𝐊𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐇 → f. odair

𝐈

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[ 𝐏𝐑𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐋𝐋 ]

༺⦿༻

⦿

"𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃, I can tell." Haze Tallis insists, dropping the metal spear he previously held in his grip. Khairiah's eyes narrowed, watching the way in which his shoulder blades fell and relaxed, and she couldn't help but feel somewhat insulted.

"Absolutely not." The younger girl scoffs, wiping the bead of sweat that had accumulated on her forehead. "If you're the one who's tired you can just say so." She reposts, shrugging. Haze noticed the way she held the long polished blade in her hand, not daring to let it go - she never really did.

It had been six years since her Games and a day had not gone by without the thought of them; it was more than clear Khairiah Styx was living well inside her own head, too far for her own good.

As the boy regarded her visage he could still see the dance of knives and the haunting echoes of her games; the blood, murder, everything. Khairiah had transformed herself into a tempest, her spirit a moccasin of shattered innocence and empathy. The arena became her battleground, where her very survival hinged upon the trajectory of a knife - each throw a symphony of fear, skill, and unwavering certainty.

Her victory sang silent ballads whispered in the wind, and beneath her indigent success an indelible meytaphormisis took root. The gleam of the triumph crown casts long, chilling shadows across her very psyche - lingering reminders of the price she paid in blood, the weight of the lives lost and taken by her calloused hands. The regret she so longed for was like a gentile whisper at her lips, almost audible but strangely not all at once.