Carillon
Part One, Chapter Three
The natural downward turn of her lips, the distinctive black mole on her cheek just below her left eye, the shades of midnight purple and black she wears. She looks at everything but him, and he looks at nothing but her.
Bells, everywhere. The mourn in throbbing, lamenting musical overtones, the final indication of her downfall. They ring in harmony, more often in discord, and the rumbling tower makes her heart quicken even faster. It heightens the reality that Cyclonia is falling apart, and so is her master.
And he holds her. Blades that no doubt still have the blood of her champion on them. They are strapped to his back and tucked away safely as Aerrow places his arms around her waist and starts to waltz her around the empty throne room. His feet are swift, strange accustomed to the movement in ways the empress of crystals doesn't know – more revelations and more realization that her conqueror can beat her at every level imaginable.
"I like your suit." He raises his eyebrows and indicates at the elaborate workings of fabric, leather, and buckles that consist of her altered wardrobe. In return, her eyes glance up and down at his chest and notes the dark red cloak that hangs off his shoulders.
She has no other words to say but, "Thank you."