The seething tension, strain, antipathy, and antagonism seared into the cretin depths of his desecration, molding, weaving, contorting, carving the foundation of rage, fury and ire until he thought the loss of his control imminent. It somehow remained, forged and resolute as words became clamors, as phrases became threats, as emboldened, hurt, audacious embers foiled and spoiled old glories. The sparks of indignation tore, ignited, incised, exasperation exploding into the breadth of shame, and he felt no weight of the responsibility, the blind accusations. Did she blame him for her recent tribulations? Did she place all her rancor, all her bitterness, upon a beast who’d asked for a declaration of response from his leader, one who’d flown into the night, left them to falter in the sand and grit? All the savage discourse was misplaced malevolence upon his resolute fervor, when all of her tirades and turbulence should have been sunken, harpooned, into her chest, into her thoughts, into her mind, congealed in the taste, in the flavor of belligerence and humiliation. He would willingly give her the credit she was due, the uniting of a broken harem, the sharpened edge of their animosity, the grinding, puncturing friction of their heresy, but hadn’t they all contributed? Hadn’t they all fostered pride, forgot condemnation, consigned themselves to the persevering anchor and weight of cumbersome loads? Hadn’t they fought, hadn’t they all dreamed, hadn’t they all yearned? And now, she hoisted herself upon a pedestal, poured all their strength, all their tangible prowess, into her own doing and possession? The Reaper’s brutal fortitude, resilience and capability had not been for her to claim, to hold, to dominate, but for the land, the earth, for each glacial cavern, for each stone placed upon their chilling empire, and she sought to reign over its brawn, diminish, distort, the reasons behind his queries? The festering of his heated acrimony, barbaric enmity, hostile loathing, didn’t fall over his brow, but curled into his chest, pierced the vicious, ferocious, forthright tones. “You twist my words. I asked for explanations.” He paused, directing the full, taut contempt of his stare into her gaze, to spew her accusations back into the midnight air, to correct inappropriate, misguided, ill-judged phrases. “Not for your departure.” It wouldn’t have been his place to demand her withdrawal, not when others mimicked the same actions, but to sully his regard, his dominion, for theatrics, for dramatics, was an unsuitable ploy. He refused to be maligned by her, the General who’d served their sovereignty without complaint, without refusal, grinding his daggers into souls, ensuing depravity, unwinding calamity, at the pulse of her word.

Then she tossed them away, flung her distinction, her title, her circlet, into the air, as if it didn’t matter, as if they’d tarnished her reputation into damnation (hadn’t she done this on her own?), as if by conjuring her errors into the land, they’d purred and poured her destruction. Deimos stared, shocked, surprised, eyes widening, as she effectively thrust her diadem into Ulrik’s covetous grasp, forgoing triumphs and conquests because she’d been reminded of her faults, of her errors. Instead of yielding, unwinding and attempting to embark on crusades to right the faulted ship, she simply abolished her credentials. Had someone so embossed with credentials, absolution, and obliteration, with impending sway, with foretold authority, tossed it aside? Had she been always been such a creature, and they’d never seen the end of her ambitions, the toppling of her figurine? Or were they treated to this juncture because they’d witnessed the stumbling, the faltering, the vulnerability, and she could think of no other way to combat the moment? Psyche’s actions were met by his stunned, stony silence, the reticent claws surfacing back over his corrupted features, gaze sliding back to the smirking, snickering mechanic, wondering what was to befall them next. Was it to be dissolution at the culmination of all their wicked deeds, leaving a fragmented coronet behind to be embodied by another? Was this the end of her reign, suffering defeat one last time, incapable of feeling anymore crashing against her senses? If they’d all been, become, beings giving up, retreating, waning and whining, surely, wouldn’t the Basin fall?