Tyrant

(𝟹𝟶) 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝙷𝚞𝚛𝚝

After a filling dinner of canned beef and carrots with Astrid, I had decided to go shower in the Bath Sector, deeming myself in need of a thorough cleanse before encountering Caspian tomorrow. I had emerged from the water feeling fresh, anew—and slid on a clean black t-shirt and soft pants, comfortable clothes for bed.

Your dream will turn into a reality, Phoenix.

You will see Caspian tomorrow.

During dinner, Astrid had informed me that, based on her assumptions and Caspian's Tracker, my friend would arrive by noon the next day.

Leaving my poor mind to contemplate how our encounter will go, what he will say, how he will react.

Why would he take a detour to Alf's shop? He's not a Retriever. 

It doesn't matter, anyways.

I ruffle my hair up a bit as I recline on my cot, damp white strands splaying onto my face and wetting my cheeks. Zehra perches in her cot on the other end of the room, silently scanning through a few papers—documents for Healers, she had said. 

Documents that had been in the Base for fifteen years, perhaps longer—from doctors and nutritionists and therapists that had lived here, slept and ate here. Those are the documents that lie behind door six.

Even stolen documents from abandoned clinics and hospitals.

Incredible. I consider as I unconsciously braid small strands of my damp hair, lost in thought. Did Raeyan find this place on her own? Or did she discover it with a companion?

As brutal and fierce as Raeyan is, I consider her to be a true empress—ruthless and unforgiving and beautiful. Even with her occasional rudeness. 

The only thing I question about her is why the hell she would appoint a woman like Kenna as her First.

The woman that suddenly seems strangely out to get me. To insult and diss me and drive me away like a gnat. 

"I have such a headache." Zehra groans out from her cot, and I frown as she sets her papers aside, one hand massaging her temple. The small bedside lamp illuminates her creased forehead and closed eyes.  

"You should sleep, Sister. Maybe you're just exhausted from today's fashion show." I tease, and she cracks a small grin, tying her long white hair back. Not many rebels had duties to attend to today, save for the Terminators—spending hours in the Clothing Storage room with my fellow Sisters had imprinted a joyful memory in me.

"Probably. Being pretty is draining." She cuts a wry glance to me, amusement dancing in her white irises. "I think you would know that more than the rest."

"What do you mean?"

Zehra chuckles, placing her papers on her bedside table. "Raeyan's Third seems to have quite the infatuation with you."

I feel my cheeks heating up a bit—because her words are true. He's as infatuated with me as I am with him. Which is dangerous.

"I don't even know what we are." I find myself blurting out, unaware that that's the question I've been internally asking myself for a while. Ever since that first kiss in his bedroom, the moment the unspoken words flowed between us.

Zehra's expression turns understanding, soft. And I take no offense at all when she says, "Does it matter?"

I stare at a spot on the wooden floor, biting the inside of my cheek. 

Does it even matter? Will giving ourselves a title change anything?

Zehra, her face considerate, says, "As long as the feelings are there, why rush to label them? I know you care for him. I see it in your eyes. The same way that I know deep down, you don't care about what you and him are." She gives me a small smile. "There doesn't need to be a label for love to flourish."