Fatality ━━ Matt vs Chris Sturniolo²

𝖝𝖑𝖎. The Raiders

[ tw: death, violence ]

𝖝𝖑𝖎. The Raiders

Maeve

"I SAID NO MORE SURPRISES," Maeve hisses to Dawson, following close on his heels as he leads her and the others through his palace. Cyrus marches next to him, her hand resting on the pistol at her hip, as if she expects raiders to start popping out of closets.

The Silver members of their party are just as on edge. Annabel keeps their ranks tight. She repeatedly slows Matthew, nudging him back behind a protective wall of loyal guards from House Roloson. Valencia is better at hiding her fear, her face the usual twist between sneer and smirk. She has two escorts of her own ━ Vesper cousins, Maeve thinks. Her dress changes quickly, reforming into scaly armor as they weave through the halls of the Montfort palace.

The premier looks over his shoulder when Maeve speaks and surveys her with a withering glance. The bells and alarms echo strangely in the hall, dancing around his words. "Maeve, I can hardly control the whims of raiders, and I do not schedule their attacks, frequent as they may be."

She holds his gaze and quickens her pace, hot anger pulsing through her veins. "You don't?" It wouldn't surprise her. She's seen kings do worse to their own people in exchange for power.

Dawson turns steely and presses his lips into a grim line. His voice drops to a whisper. "We had a warning, yes. We knew they were coming. And we had enough lead time to make sure the outskirts were protected. But I resent the implication that I would spill the blood of my own people, risk their lives, for what? Dramatic effect?" he hisses, his voice deadly as a knife edge. "Yes, this presents an opportunity for the Scarlet Guard and for Sturniolo to uphold their ends of the bargain, and to prove something before we go to my government and beg. But it is not a trade I'm happy to make," he snaps. "I'd much rather be sitting out on the terrace getting pleasantly drunk with my husband, watching overpowered children sneer at each other, than do this."

Maeve feels scolded but also relieved. Dawson glares at her, fire burning in his eyes. He's usually so serene, unflappable, impossible to discern. His strength lies not just in ability or charisma, but in a well-practiced calm that few can see beyond. Not now. Merely the suggestion of any betrayal, however small, to his country has him incensed. Maeve understands that kind of loyalty. She respects it. She can even almost trust it.

"So what are we going to do?" she asks, satisfied for the moment.

The premier slows, then halts, turning his back to the wall. So he can see all of them. It stops everyone short, crowing the wide passageway with waiting Reds and Silvers. Even Annabel looks on Dawson with grave attention.