The earth was full of impertinence, cheeky and insolent, straining and calling for justice where it’d yet to be obtained; he hadn’t expected it here, in the throes and throngs of twilight’s chill, in a serene aperture of returns and renewals. But, the previous, calm, tranquil state was suddenly bludgeoned by the mare’s statement. I would happily take the position of Thief… - he wanted to laugh at the absurdity, at the weight of entitlement, at the quick, swift nature of her hunger for supremacy. “You are presumptuous,” he declared, mutinous and subversive, staring at the skull-faced femme and wondering what on earth had possessed the mare to believe she could acquire such a rank with no fulfillment or regard to the position. Was it sheer audacity or pure ignorance? Was it a lust, a determination, a drive for power in whatever form, or simply a manner of the unknown, incapable of understanding how one came to find themselves near thrones? The Reaper had always been a cretin who rewarded his other fiends’ efforts, who believed in hard work, who cherished the labor of his fellows and slaved alongside them: patriots to their duties, to their creeds, to the mountains and the icy, chilling wings. He had no room for brazen, overconfident creatures that did naught but flee the scene, only to come back with a request for brawn and bravado, for merit and gifts, for rewards they’d not deserved. What had she done that would warrant such a ridiculous request? The Lord was reminded of so many seasons and years before, when emboldened beings showed their faces at their doors and demanded entry, when they’d achieved naught, when they could offer naught, when the layers of his frustration, rancor, and treachery caught flame (and played a wicked, torturous dance, invoked and conjured death and demise – he could always do it again). The fiend’s eyes formed a scaling, scathing mark, narrowing slightly, disheveling his careful, nonchalant mask for an arch of a brow, for the hint of insurgent, seditious decadence, dabbling and procuring the notions of his speech necessary for the task. “You have yet to prove you are worth the title.” Blunt and keen, candid and direct, he continued, providing avenues and alleyways in which she could shape her ambition. “We earn our ranks. Show us you want it.” If she truly craved, if she truly yearned, then she’d be able to delve into her aspirations, sink her teeth into secrets and furtive schemes, demolish snares and tarnish reputations – and if she didn’t, she’d be one more of those who’d failed to carry out their targets, and it wouldn’t matter to him. “You may start as a Phantom.”