoke what her head told her and her heart did not want: “You’re going to be a king someday.” And he was going to be king. For all her planning, for all her charm… Volterra had something she was missing. Perhaps it was the balls between his legs; perhaps it was something else. He was a predator—but one with friends, one that ran with a pack. And she? She lived with nothing but her demons and her dragon.

I will be Queen before he is King.
She would stop at nothing for it.

Away from Nymeria’s tumultuous thoughts Lilómiel croons a low song of mourning for his brother, who once he so detested for color and strength. He presses against the red, flame warming him from within—« You are blood. » That was more than enough, for Lilómiel's faith and loyalty; and you are my brother, though the black did not say it out loud.