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so background. my fiancée and my mom have been calling each other “BFF” since we started dating over 5 years ago. like that was my mom’s contact name in Selena’s phone for half a decade.

anyway we just got engaged a few days ago, and now the two of them want to update their nicknames to reflect that. and. well. hold on i gotta gear up for this one

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absolutely disgusting that i have to create the the things i want to create

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Happy (late) STS!

What would your characters do on a night with friends over? Games, movies, food, etc?

--@oh-no-another-idea

happy late sts ! it's saturday somewhere surely

talking about the modern aus :]

the unlikely friend group (aira, ely, chimera, arion, níniam and sûn) often have sleepovers together. they make pizza and watch children movies (kind of a necessity as arion is like 8). they stay up until almost sunrise the next day, eating snacks and playing card games or videogames (sûn and arion love pokèmon) (also they all have matching onesies i drew them)

in the fake dating au, karma is often over at ira and nin's. níniam insists on showing him the worst, most ridiculous movies he can find (specially if they are horror). they order takeout and chat afterwards (ira falls asleep the quickest because she's always. so tired.)

eak, aira, sahare and sher have cooking double dates. they all come from different cultures and all love food, so every night is someone's turn to make a menu with traditional food from where they are from, and the rest help cook. they mostly chat about whatever well-adjusted young adults do

the p:n crew have video game nights and they get very competitive about them (they keep a total tally and stats and everything). 4 college students, 1 poor lit basement, energy drinks to last a lifetime and an impressive collection of old and new consoles and games. smash-like games are the preference, but they also sometimes pick a game to learn how to speedrun for the week to then compete. (enzo's the better speedrunner thanks to his perfect memory, sirio is at the top of the leader board overall, marte is the best at improvising during speedruns, and ceres has the best mechanics)

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i love you 7k long karma pov

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rereading karma's povs like. baby this negative self talk we got to do something about it

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@my-cursed-prince

CHAPTER 7 - IRA - IRA

masterpost

When I wake up to both aldamu at my door instead of Áine, two days after our little fun conversation, I know that the tranquility of my new routine has come to an end. They bring with them two kids in imitator clothing I don’t remember seeing before. They hide behind Emhi's back, looking too young to be treating with khithi at their age, closer to Níniam's age than to mine.

As it happened with Áine’s last visit, I’m immediately alert and unnerved. I am, though, excited at the same time. I’ll finally be allowed to do something that’s not just sit here. And, if I’m lucky, I’ll finally get my answers to the questions they refuse to answer.

I crave movement, talking, see something beyond this bright white cell—but most of all, I want, I need, to do something. Without the drug, that for some reason they’ve stopped giving me, the heartbeats come to me dimmed; the Iria’s voice a faraway whisper, almost gone.

I shouldn't have taken it for granted.

The kids fidget as the aldamu struggles with his keys, and I recall that my silence has turned to a cause for alarm for them. So I lean forwards, resting my head on a hand, elbow on my right knee. My legs are crossed under me, softly resting on the golden pillow I was allowed to keep.

“I hope you don’t expect me to eat the kids.” They flinch when I say it, even if they try to hide it by squaring their shoulders when Emhi looks back at them. Garvan snorts and finally manages to open the metal door. I'm surprised enough at the young girls understanding me that I don’t comment on it.

“You’re pretty cheerful for the hour. And too awake,” he jokes as he frees my shackles from the floor to tie them up again in front of me. He helps me stand up, my legs swaying after so much time sitting.

“The consequences of not giving me more… how was I supposed to call it?” I fake thinking about the drug’s name while Emhi and him roll their eyes. The kids relax beyond the door. “Oh yes, alziwaq.” My tone is serious as I say the last word, and I try to lower my voice to imitate his.

He rolls his eyes again, but I see him ignoring what I’m really saying: that I’ve noticed the lack of substance, the lack of explanations and, most of all, the consequences that has brought.

“You could be more enthusiastic about it.”

“Eh” I shrug. We are getting to the end of the corridor before the stairs to the surface. I haven’t asked where they are taking me yet, or why. For now, I’m happy to have some fun, and to enjoy the company. Either way, they’ll probably tell me when we get there. “It’s a pompous enough name already to say it with reverence. And, how is it possible for you to give awfully simple names to something and elaborate ones to others?” I glance at him. I need to raise my chin higher than I’m comfortable with because he’s ridiculously tall. “Because, like, seriously. Imitators? Could you be more obvious?”

“Says the creator.” I stop dead in my tracks and narrow my eyes at him.

As an answer, he shakes his head. Giggling can be heard from the kids at our back. Emhi, at my other side, stops for a second to look at them. Their mirth tragically dies. Well, we now know who is in charge here.

Our little trip through the gray imitator wing is spent in silence, and I have to contain myself to keep it that way. The silence is uncomfortable, but I have to remind myself that I agreed to think more before acting. Clearly, this has to do with the drug and its absence, which is not due to my answers because they have always been the same, so it has to be because of my conversation with Áine.

It's dumb. I can control myself. What’s more, I’m the best at it when the time comes, at least at creating and what it implies.

Except for the throne room, when fear made me drain energy from close imitations and creations just before the mirza took my creation, and I overexerted myself. Or later in the Iria when the connection drew me in.

But those are only isolated incidents, right? Because of the drug.

Which I do miss. Its salty, invigorating taste that lingered in my tongue. The energy it brought me, the clarity of the world around me. It's still here, dimmed: sharper corners, a haze that persists on the borders of my vision even after I open my eyes. And the creations, that I feel nearer: the mirzaan’s in the room we are walking towards to, her intensity rising with each step—the imitations of the others, their presence weak, but constant.

I shake my head and try to focus. Today, I’m looking for answers. We've stopped in front of a dark door, just like the dozen we passed in our way here. The corridor has no windows, but it smells of dirt and faintly of blood.

One of the girls moves to open the door, her short hair tightly wound at the nape of her neck, and I center myself.

I blink at the sudden change in light. From the orange, warmthless light of the imitations to sunlight. The room is bright lit, spacious, with book covered walls and a table stacked with unfamiliar glass tools. The mirzaan's leaning on a shelf next to it, Áine besides him. There are cushions next to the shelves and on the windowsill to sit. The sea, beyond it, is brighter than what I remembered.

The awful smell of closed up dirt and blood give way to the breeze, fresh and welcomed in this damned heat. And the sun. Feeling its warmth on my face for the first time in weeks manages to erase everything I've been through, even if just for a moment.

When he sees us, the prince straightens with a little startled jump and walks to us, avoiding some pillows. The imitators bow around me, murmuring a low “Mirzaan”. I look at them over my shoulder.

“You are sorely mistaken if you are waiting for me to do the same.”

A little part of me waits for him to order them to grab my neck like what happened in the throne room to make me bow, but most of me knows he won’t. He just looks at Áine right next to him, who takes a step forwards. I look at her, curiosity sparking. Confused, too, at their lack of general response. There’s some movement at my back, which I imagine is the girls moving to guard the door. 

The silence settles over us in an awkward pause.

I look at my sides, at the aldamu: Emhi rests a hand on her sword handle, Garvan looks at the mirzaan. The air is tense and waiting.

What is wrong with them?

At last, Áine talks.

“We’ve decided that’s time to start with some… tests,” she gestures to the table and then at Garvan, who takes the keys from his belt to untie me.

Wait a second. What? Tests? That’s it? No explanations? No mention of the drug or reference to our last conversation? No nothing? And that's without taking into account their off-putting behavior. I move my arms away from the aldamu.

“You are kidding.”

“What seems to be the problem,” the mirzaan pauses to hesitate before continuing, “Ira?”

“What seems…” I roll my eyes at them and snort, “what seems to be the problem? Apart from the obvious?” I rise my arms to emphasize my words, chains rattling. “Well, I’d like to know why you stopped giving me the drug, for starters. You can't just brush that over.”

The mirzaan avoids looking me straight in the face. Garvan still has his hand in between his belt and my shackles. No one answers, no one talks. I turn to Áine who, serious, was already focused on me.

“Is this because of our last conversation?” Silence. I add: “I told you I could perfectly control myself. What happened at the Iria was an exception.”

“We can’t take the risk,” she answers after a long pause.

“Oh come on. I destroyed like, what, ten imitations? You can probably remake them in, I don’t know, a day? Also,” I add, my anger rising, “for the record, you used the blood of my people to make them to begin with, so it's not like it's a personal waste to you.”

Surprisingly, they don’t react to my provocation. Áine could correct me, as far as I can see she’s pure khithi, but she’s precisely the one that lowers her head the most, more even than the mirzaan, still keeping himself on the background.

I jerk my head to move some hair away from my eyes, too short to be kept tied up. I feel the need to move, to let out some energy as I walk across the room as I talk. Thinking before talking? Yeah, forget it.

“Obviously,” I go on, “there’s something you haven’t told me. Something that hasn’t to do with the drug. What is it.”

“Ira, look…” Áine takes a step towards me. “Cutting you off of the drug… it might have been for the best, doesn’t matter the reason.” And before I can talk back: “You’ve obviously developed an addiction.”

I look at her for a second. I choke on the ironic laugh that climbs my throat.

“Addiction?” I realize that, in spite of the circumstances, I’ve taken it all pretty well. This is absurd. The clarity of the morning shows it to me, of how stupid all of this is. I'm done unconsciously repressing it all. That’s fucking over. I raise my voice. “What were you expecting? You gave it to me when I was dying!” They flinch at my tone. Or my words. Who cares. “And then you kept going!”

“We don’t say that we didn’t,” she rises her arms as if to calm me down. Obviously, it doesn’t work. I snort. “Come on, Ira. We have to do this.”

And she points to the table and the glass things again. I make myself take a deep breath, to relax my posture, calm my face. I see them relaxing in turn, resting their shoulders. The mirzaan looks up, relieved. They think I’ve been convinced.

When I talk, I carefully think my answer, and its consequences.

“I want to go back to my cell.” I try to turn to the door, but Garvan makes me stay facing Áine. She looks at the prince, both surprised.

“You two,” I hear Emhi say to the girls. I’d forgotten they were here. “Out.”

The door closes with no protests behind them.

If it weren’t for the mirzaan’s lack of assertiveness, I probably wouldn’t be so insolent. If it were the shahin, even his brother, I wouldn’t have been so daring, probably. Hopefully. If he tried to impose his presence more, his legitimate authority, I’d think about being more civil. But he’s not, and I’m angry.

“Ira…”

“No,” I cut Garvan and turn to look at him. “Tell me what’s happening or escort me back to my cell.”

He doesn’t attempt to speak again. No one does, they just glance at each other. I scoff.

“Look,” I enumerate. “I’m here against my will. I was captured, by other imitators, by the way. I almost die, in more than one occasion. And, oh yeah, if I don’t obey,” I point at the mirzaan, “his father will order the death of hundreds of people! Telling me whatever shit’s going on would be the minimum act of decency you could have with me.” Nothing still. I redirect my focus towards Áine. Surely, surely, she can be reasoned with.  “Why. Did. You. Take. Away. The. Drug. And no 'we can’t risk it' bullshit,” I make air quotes, even if it’s difficult because of the closeness of the shackles.

They might be right about my little addiction, but right now that’s only one of the branches fueling my anger. I need them to give me something more than some smiles and basic acts of human decency like clean clothes and food. Since the Iria, for this past week, I’ve had a lot of time to think, to let my brain catch up with what has been happening, in between so much chaos and confusion and the deafening sound of the heartbeats in my ear.

In the throne room I was out of myself, raging and confused and in pain. The Iria left me too drained and defeated, and the removal of the drug only helped make those worse.

Now I’m awake, my vision is clear, and the light coming through the window warm on my face. For the first time since I’m here, I can think with absolute clarity, and that makes me certain that they aren't really thinking of what they are doing.

I need more than threats and decency to even begin thinking of trusting them, to really think about the consequences of whatever they’ll do to me. But they don’t seem to think the same.

“Ira.” Garvan’s voice is hard, and this time I truly hate the fact that I need to lift my chin to look at him. “It’s enough. We don’t have time for this.”

“Perfect,” I turn to look at Áine. She's khithi, too. She has to understand, even if she looks pretty cozy standing alongside them. I’m completely ignoring the mirzaan now. “Tell me, then.”

Garvan doesn’t seem to understand that I’m ignoring him, too, because he keeps talking to me, his voice rising.

“Ira, this will help a lot of people.” Oh, I’m aware, but that’s not how things work.

“Oh, no. No,” I turn to face him completely. “Look, little pawn,” I push him on the chest with my tied hands, “doing this is not my job, ‘kay? It’s yours,” and I turn to the rest. “Because you are the ones that created the problem in the first place, the ones that perpetuated it,” I fix my gaze on the mirzaan at that. “It’s your fault and your responsibility to fix this.”

“This is serious.”

I turn again to the aldamu. “I am too. Are you going to bring me back to my cell?” I say to no one, and when I get no answer, I walk to the cushions at the window, ending the conversation.

I brush Áine on my way on purpose, my shoulder hitting hers. She doesn’t stop me. Fuming, I sit down, my arms as crossed as they can be with my hands tied, my back to the glass, and I look at them. 

I have to stop myself from shaking out of rage. Sure, right, let me just perform some stupid test for you while I've been given nothing. As if. I scoff. Closing my eyes, I focus on the island and the faint echo of the connections happening around me. When I open them, I've calmed down.

I study them. Emhi looks at Áine; Garvan at me, frowning, keys clenched in his fists. I rise my chin to him and lock my eyes with his, defiant, daring him to open his mouth again. After a while, he looks away, too, towards the other khithi in the room. Áine's still standing where I left her, her back to me. Her hands open and close, once, before she takes a deep breath.

And then there’s the mirzaan that, when I look for him around the room, I find looking at me. Our eyes meet for an instant, and he rapidly looks away like the aldamu did, his hand rubbing his right ear where the late queen’s creation rests.

They meet in the center of the room, then, their heads turning slightly towards me from time to time in quick glances that I face head on. They don’t bother themselves with lowering their voices, they only need to talk in gair. After a few minutes, Emhi departs, bowing at the last second to the mirzaan before exiting the room.

Her brother leans on the closed door, arms crossed. Our positions are almost mirrors of the ones we are used to in the cell, but there’s no teasing or light conversation here. I hate the silence, but the heartbeats in my ear are there to fill it. I gather strength from them.

Eventually, the sahira and the mirzaan sit together at the table and talk in whispers. I feel their gazes on me from time to time, but I’m completely focusing on the aldamu.

Specifically, on the imitation he keeps on his pocket. Unlike the mirzaan’s creation, which I feel unnaturally close to me, even if she’s on the other side of the room, the imitation seems to be a world away. Made with a mix of animal and khithi blood, and dirt, probably from the mines, its impurity is too high for me to reach it easily.

Without my creation, and the alziwaq to give me strength, my work takes me longer than what I expected. I can't even close my eyes like I should be, that would give me away, but my anger fuels me, everything I’ve been keeping does. My breath starts to be laborious and erratic, so I slump forwards to disguise it. Our eyes remain locked for the fifteen minutes it takes me to feel it properly, even if precariously.

I’m not planning on anything harmful. I’m also not in condition to do so. I only focus on the heartbeats echoing on it, that fortunately bounce on the mirzaan's creation, halfway, until they get to me dimmed and weak.

I start to feel the metallic taste of blood on my tongue, and I start worrying my nose will start bleeding too. Unnecessarily so, as the mirzaan suddenly stands, breaking my concentration with an alarmed squeak in my direction.

Shit, I didn’t take into account that the creation I was using wasn’t mine.

I return his look with as much tranquility as I can muster, and I smile at him, mockingly.

“Ka—” Áine stops herself half a word through. She looks at me for a second, then addresses the prince again. “Mirzaan, what is it?”

He only looks at me, frowning; touches his ear. I notice he’s disheveled, his hair down. He thinks for a moment, corrects his posture, then rubs a hand through his bangs, clearing his throat.

“Do you intend on sitting there until we bring you back to the cell?” He acts as if nothing happened. Okay, I can play this game too. Surprisingly, he’s the one I’m the least mad at in here.

“That was the plan.”

“I see. Garvan?” he gestures to him with his head and then keeps going. “We’ll try again tomorrow; you can take her back to the cell.”

“Finally!” I fake jubilance. “Did someone time it? I’d like to know how long it took you to get bored. I wonder if you’ll get a new record tomorrow. My bet’s on—”

The aldamu, who came closer as I talked, painfully yanks by my chains, interrupting me. I look at him after I manage to find my balance, eyes narrowed, and step on him. Hard. I’m barefoot, but my intention wasn’t to hurt him, only to be a nuisance. It works, because he lets me go and pushes me to walk in front of him instead of dragging me through half the palace.

Before leaving, I look backwards one last time over my shoulder. Áine and the mirzaan are in the same position as when we got here, the woman’s eyes worried, the prince's on his palms, where I notice a distinct orange shine.

When Garvan slams the door closed once I’m back to being tied down to the floor, the sound produces a loud metallic echo.

tag list (ask to be added or removed): @my-cursed-prince @on-noon @aquil-writes

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hey sexy what time do you plan on being done grieving

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I love it when two characters are completely and utterly obsessed with each other to an unhealthy degree. Utter devotion to the point of insanity. To the point the lines blur as to what the nature of their relationship even is. Romantic? Platonic? Sexual? Familial? Professional? All and none of the above, somehow. They can’t exist without each other. Being together is making them both worse. They would watch each other sleep in bed at night every night if they could. They are literally always thinking about each other. They would kill and die for each other. They resent each other. Even seperating them isn't going to fix the situation at this point. They permanently live inside each other.

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ira and karma's relationship,,,,,, literally Everything to me

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Couple + Sibling/relative third wheel is honestly an S-tier trio dynamic and I wish we saw more of this in media.

"You are my soulmate. We are forged together by battle and tears and love. Also my brother's coming along."

"Yo."

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sexiest thing a character can do is drag their past around like it's a dead body tied to their ankles

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On the possibility of resurrection

This is the most alone that I have ever felt. Please grant me the courtesy of leaving me physically too, rather than hanging on, a reminder of what might have been. Please, give me space outside to match the void within. What has devolved so naturally for you, relationship to friendship, is a paradigm shift for me. The two are worlds apart: one must die before the other can live. You cannot cannibalise one from the other and expect me not to recognise it as  the life that I once knew, the love that I could never forget. 

Rebirth can come only after a period of silence. The phoenix rises from the ashes, not the flame. The imago emerges from the chrysalis, long after the larvae has ceased to exist: accordingly, the two are not easily confused. Whether three days in Jerusalem or four days in Bethany, before reincarnation there must first come death. 

Every platonic arm around me is a bridge that I must burn, a drawbridge across which painful feelings can invade. That portcullis must be closed. I need quarantine to spare me from your infectious smile. solitary confinement to protect me from ferocious beatings: those that you inspire into my bruised and aching heart. In the wake of your love, your friendship is the greatest torture.

Let me mourn us, alone, before you christen us anew.

Don’t think that I hate you, and that this is why we can’t be friends. I love you. I have always loved you. But the two results are increasingly the same. 

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Tell us about it! What languages are spoken by the characters in your wip?

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basically you can take the man out of the loser but not the loser out of the man

he's a nerd. he's prone to jealousy. he has no social skills. women want him for his money and power and not his personality. he's so Othered that even tho he's 100% cis, trans headcanons fit him like a glove. he's a mama's boy. he's emotionally constipated. he's sleep deprived and hasn't eaten a proper meal in ages. he hasn't showered in weeks and wears the two shirts in rotation. he's developing a conscience at 20 years old. his mother died a couple of days after his birthday. he somehow has both no self esteem and an abundance of overconfidence which is rooted in denial. he's terrified of heights. he's a pretty boy. the people he thinks hate him love him, and those he thinks like him are actually tired of putting up with his bullshit. he's still mourning. he's a freak. he's a loser. he's weak (mentally, emotionally, physically). he cries himself to sleep hugging his childhood plush. he holds promises as sacred oaths. everything is wrong with him

his name is karma and i love him

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forever funny that the fact that karma doesn't participate in the argument in chapter seven is what makes ira tolerate him at first. truly a social anxiety win for the books

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CHAPTER 7 - IRA - KARMA I

masterpost

I spent my childhood living with Áine and my mother on her house: a beautiful one-story mansion perched on the hills far beyond the city. The Umar’s home had once been the seat of power of the island, that is, before the other half of my lineage arrived and slowly gained power and influence, their effort culminating on the construction of the palace. I’m told it remained as the pride of the khithi far after that, but just until the illness began.

Eventually, it became just a home, our home that, for decades, remained warmed by one of the leaders of the khithi community. And then, my maternal grandparents died, and my mom married the shahin. She moved to the palace, for a while, and left her younger brother home to manage the family as she was far too busy being queen and raising a child.

Áine’s aunt, who had been her nurse and companion for most of her life, often tried to comfort me by saying that my mother had always been frail. That’s why at first no one thought much about it when she became ill. She and Sher moved back home, under the care of her brother and Áine’s aunt, and eventually she had me.

And then she got worse. Her brother, Ádil, died in a mining accident shortly after his marriage to a member of the Chamber when I was still too young to remember him, and Áine’s aunt passed on the winter I turned nine.

So we moved back. Here. I’d visited before, but Sher had left soon after our uncle died. He already had a place in the palace, and older friends that didn't want anything to do with a kid like myself. Áine got put into training to become a nurse for the imitators, and I was left alone.

My father scared me, my mom was sick, and my only friend became too busy to be around me. The one person in the whole palace that did take notice of me, that cared, was Súil.

I was terrified on our first meeting. By then I had already met Garvan and Emhi, who, far older than me, likewise intimidated me. Emhi was too serious and beat me ruthlessly when she sparred with me, and Garvan’s uncaring attitude unsettled me.

I expected Súil to be a mix of both of them, but what I found was a relaxed, jovial man excited to know me. “Heard you are a bright boy, aren’t you?”, he told me after the shahin presented us. I nodded, scared, and he laughed and clapped me on the back, almost tumbling me over. “Let’s see what you do know, then.”

My mother had always encouraged me to read about what interested me, but she’d always been reticent to have me go down the imitator rabbit hole. Súil, of course, wasn’t. He welcomed my questions and encouraged my curiosity. He was dismissing of my more fanciful ideas, of bringing back what creators of old could do. Myths, old garbage, he’d call it. But he fostered the rest. He tutored me, and convinced the shahin to let me join the imitators when it was proven I was not cut to be a prince. He allowed me to skip the courses I had no interest in (mostly those relating to any physical activity), and to listen in to classes past my level.

More than anyone, he made me who I am today. I know he’s lost faith in me, these past few years.

But he took the blame for what happened in the Iria.

He has agreed to listen to me.

And yet.

“You are well aware we don’t have people to spare, don’t you?” From behind his desk, his cunning eyes watch. He isn’t wearing his usual attire, opting instead for a tunic similar to mine, only in white, and with the pattern that identifies him as the khadae. Imitations hang from his breast pocket, twinkling in the faint light of the bigger, more powerful ones on the bare walls.

I nod, hands clasped behind my back where I can dig in my nails without fear of him noticing. “I know, but the rookies are just with Emhi for a couple of hours each week, and she and Áine have their own responsibilities beyond dealing with—with the creator.”

“You knew that, and yet you requested them.”

I nod, again. He’s well aware why. “True. You also insisted our team was bigger, and so gave some of your own imitators to help manage the fatir. But now you have taken them away.”

“I repeat myself, mirzaan,” he always manages to make the word sound disparaging, “the city’s a mess thanks to that stunt you pulled in the Iria. As long as the fatir is kept far away from it, we need far more manpower managing these insurrections than one sick girl.”

He sees me flinch, and leans back against the backrest of his chair. Ila’s symbol is carved out at the top: a small triangle sitting on top of a bigger, down facing one. The Core’s Mountain and the Iria. We kept it, to assimilate better my history books said, even if we don’t hold the Core in any sort of significance. It is said that’s where Jhai, the first creator, was first born of the earth. It’s where Ila gave away her gifts and where she died, too.

The furthest point from the sea on the island. Just a mountain.

Súil is no longer pretending to pay me any attention, stacking the papers on his desk and flattening the top of his tunic. He’ll next check the imitations in his breast pocket before dismissing me and standing.

But it’s too soon.

“That stunt I pulled,” my voice is loud and shaky in my panic. His eyes meet mine as his eyebrows rise. I force myself to keep looking. “It showed us how much potential the creator and the Iria have. If redirected properly—we could do great things.”

He settles back, one hand still resting on the papers, while the other plays with his goatee. Cunning is back in his gaze. “And I guess you have such means to do so.”

Yes. Well. “Not yet.” The interest leaves his eyes, but I didn’t come here empty-handed. I gather my courage. “We have decided to begin with the tests.”

“Early,” he interrupts.

“Yes, early.” Now comes the part he won’t like. I rush the words out. “The drug hasn’t been agreeing with the fatir as well as we'd hoped. We’ll be lowering it to then raise it as the tests progress and we gain a better understanding of what she's really capable of. That’s why we need reinforcements.”

His fingers tap on the wooden surface of the desk. Rhythmic, not rushed. “The vague outlines you first gave me relied on her being accustomed to an elevated dose, even by creator standards. Why are you backtracking, Oghan?”

I can’t tell him the truth, but the truth doesn’t really matter. “She barely even looked at it.”

“Pardon?”

“The Iria. We had just entered the Chamber. She was nowhere near it, and yet, all that energy that came out. With a lower dose, once she’s healthy and more in control...” The hours I spent last night just thinking, going over my plan over and over again, pay off. “If she touched it. The creator has hinted at the deepness of her connection to the Iria. If I’m right, and I believe that I am.” I do. I do. “She could look into it. Heal it, or at least start working towards that goal.”

His eyes are piercing. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“I do.”

Súil must see something in my expression because he nods. The tapping on the table stops. He stands up.

“I’ll talk to the teachers of the rookies Emhi has been assigned. Ámadan’s granddaughter and that fourth-generation imitator girl with the impatient attitude, aren’t they?” I nod unnecessarily. Not many sign up to be imitators, and even fewer last until graduation. It’s easy to keep track of us, and he’s always scouting out talent. “We’ll see about moving them full-time. Will be good for experience.” He gathers his papers before stepping away. “I’ll want updates. Daily. And a full outline of this new plan of yours.”

“Of course,” I say as he passes me, scuttling out of his way.

“And be careful, Oghan.” He turns, the open door framing him. He looks cold, the gray stone of the hallway and the whiteness of his clothes swallowing his pale skin. “I will not step in to fix your messes again.”

tag list (ask to be +/-): @my-cursed-prince @on-noon

[vsnotresponding]

he's a nerd. he's prone to jealousy. he has no social skills. women want him for his money and power and not his personality. he's so Othered that even tho he's 100% cis, trans headcanons fit him like a glove. he's a mama's boy. he's emotionally constipated. he's sleep deprived and hasn't eaten a proper meal in ages. he hasn't showered in weeks and wears the two shirts in rotation. he's developing a conscience at 20 years old. his mother died a couple of days after his birthday. he somehow has both no self esteem and an abundance of overconfidence which is rooted in denial. he's terrified of heights. he's a pretty boy. the people he thinks hate him love him, and those he thinks like him are actually tired of putting up with his bullshit. he's still mourning. he's a freak. he's a loser. he's weak (mentally, emotionally, physically). he cries himself to sleep hugging his childhood plush. he holds promises as sacred oaths. everything is wrong with him

his name is karma and i love him