Lavender reclined on the rooftop terrace of the inn, a cup of cinnamon-spiced brew warming her hands as the breeze played with the edges of her lavender shawl. Her curls were pinned in the same careless perfection they always were, though there was something sharper today in the tilt of her lips.
"I still can't get over it," she said with a huff, swirling her tea like it was a potion. "Imagine, Vashir. Charging at me with such gall-without even shifting into her beast form! What kind of beastman doesn't use their most precious form in a fight? It's like bringing a butter knife to a blade ballet."
Vashir stood beside her, quiet and still, arms crossed over his chest. His silver-gold eyes gleamed with some distant thought, but he made no move to speak. He was learning, slowly, that Lavender didn't need encouragement to monologue.
"I mean," she continued, waving her teacup with theatrical flair, "if you're going to try and kill me, at least do it with a little flair. Claws, fangs, transformation-something! But no. She came dressed like a theater villain and died like a snuffed candle." Her voice grew dark, velvet-wrapped and coiling.
Then her smile faded.
Her gaze turned heavy.
"And yet..." She placed her cup down carefully, porcelain clinking like a soft threat. "She still lives."
There was silence-so deep it made the rustling trees below sound like thunder.
"She's broken," Lavender whispered. "Cracked in pride, smeared in humiliation. Unworthy of the shelf, but too stubborn to shatter properly." She leaned back in her chair, expression twisting between disdain and quiet fury. "I should've finished it. A worthless collection left half-intact only insults the rest of the gallery."
Vashir's jaw twitched, but still he didn't speak.
Lavender's gaze turned skyward for a long, contemplative moment.
Then, as quickly as it came, the storm passed.
She blinked, sat upright, and leaned over the railing, peering down at the bustling town square. Her curls bounced with movement, catching sunlight like dark amethysts.
"Well, would you look at that," she said, tone sweetened once more. "They've cleaned up quite nicely. Less pomp, more purpose. The new officials aren't afraid to sweat. Look at that merchant-he actually smiles when he sells something. And the guards aren't preening like crows anymore." She clapped her hands once. "I like this version better. Practical. Tidy. Collectible, even."
She turned her gaze back to Vashir with a spark of mischief, but paused when she met his eyes.
He was watching her-not with amusement, not even with his usual quiet calm, but with a strange, unreadable look.
A look that held a hundred thoughts and no words.
His eyes flickered over her face, her hands, her sharp joy at destruction and control, and something in his expression tightened-as if caught between awe and warning.
Lavender tilted her head.
"What?" she asked, a smile playing on her lips. "Don't tell me you wanted her alive."
Vashir didn't answer right away. Then, in a low voice, he said:
"You speak of people the way scholars speak of relics. Like they've already died."
Lavender blinked once. Then laughed-a tinkling, delighted laugh that sounded far too innocent.
"Oh, my dear Vashir," she said, rising to her feet, brushing off invisible dust. "Everything dies. The point is when, how, and whether they're beautiful enough to be remembered after."
She walked past him with a hum, her skirts swishing like whispered promises.
And behind her, Vashir remained still... wondering not for the first time if perhaps the totem had chosen her not because she was worthy-
-but because she was the only one mad enough to carry it.