The stars are shining over Kanbalar tonight.
It's a beautiful sight, and a rare one, in a city where clouds blanket the sky daily. Those living there walk outside to stand in the street and stare, openmouthed, at the night sky, dazzled by its magnificence. But though the stars shed light, they offer no heat, and—shivering as they take a final, wistful glance heavenward—they return quickly to the coziness of fire and family.
But some look without seeing, and their blindness keeps them warm.
Presa's eyes gaze fixedly at the galaxy spreading across the sky like a brush stroke, but her mind is far away, ignoring the chill that gradually wraps her in an icy embrace. She defies the stars to give her a reason why they sent him to her arms again.
She doesn't give second chances.
Presa still vividly remembers the way every nerve in her body screamed in dissonant harmony with her own shrieks of agony, and the way he just stood there and watched. She recalls, the image blurry through tears long since dried, that his face was blank. Not even a flicker of pity, before she lost consciousness—and he was gone when she woke again.
But Presa also remembers the lazy days when he would rest his head in her lap and she would play with a few out-of-place strands. Some of their nights together were so full of passion there was no time for sleep. And sometimes, as they lay side by side catching their breath, his hot rough hands would wander all over her body, and he would look into her eyes and tell her he loved her.
And Presa was fool enough to believe him.
But not anymore. She doesn't care how lost he says he is, or how helpless the expression in his sharp and sleepy eyes; she is not going to be taken in by his seductive lies again. At least, that's what Presa tells herself. She can feel herself falling for him once more, losing her hold on the cliff she's scaled over the last five years, but she's going to flail all the way in the hopes of sprouting wings and flying back out of his reach.
"Insomnia?"
Presa turns her head slightly in surprise. Why is Wingul still awake, and what is he doing here? "Take a wild guess," she says, turning away from him—her superior and equal, enemy and ally, rival and could-be-lover. "The man who once had me tortured for information just waltzed back into my life, saying he has nowhere else to go, and now we're working together."
She sighs, breath hanging visibly in the air as she hangs her head. It was her fault for agreeing to take the matter to Gaius, a final favor to which she did not expect the king to agree. Why had Presa allowed him to catch her off-guard, to take advantage of a moment of weakness and manipulate her once more?
Wingul says nothing at first, only walking deliberately up to Presa, coming to a halt a respectful distance away. After her initial suspicion, she grows gradually accustomed to the gentel silence, so different from the tension that usually fills the air between them.
"You loved him once," says Wingul eventually, but it is not a question, and he is not looking at her. It sounds like he wants to say something else, but the words on his tongue do not take flight.
Presa's heart skips a beat at the mention of love, and her fingers tighten on the railing. Her throat aches at the thought that she might once have loved—might still love someone so undeserving. "Leave me alone," she says, staring up resolutely at the silent stars. She will stand there as long as it takes for Wingul to stop dredging up emotions long since forgotten.
But he only leans his back against the railing. "Presa," he says simply, and she can tell his eyes are trained on hers, but refuses to meet them. It takes a long time for him to finish his thought, the space between them becoming steadily less comfortable. "What will you do if he betrays you again?"
Presa looks over at Wingul in surprise to find a surprising amount of earnestness in his ordinarily impassive golden eyes. Whatever his motives are for asking, he's unusually attached to her response. "Why do you care?" she asks, looking up again to focus on a silver-lined cloud scudding across the edge of the night sky.
Wingul gives a light sigh and looks at his feet; she can almost see the gears turning in his head as he chooses his words. "Love is a dangerous thing," he says, looking up again, and their eyes lock. "People do or say things unlike them, or abandon lifelong missions, all for the sake of their loved ones."
"So you're questioning my loyalty," says Presa, raising an eyebrow. "Wondering if having him along for the ride will affect my performance." She almost laughs at the irony of Wingul's concern. As recently as a few years ago, he would have delighted in the prospects of getting rid of her. It had taken him an extraordinarily long time to trust Presa, given her prior profession.
"Do you still love him?"
Wingul asks the question so quietly Presa can barely hear, staring straight up at the sky. Even when she registers the words, she's convinced she must have misunderstood. There is no reason why he would ask something so personal of her.
Presa debates initiating their usual dance, a slow and indirect process wherein nothing is truly said amid the words they exchange, but the starlight illuminates the path forward. Truth, for once.
"I don't know," she says, tail swishing automatically in frustration. She slides her hands along the railing, worn too smooth for splinters, and turns away from Wingul. "I used to tell myself, in the days after he left me, that there is no such thing as love. I might have even started believing it, somewhere along the line."
Presa only realizes how cold she is when Wingul tucks his cape around her shoulders, surprising her. It doesn't do much, fur notwithstanding, but she finds herself grateful nonetheless. "Tiaemukusu," she murmurs, looking back at him, before she can remember that he never accepts her thanks, even in his own language.
But tonight is the night of exceptions. "Ban'ruwaitun'," is Wingul's mumbled response, completing the formula, though he does not meet her eyes. He shifts in place, taking a step forward as though to go back to the castle, but the thought of being left alone as she initially requested is more distressing than it should be. Obeying an inexplicable impulse she has rarely felt before, Presa reaches out and catches his wrist.
She can feel, from the sudden tension in his arm, that Wingul is forcing himself not to retaliate. "What are you doing?" he asks, his voice guardedly curious, but not as annoyed as Presa expected.
Offering him a tentative smile, she steps forward and slides her fingers briefly down to his, then lets her arm drop back to her side before he can knock her hand away. "Don't worry about me. He doesn't belong here. As long as I keep that in mind, I'll be able to keep him at arm's length." She puts as much conviction into her voice as possible—more even than she feels. The last thing she wants is for Wingul to decide he's causing her too much pain and kill him for her.
"I'm not worried about you," says Wingul, and Presa knows he's lying. Even though his voice is as measured as ever, and he doesn't break eye contact, there's something a little too faraway in his expression. "He's a liability, that's all. I'm concerned that your focus will suffer because he weighs too heavily on your mind. And heart."
"I thought you were more preoccupied with my loyalties changing." Annoyance flashes briefly across Wingul's face, but vanishes back into his usual calm mask without a trace. "If you're going to lie, at least keep your story straight."
Wingul heaves a sigh, removing his hand from hers. "Can't I be concerned about both?" he asks, his eyes and voice unusually soft. "You are the fangs of the chimera, and we have already lost our stinger. We can't afford to lose you to that traitor, whether because you fall in battle on his account or because you turn against us."
"And what will you do if either happens? Not the Chimeriad, not His Highness," she adds, as Wingul opens his mouth to respond, and he closes it again with a frown. "You."
"Why do you care?" asks Wingul after another long pause, his voice a whisper as he echoes her earlier rebuttal. "You'll be dead, or you'll be with him. Either way, nothing I do will matter to you anymore." There are the barest hints of regret and resentment in the latter statement, but they hold such a dangerous edge that Presa knows better than to mention them.
"I want to know," says Presa simply, having no reason to give.
Wingul lets out his breath in a resigned sigh, expression darkening in the already dim silver light. "If you betray us, I'll hunt you down, and him too, and I'll slaughter you both myself, whether you're together or apart." He hesitates, bringing his fingers up to lift Presa's chin. This is the closest they have ever come. "I'll give you a quick death, should you choose to surrender, but he won't be so fortunate."
There is a long, uncomfortable silence as they both turn their eyes back up to the sky. Clouds are gathering again at the edges, stirred by a high wind. Presa has her doubts about whether Wingul will be able to kill her so easily, surrender or no, but says nothing about it. The last thing she wants is to bring back their traditional power struggle.
"And… what will you do… if I go down fighting?" asks Presa haltingly.
"If you were to fall in battle because of him," says Wingul, looking down at her with an expression almost like tenderness, "I would tear him apart first. If he wasn't the one to kill you, after he's dead, I'd track down the ones who did."
Presa nods thoughtfully, trying not to imagine her ex-lover in pieces. She finds a distraction in flattering herself that at least a little of Wingul's particular devotion to hypothetically avenging her death originates in some degree of attraction, which he has never admitted in words, but she knows better than to suppose even for a second that sentiment guides the majority of his actions involving her.
"Would you mourn for me?" asks Presa, choosing her words carefully.
Wingul closes his eyes and bows his head in as close an expression to defeat as Presa has ever seen on his proud features. Yet, even like this, he maintains his dignity. "Grief is futile," he says quietly. "Dwelling on what has already happened does nothing."
Presa sighs. "If you truly love something, you can't help it."
Wingul raises his eyebrows at the implication, but does not either confirm or deny the truth of it. "When people close to me die, I occupy myself with things they would have wanted me to do. For my father, I waged war on his killer. For my mother, I ensured that our clan would live through that war. For Nils, I brought the orphans of Labari Hollow to safety. And for Jiao, I have dedicated all my energy to the fight against Exodus." He pauses, meeting Presa's eyes coolly. "What would you have me do for you?"
It is Presa's turn to bow her head as she thinks. Wingul waits patiently for her answer, almost as though he cares what she says. "Start being honest with yourself. About how you really feel."
Presa expects Wingul to turn on his heel and stalk away from her, but instead, he only frowns slightly and crosses his arms. "Honesty. I've always striven to be as truthful as possible, and here you are, telling me I haven't even begun." With that, Wingul shakes his head, his countenance full of ironic amusement, and turns away.
"Good night," says Presa uncertainly, and Wingul pauses to glance over his shoulder.
"Go to sleep, Presa," he says. "And remember—there is no such thing as love."
Presa smiles faintly to herself, closing her eyes as the door to the castle opens and shuts, her own words on his lips sinking slowly into her soul. She certainly didn't expect Wingul to offer her any consolation, but he has reminded her that she is an integral part of the Chimeriad—and no matter how she feels about him, she cannot abandon her duty to her comrades.
Why does it matter if he betrays her again? It will only prove her right. Besides, Presa was barely more than a child the first time around; now, she's capable of fighting back. She'll stand proudly by Gaius, as the fangs of his chimera, and hope he realizes that he has no place there. His heart belongs with that gaggle of misfits, and he deserves to realize that and find himself again before she or Wingul or anyone else kills him.
Her mind oddly soothed, Presa closes the door to the chill of the night and walks through the halls of the castle, her resolve growing stronger with every thought of the loyalty of her true allies. There is no such thing as love. She refuses to let him convert her into a traitor, even if the alternative means her death. There is no such thing as love. She must fulfill her mission, and she must ensure he finds his real place in the world; it's not with her.
There's no such thing as love, huh, thinks Alvin, lying on the palace roof and gazing blindly at the stars with his eyes full of Presa, and the already unbearable weight in his heart grows heavier still, aching more and more with every pulse.