Tyrant

(𝟼) 𝚃𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝙴𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎

Reclining in a worn-out periwinkle loveseat, I run my palm over the rough, aged material—the color must have once been popular. 

Fifteen years ago.

Now, it just looks dull.

My white hair cascades down my shoulders and across the back of the ancient couch. Despite the dark stains of who-knows-what upon the cushions, I do not recall a time when I had felt so comfortable. When was the last time I had perched upon decent furniture? 

I cross my legs, the cigarette-scented black leggings Raeyan's fellow Sister had dug up from one of her clothing stashes warming my bones. 

Now my fellow Sister. 

The sudden air of comfort had momentarily lulled me into forgetting about the danger and death encompassing this inconspicuous building Raeyan and her group had established as their Base.

Almost.

The memory of pain from the day before still lingers there like a phantom caress upon my flesh.

The day before. It feels like weeks of this strange pleasantry have passed, not a mere twenty-four hours. Decent food and clean clothes do miracles for a person.

"You look quite different after cleaning up and putting some food in your stomach." A soft, upbeat voice calls out. Astrid, one of Raeyan's Sisters, is perched in an indigo armchair across me.

My Sister, too, I casually remind myself. 

She is shorter than me, I had realized when she'd handed me those leggings earlier, yet carries an air of certainty and poise that I do not possess. Her features are elegant, and her white hair is short like Raeyan's. Many of the females here sport short hair—some even dyed it various colors.

Flags of rebellion.

One girl I saw in passing earlier had her pixie-cut hair dyed a bright coral, her firm eyes cradling nothing but bloodshed. 

I made sure to not provoke her. 

I grin and raise my brows at Asterin. "That's what hot water and food do to a person. Thanks for the heavenly leggings, by the way. I've been stuck in that bloody dress for God knows how long." Astrid's lips quirk to the side and she opens her mouth to respond, when Raeyan enters the small room, still clad in her black gear. 

Her short hair swishes around her beautiful, fierce face like a miniature cape. Astrid's visage turns into a mask of coolness as she stands from the armchair.

"Did you locate the whereabouts of Darcio and Weylin?" Raeyan demands, not sparing a look in my direction as she pins her shining white eyes on Astrid. 

"I did. Fallon said they were up north near Blackridge hours ago, around sunrise. Weylin is injured, but it's nothing he can't handle. They're on the way back." Astrid confirms, then adds, "Darcio Eliminated three." 

Eliminated three? 

I notice the stark contrast between Astrid's pale hands and the long black dress draping over her slender figure.

Black, the polar opposite of white: the color us women are supposed to be wearing. 

A flash of anger heats my veins.

The aching need to disobey and oppose every rule set in place by The One overwhelms me. 

"Three isn't enough. Where is Fallon now?" Raeyan inquires as she pulls a pair of black gloves out of her bomber jacket. She slides them over her slender fingers as Astrid informs her that Fallon is on her way back to the Base, rations and supplies in tow.