xxxxxＣＡＬＩＳＴＡiiＡＴＨＡＮＡＳＩＯＵ.
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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxthe revenant princess of the eidolon.
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- indentcalista gave the spooked owl-bear cub a pat of reassurance before she sought the familiarity of søren's presence, retreating between his calves like a child seeking shelter. a faint smile touched the princess' lips. her eyes flickered to søren as he attempted to comfort aömwé, though it seemed his efforts did little to calm her frayed nerves. the owl-bear cub immediately claimed her spot at the stern like a cornered creature defending its last safe haven, forcing the lord ascendant to shift to the centermost seat of the canoe in doing so. calista watched søren as he cast his leather coat over aömwé's rounded form. between the owl-bear cub's disquietude and the lord ascendant's silent sympathy, there was something profoundly sweet about the display. aömwé's wariness was humorous, yes—but it was also endearing, in a way that made her chest ache with something soft and unnamable. the revenant princess carefully observed the man as he turned in his newfound seat to face her. a look of amusement crossed her features upon his words, the beginnings of a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "your torment?" she echoed teasingly, a hint of wicked delight underlying her playfulness. he was right, of course. she had no intentions of granting him what he wanted, impatient as he might be. her movements were unhurried as she leaned forward, shrinking the space between them. "and to think," she murmured, her voice low, silken, "i've already been so gracious, inviting you to my chambers." her eyes drifted over him, taking in every detail—his posture, the way his hands anchored on either side of her seat, as if claiming the space between them—before meeting his gaze again. given her playful tone, it was obvious she was only joking with him in kind.
indentthe lightheartedness that seemed to color their conversation was soon to shift though. the revenant princess' gaze drifted downward as søren all but sank to his knees before her, her eyes tracking his every movement. there was something arresting about the way he knelt, as if shedding all the walls he had built over time. calista watched him closely, her breath caught between her teeth. this gesture—this rare act of submission—seemed to be as much about longing as it was surrender. as søren leaned toward her, his head came to gently settle in her lap. calista froze for a moment, her body tense and unmoving, caught in the sheer vulnerability of his gesture. his presence, so familiar yet altered by the rawness of his submission, overwhelmed her with a thousand unspoken words. she could feel the weight of him now, his platinum hair spilling across her lap like a silken veil. he had placed himself at her mercy, and in doing so, he had revealed the depth of his turmoil, the overwhelming nature of the desire that had been growing between them for so long. calista's hand hovered above him for a moment, unsure, as if she feared that touching him might break the fragile connection they had formed in this moment. a rush of emotions seemed to tighten in her chest. the feeling was strange, almost foreign—like something she had pushed down in order to keep her own heart from aching with the weight of an impossible love, one that could never be fully realized, no matter how desperately they clung to it. such was the cruel nature of their fate─they could never truly belong to one another, not in the way they both wished, no matter how much their souls might yearn for the bond between them. her breathing stilled for a moment, and then, almost instinctively, her fingers grazed his hair, gingerly threading through his platinum locks. the princess began to stroke his hair with the same tenderness a mother might use to soothe a child—gentle, slow, as if trying to comfort him without words. she only faintly registered the feeling of his arm slipping behind her knees, his opposite hand coming to lightly graze the outside of her thigh with a certain longing. calista felt a soft, quiet ache spread through her chest, like the faintest stir of a long-held yearning finally beginning to unfurl. the weight of his submission, of his trust, was almost too much to bear. the princess watched in silence as he removed the golden mask that half concealed his features, baring himself completely to her. she felt his head shift slightly, his face pressing more firmly into her lap. calista's hand moved instinctively to cradle the back of his head, her palm smoothing over his hair with a tenderness that surprised even her. the princess' thoughts began to drift as her hand moved with unconscious care through his hair. this fragile reprieve could not last, no matter how much they might wish otherwise, yet, in this moment, those realities seemed to dissolve, leaving only the raw, unspoken bond that existed between them.
indentthe soothing rhythm of her fingers paused when søren's face lifted from her lap. calista's eyes flickered between the lord ascendant and their intertwined hands, curiosity threading its way through her gaze. though she didn't know what to anticipate from him, his words were quick to weave around her like a velvet cord—soft, comforting, yet unyielding—pulling her closer to something she couldn't quite see. it wasn't just the weight of his words though. it was the cadence, the warmth in his tone, the way he seemed to know how to guide her without pushing. the princess' features seemed to soften, the slight tension in her posture easing into something quieter, more contemplative. what søren was saying made sense, didn't it? she had seen it herself, the way the monarchy bent to appearances, how uncomfortable truths were swept under golden rugs. her mother, in particular, was the master of that art—demanding perfection and conformity to ensure that they present a united front at any cost. but søren's words… were they a revelation, or just a reflection of what she already knew? either way, his touch, warm and steady against her skin, grounded her, easing her skepticism, and for a moment, she almost wanted to believe him, to take his words as gospel. maybe he was right. besides, søren has always seemed to possess a clarity she lacked, an ability to cut through the noise and see what others were quick to dismiss. what he spoke of—the silencing of those who don't conform, the stifling of voices that don't fit the expected mold—struck a familiar chord. she had bitten her tongue countless times at court, keeping her anger hidden for the sake of maintaining the appearance of peace. she was drawn into his vision for some reason, unsure if it was her own sense of rebellion reawakening, or if his words had stirred a new sort of restlessness within her. but i do not think it is outlandish to say the current monarchy is overly concerned with statecraft and public presentations, yes? calista nodded her head silently. her mind churned, not with objections but with the slow, half-formed thoughts of someone being gently drawn into another's current. søren painted a stark picture of the monarchy's complacency and the people's ingratitude. the incident at the marketplace was quick to resurface in her mind. she could recall the defiance in that troubadour's eyes and the laughter that roared through the crowd. was that not proof of what søren was saying? were they not ungrateful for the protection the crown provided? she hadn't let herself think of it that way before, but now it seemed so obvious, so undeniable. she turned the thought over in her mind, reluctant but unable to deny the spark of agreement it kindled. still, a faint, nagging doubt lingered at the edges of her thoughts. why now? why bring this up here, in this moment? but she was quick to push it aside, telling herself it didn't matter. søren wasn't like the others at court. he didn't play games for the sake of power or manipulation. no, he couldn't. not with her. not like this. we could ignite change, you and i. the lord ascendant's voice was laced with a warmth she couldn't help but trust. he made her feel seen, understood in a way that few ever did, and if he believed in this, maybe she should, too. after all, hadn't she always admired his insight, his ability to navigate the complexities of their world with such ease? maybe he was showing her a truth she had been too afraid to face. almost imperceptibly, her thoughts began to align with his, the resistance she initially felt giving way to a quiet, cautious acceptance. perhaps this was her chance to prove she wasn't just a pawn in someone else's game, that she could see beyond the surface and act with purpose. søren believed in her—didn't he? why else would he share this with her, in such a vulnerable, intimate moment? she wasn't sure when it happened, but without realizing it, her fingers had curled tighter around his, as though in silent agreement. calista was allowing his vision to take root in her mind, its contours forming a future she couldn't help but want to be part of. the gods did not create you to sit on a throne for the rest of your life. you are a conqueror, and your spirit belongs to no one but yourself. the man's tone seemed to shift into something softer, almost reverent, as he spoke of her—of her potential, and the way her fire could reshape the world, and that alone ignited something within her. the suggestion that she was more than the sum of her duties, that she could transcend the suffocating expectations placed upon her, felt both exhilarating and terrifying. it was a vision she hadn't dared to imagine for herself, but the way he worded it made it seem not only possible but inevitable, like she was part of something larger, something more noble. her mind stumbled over his vivid imagery, struggling to keep pace with the torrent of his thoughts, but the weight of his convictions pressed against her own uncertainty. his words were filling the spaces where her insecurities lived, quieting the small, insistent voice of doubt that so often plagued her. she was subconsciously leaning into his vision, drawn not only by the logic of his argument but by the sheer belief in his voice. how could she question him when he seemed so certain of her potential? even his religious rhetoric, which might have otherwise struck her as trivial, was couched in terms that appealed to her sense of uniqueness. he spoke not of destiny but of her power to reshape the world, aligning his spiritual ambitions with her personal rebellion, and in doing so, he wove a vision of shared purpose that felt strangely empowering. she didn't see herself as part of some divine plan, but the way he spoke of her—as if the universe itself had shaped her for something greater—was seductive in its own way. it wasn't the idea of fate that drew her in but the idea that she could be extraordinary, that she could break free from the gilded constraints of her life. søren's words made that future feel tangible, as though he had glimpsed a version of her she didn't yet know how to become.
indentstill, her mind swirled with confusion. there was the familiar urge to deflect, to push him away. it was what she had always done. normally, she could keep anyone─even søren─at arm's length, veiling her vulnerability with a layer of flippancy. but for reasons she couldn't quite explain, something stopped her from immediately retreating behind her usual defenses. it was as if his words lingered in her mind, seeping into the cracks of her carefully constructed boundaries. the idea that she could reshape everything, that she wasn't just meant to live within the parameters of her birthright but to define it—that was new. søren's words struck directly at her rebellious core, the part of her that had always loathed being treated like a pawn. he spoke to the defiant girl who had once dreamed of escaping the suffocating expectations of her birthright, offering a vision that aligned with her unspoken, deepest desires. it wasn't just the rebellion he ignited in her that gave his vision its strength either. rather, it was the quiet reassurance of his faith. his promise to stand behind her as a steadfast ally felt like an anchor in waters that might soon become increasingly unpredictable, a rare source of stability she hadn't realized she might desperately need. it wasn't just his belief in her that stirred something inside her─it was the way he spoke as though her strength was not something she needed to prove but something she already possessed. her mother had certainly never regarded her like that. but unlike queen anastasia, søren didn't view her through the lens of strategy or politics. he saw her as she was, raw and unpolished, and still found her worthy. and to some degree, it terrified her, because in accepting his vision, she would no longer have the safety of rebellion as her refuge. defiance was easy when it existed in opposition to something greater, when it thrived in the shadows of an empire she could not escape. but søren was asking her to step beyond defiance. he was asking her to wield the very chains that bound her, to remake them into something new. he spoke of a future where she wasn't alone, in which her strength could be bolstered by his unwavering loyalty. it was intoxicating, this vision of partnership. truth be told though, she didn't care about the boundaries of duty or the politics of their connection like he might. all that mattered was the sense of belonging he offered, a feeling so rare in her world that she didn't dare question its motives. calista never asked for this degree of devotion from him, yet perhaps she had always craved it. the depth of his affection, whether genuine or carefully crafted, gave her a sense of power she wasn't accustomed to. she couldn't help but cling to his reassurances, the adoration in his tone dissolving the last traces of doubt that lingered in her mind. if søren believed in her and saw something worthy in her, how could she not step into the role he described? it didn't help that the mere mention of her mother had sparked something sharp within her, like a twisted sense of vindication. she does not understand you, not like i do. he was right. her mother feared her and what she could become because she didn't understand her. calista had always known that, but hearing søren say it out loud felt like some sort of validation. how many times had she been told to hold her tongue, to obey and fit into the mold her mother had built for her? and yet, søren has never once tried to silence her. instead, he spoke of the very qualities her mother condemned as though they were strengths. søren imagined a future where they could reshape the world together and ignite change, and not just for themselves but for everyone who had been crushed under the weight of imperial tradition. the idea of a world where she could lead, where her voice wasn't just tolerated but celebrated, was tantalizing. i would do anything for you. calista's heart stirred at søren's words, each one pulling at the tangled knot of her insecurities and desires. without you, i am adrift in mind, body, and soul; without me, you might face these storms alone. i do not ask for recognition or glory, only the privilege of serving you once you ascend the throne. his declaration of devotion, so absolute and unwavering, seem to cloud her better judgment. she didn't dwell on whether his claims were entirely sincere because in this moment, she needed them to be. his carefully crafted words felt like her own thoughts, as though she had always believed in this path and had simply needed someone to show her the way. and as her mind settled, her decision crystallized, though she couldn't entirely grasp how she had arrived at the certainty she now felt. trusting him felt natural, almost inevitable. at-least she could be assured that no matter what came next, she would not have to face it alone, but instead with søren at her side. a faint smile ghosted across calista's lips as his words began to sink in. granted, she didn't process them fully, not in the way she should have—she simply let them wash over her, absorbing the sentiment without questioning the intent. her lack of interest in politics combined with her impulsive nature and disdain for authority created significant blind spots in her understanding of søren's motivations. while she was perceptive in personal conflicts or direct challenges, she often failed to grasp the broader implications of actions or the nuanced strategies of others. she rarely considered how her position as heir to the hallowed throne factored into the ambitions of those around her. søren's words, framed with genuine affection and tailored to appeal to her rebellious spirit, could easily distract her from any underlying agenda he might have. his appeals to her individuality, her frustrations with her mother, and her desire for autonomy were all meticulously crafted to resonate with her, leaving her unaware of how these emotions could be weaponized against her. but for once, someone was offering her a chance to escape, to be more than what others had decided she should be. and she grasped it, not realizing that it might come at a cost. she wanted to believe in the lord ascendant, to have faith in the future he envisioned for her, because it was the future she had always longed for. søren's vision of change wasn't just a dream—it was a call to arms, a promise of something more. his vision—no, their vision now—was one where she could lead, not as a puppet to be controlled but as someone with a purpose. as soon as søren's words had embedded themselves in calista's mind, they began to rapidly evolve, shifting and expanding beyond the confines of his vision. she could feel it now—an undercurrent of ambition stirring deep within, urging her to step beyond the safety of her birthright to define her own destiny. the possibility of reshaping the power structures that had always governed her existence was a heady thought, one that made her pulse quicken with anticipation. the very thing søren had planted in her mind—this idea of breaking free from the constraints of her position—was morphing into something more. she could do more than just tear down the old system; she could build a new one, one where they stood at the top, unmatched. with the right allies, they could become unstoppable. her mother's kingdom, with its tiresome need for balance and appeasement, was a system she had no interest in preserving. why delegate power when the crown could take it all?
indentstill, a part of her remained doubtful. not in søren, but herself. for all her bravado and fiery independence, there were cracks beneath the surface that she couldn't ignore. she had spent so long pretending to be unshakable, wearing her reckless defiance like armor, but there was a gnawing unease deep inside her that she kept hidden from the world—and even from herself. it was the doubt that she wasn't as strong as she wanted to believe, that her rebellion was more of a defense mechanism than it was her true nature. søren had called her a conqueror, and yet, the truth is, she was just a woman who's spent her entire life running. she knew how to outrun others' expectations or slip through the cracks of their designs, but that was all she had ever done. run. it felt like she had spent the entirety of her life dodging the weight of expectation, sidestepping the roles others tried to force upon her. she had learned early on how to hide her vulnerabilities, bending the world to her will through sheer force of will. but that wasn't the same as true strength, was it? it was survival. and sometimes, surviving felt like nothing more than staving off the inevitable. calista lived so much of her childhood feeling invincible, so loved by her own people that when her youth came to an abrupt end, ripped away by what monstrosities lurked beyond the safety of gore bay, any sort of positive development in her life was immediately stunted. the same would happen to anyone forced to spend nearly a year in captivity, regardless of their mental hardiness or martial capability. calista had not just been a prisoner under the scarlet hand, but a prize to be made a spectacle of. when she first arrived in sioux narrows in shackles, she was paraded in front of the scarlet hand's camp, forced to kneel in the muddy snow while soldiers hurled taunts, spat insults, and sometimes worse. the name apostolos kourou was thrown at her like a curse, a constant reminder that her triumph in the arena years prior had sown the seeds of this particular torment. from there onward, she spent her time in a perpetual state of dim awareness. rations were always meager, barely enough to sustain her strength, and intentionally so. thirst was a constant companion too, for water was doled out sparingly, and often after prolonged physical exertion to ensure she remained weak but alive. her body, once honed for combat, became an instrument of servitude. despite the isolation she faced, calista never fully yielded though. at night, she would retreat into her thoughts, plotting escape after escape, each more daring and unrealistic than the last. she meticulously studied the layout of each new camp they took, mapping it over and over in her mind, as though the simple act of repetition would somehow make the impossible achievable. the guards' routines became a rhythm she could almost predict, each detail filed away as though it were a key to unlocking her freedom. but in truth, none of it ever helped her. none of it brought her closer to the outside world she so desperately longed for. the plans, the mental strategies—they were all fantasies. it was her way of clinging to control, the only form of rebellion she could grasp, but her plotting didn't change anything. every time the dawn arrived, she was still bound within the confines of her reality. the cell bars remained just as solid as they had been the night before, and the guards still circled, indifferent to her secret calculations. her mind remained sharp, driven by the belief that survival was her ultimate form of rebellion, but survival was a cold comfort. she was not free. and each passing day spent in isolation, trapped in her own thoughts, made the cage of her circumstances feel even tighter. the more she clung to the illusion of control, the more she realized just how little power she had over her fate. her survival had become a false victory, an endless cycle of hope that never bore fruit. the walls of her mind, once a sanctuary, began to feel like another prison, trapping her with her own thoughts. and as each day passed, the deterioration of her body seemed less significant compared to the relentless psychological torment of her confinement. once, she had been led to believe she was walking to her own execution. that morning, a pair of soldiers had pulled her from her cell. she could only vaguely remember being dragged into the camp's center, her chains rattling like a death knell. the makeshift gallows they'd passed still loomed large in her memory, but it wasn't until she was forced to kneel before a jagged block, stained dark with old blood, that the truth began to settle in. the realization came slow and terrifying, creeping into her awareness like a fog. she could see, just out of the corner of her eye, a brazier glowing, the iron rod within it smoldering with intense heat. that's when she'd realized they weren't going to kill her. no, what awaited her was far worse. a sickening, hollow dread had swept over her like a wave. her body reacted instinctively, thrashing with the desperate hope that somehow, in some way, she could stop what was coming. but there was no stopping it. before she could fully react, the sharp edge of a knife had sliced through the fabric on her back. the cold air had bit at her exposed skin, the sensation sharp and immediate, but it was the fear that made her pulse race. helplessness crept into her bones as she realized there was no escape, and the tears that blurred her vision only made the moment more unbearable. she felt the heat before she saw the iron—its wicked sigil glowing white-hot in the shape of commander dukvakha edom's initials. he had intended to make her his thrall—his possession in every sense. to the scarlet hand, marking the flesh was an indelible stamp of ownership. and even before the searing iron pressed into her skin, she knew it was only the beginning. it had felt like time itself seemed to slow when the iron was brought closer to her. she remembered biting down on the inside of her cheek, tasting the metallic tang of blood, determined not to scream. but the moment the iron kissed her scapula, she couldn't hold it back. the pain was unlike anything she'd ever known, a searing agony that seemed to split her very being. the stench of her own burning epidermis had filled her nostrils, thick and nauseating, suffocating her. for a moment, she thought she might even pass out. when the iron was finally lifted, she had collapsed forward, trembling, gasping for air. her vision swam, the edges darkening as she fought to remain conscious. the pain pulsed in her skin, but it was drowned out by a deafening cacophony of cheers and loud jeering. the sound of the soldiers' drunken revelry seemed to echo off the walls of her mind, smothering everything else. it was as if the world had distanced itself, becoming muffled and faraway, leaving her alone in a haze of agony. she could barely make sense of the shouts, the laughter, the crude comments thrown her way, all blurring into a single, overwhelming noise that seemed to reverberate through her bones. in the days that followed, as she lay in the filth of her cell, her body still throbbing with the heat of the iron, the echoes of her own screams haunted her thoughts. she couldn't stop herself from wondering—did they plan to parade her through the streets of manitoba, a broken trophy for their conquests? or would she rot in obscurity, forgotten and discarded like so many others? the lack of answers was its own kind of torment. and as the days bled into weeks, and the weeks into months, calista's mental state began to unravel completely. the nightmares were the first thing that claimed her when sleep found its way to her. when she woke in her cell, it was always with a jolt, her body cold with sweat. her hands would instinctively fly to the side of her neck upon waking, as though her body was immediately urging her to protect herself from hematophagy. it was a habit that lingered with her for several years following her release from the scarlet hand, one that repeatedly plagued her even when she went on to wage war against their western neighbors down the line. in her slumber, she was always back there—trapped in a narrow, suffocating cell, limbs bound, with her captors mouth pressed against her neck. the imagined pain was almost unbearable, but it was the helplessness, the paralysis of knowing there was nothing she could do to stop it, that lingered most. sometimes it would feel so real, like she could feel the blood draining from her body, her vision fading, her consciousness slipping away. then, with a violent jolt, calista would awaken. her breath would come in ragged gasps, her heart pounding so violently it felt like it might break free from her chest, as though her body was still being held captive. the first thing she would do when she woke—without thinking, instinctively—was reach for her neck. her fingernails would dig into the sensitive skin there, as if trying to protect herself from an enemy that wasn't really there. but it felt real to her. the pain, the pressure, the lingering discomfort—she could still feel it, even then, despite being far from that cell. the raised scars on her throat, though healed, would burn as if freshly inflicted, an imagined ache that would send a wave of nausea through her stomach. she did not want to keep waking up drenched in sweat and gasping for air the same way she used to as a girl, the phantom of a sharp, pulsing ache lodged deep in the side of her throat. so, she began to stay awake instead. calista would sit propped up against the rough canvas of her tent, her knees drawn to her chest, eyes tired yet unblinking. the firelight from the hearth would flicker in front of her, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. the world would sleep soundly around her, wholly unaware of the quiet struggle she so often battled. sometimes she would even be driven to the point of taking up ink and parchment—though the words she wrote would never truly be written for anyone but herself. i am still here, she would write, but part of me has gone. i am not whole anymore. no matter what, though, the night would always end the same. on better days, calista would rise to her feet, walk to the fire that was never fully out, and feed the parchment to the flames. sometimes though, something more malignant would churn inside of her. in some ways, it was probably a good thing she left manitoba when she did. the pressure of leading a campaign that was so deeply personal, mixed with the weight of her past, began to erode her ability to maintain a composed front over time. after all, the scarlet hand weren't just foreign rivals—they were the manifestation of her trauma and her humiliation. the anger would come in waves, starting small, like a simmering heat beneath the surface. at first, it would take the form of frustration—irritability with her men, impatience with the delays and the constant need for more resources, more time. calista's rage wasn't clean or controlled—it was a wildfire, unpredictable and all-consuming. it would burn through everything, leaving her feeling empty and raw afterward. back then, she had always been so angry. it must have been the most defining emotion of her early adulthood. so she had to wonder—did søren really want to serve someone like that in the way he claimed to?
indentcalista turned her gaze away from the lord ascendant's to observe lake huron's horizon. the way her lips pressed together briefly, the barest shadow of uncertainty passing through her expression, seemed to suggest she was working through her thoughts.
indent"you would do this," she began, her voice quieter now as she tried to make sense of it all, "knowing that you would receive no public commendation?" the woman's eyes flickered back to meet his own. he had offered something unprecedented to her: his loyalty without the usual trappings of power, as well as the praise or the glory that came with aligning oneself with someone like her. his proposal, this willingness to remain in the shadows, felt strangely pure in its simplicity. the idea was both perplexing and, strangely, alluring. it was as if søren had stripped away his need for external validation, his devotion to her the only thing that truly mattered. the lord ascendant didn't vie for status or seek to benefit from their connection in ways she could perceive. there was no elaborate game with him, no layers of deception to untangle. his role in her life was uncomplicated, a sharp contrast to the ceaseless machinations of the court and her family. and yet, even as she acknowledged the gift he was offering her, a restless dissatisfaction burned at the forefront of her mind. the absence of ambition on his part didn't simplify things. in fact, it only made it all the more harder to reconcile with the fact that she could never present a united front with him. his presence at the periphery of her life, no matter how noble his intentions, could never satisfy the ache she felt. she needed more. calista's emotions surged faster than her logic could untangle them. she didn't have time to temper herself, to smooth the rough edges of what she was feeling before it burst forth. it was unfair. that much she knew with absolute clarity. the injustice of it all—of having to deny herself, to have to settle for another—gnawed at her. calista's mind rebelled against the constraints of their circumstances. she had spent her life defying expectations, carving out her own path through sheer force of will. but this—this was a battle she couldn't win, and it made her angry. her gaze snapped back to søren, fierce and searching, as if willing him to understand the tempest inside her without her needing to say it aloud. her fingers tightened around his without thought, her body acting before her mind could catch up. "still... it is not enough," she admitted, her voice firm now, filled with a quiet urgency. it was impulsive, reckless even. she knew the futility of her words even as she spoke them, knew that what she was demanding was impossible. but she couldn't stop herself. "what i need most is you at my side." the admission hung between them, raw and unfiltered, a confession born of frustration and longing. her words weren't a calculated request. they were a flare of emotion, the unrestrained cry of someone who had always taken what she wanted but was now faced with the one thing she couldn't have. it wasn't logical—it didn't have to be. all that mattered was the aching truth behind her words. calista could anticipate søren's response before it would come. she knew the boundaries they both had to obey. søren was tethered by vows that forbade him from offering her anything more than loyalty, and she was bound by duty to another. political forces far greater than any personal wish were at play, and they stood between her and the life she might fantasize of. yet, even with that knowledge, the longing still clung to her heart, its power undeniable. søren's presence had become an unspoken need of hers, a steadying force in a world that had become increasingly unmoored with time. she often found herself dreaming of a different life, where duty and expectations didn't have such a vice grip on her. in that world, søren would stand by her side—not as an advisor, but as an equal. even though she knew it couldn't be, she couldn't stop wanting it. it didn't matter. the fantasy of søren at her side was too powerful to ignore, too tempting to push away. even if it couldn't happen—no, especially because it couldn't happen—it burned in her chest like an unspoken desire, something she couldn't quell or push into the recesses of her mind. it was unfair, achingly so, that the one bond that felt untainted by ambition or manipulation was also the one she couldn't fully have. and in her admission, calista didn't see the danger in what she had revealed about herself. what she couldn't recognize was how deeply her reliance on him had burrowed into her. it wasn't simply that she wanted him at her side; it was that she needed him in a way she had never allowed herself to need anyone. he had become a fixture in her life, his steadfastness a foundation she leaned on without realizing the weight she placed there. søren was unlike anyone else in her world. he asked for nothing, sought no gain, and in doing so, offered her something no one else ever had: the freedom from the ceaseless games of power. it was a kindness she had never known, and it left her exposed in ways she didn't understand. from a young age, calista had learned to guard her emotions closely, to keep her desires hidden behind layers of fierceness and independence. yet, with søren, her armor had cracked. she had let him see her vulnerability, her longing, and in doing so, had unknowingly placed herself in his hands. the words she spoke might have sounded like a plea for companionship, but they were more than that—they were a quiet surrender of control. søren had become her confidant and beyond that, her solace. he offered her his loyalty without conditions, and in return, she had come to depend on him in a way that left her dangerously exposed. if søren understood the full depth of her need—and how entwined her sense of self had become with his presence—he would hold a power over her greater than anyone else in her life. she hadn't just revealed a fleeting wish for his companionship; she had unwittingly revealed to him one of her weaknesses. what she saw as strength—her defiance of fate and duty—was, in this moment, her greatest vulnerability. and though she might never see it, her mind too clouded with desire to comprehend the implications of her words, that would be enough to give anyone the means to guide her, not as an equal, but as the hand unseen, shaping her reign while standing in the shadows. calista had always been the one who fought to control the terms of her existence, but by confessing her need for søren—her need for something that could never be—she had unwittingly ceded that control.
indent"but," she said finally, as though realizing she had been hasty to reach for something so impossible, "if you choose to serve me... then i will not turn away from you. if you are willing to offer me your loyalty, your faithfulness, then i will accept it. i will stand with you, in whatever way you are willing to stand with me." her chest tightened as she felt the weight of her own vulnerability settle inside her. her desire to claim søren as her equal had been an instinctive rebellion against the constraints that bound them both—a desperate attempt to grasp at something beyond the suffocating inevitabilities of her life. what she offered him now wasn't the impassioned demand of moments ago, but something closer to an agreement. a recognition that their bond, though unconventional, was not diminished by the limitations it faced. there was a certain resolve in her tone, a quiet acknowledgment of the truth she was seemingly beginning to grasp. what she wanted—a partnership that could defy the limitations of duty and station—was a fantasy. but what søren was offering her was no less powerful or any less meaningful. besides, when has his devotion to her ever been contingent on her imperial status? his loyalty had always been something rooted in the unshakable foundation of his belief in her. and in that, she found herself beginning to understand. and truly understand. for so long, her strength had come from her defiance—ripping through the chains of expectations and forcing her destiny into submission with unrelenting ferocity. but this was different. søren wasn't asking her to give up her strength or her independence. his loyalty was freely offered, without the burden of concession, and the gravity of that realization was settling over her now. she had been so focused on what she couldn't have—what they could never be in the eyes of the world—that she had failed to see the gift in front of her. søren's loyalty wasn't about standing beside her in public or sharing the outward trappings of power. his devotion was quiet, steadfast, and impenetrable, untouched by the ploys of the court or the demands of her birthright. her initial frustration slowly began to dissipate, replaced by a sense of quiet comprehension. her expression of longing had been rooted in her own fears—perhaps of facing the future alone, or losing herself to the demands of her title. but she wasn't alone. that realization was enough to bring a small flicker of peace to her turbulent mind. the more she thought about it, the more she knew just how much she had misunderstood the situation at hand. perhaps it wasn't søren's role in her life that needed to change. rather, it was her own perception of it. his place in her life wasn't a diminishment of his importance; it was a testament to the quiet strength he could bring to her reign. deep down, she knew her insistence on making him her equal had been misplaced, a symptom of her own fear and the need to control the narrative of her life. but this wasn't about what they couldn't have. it was about what they already shared. the unspoken understanding between them, a bond forged in loyalty and trust, was more enduring than anything the world might demand of her. the rest of the country would never see the true nature of their relationship, but none of that mattered, did it? what truly mattered was what existed between them. even so, the princess' acceptance lacked an awareness of the gravity of what she was committing to. this wasn't just a simple exchange. it was the weaving of destinies, two fates intertwining in a way that would either fortify or consume them both. but the hint of relief that his support granted her overpowered her better senses. for the first time in a long while, she felt like she wouldn't have to carry the weight of the world alone. his presence in her life would be felt, even if it wasn't immediately apparent to others. his influence could guide her, his counsel helping to shape her decisions, allowing her to rely on him in ways that no one could truly see. there was a certain beauty in the way their partnership could evolve. calista had the opportunity to lean on him for advice, for strength or clarity when the demands of court life became overwhelming. in a world filled with power struggles, manipulation, and empty promises, søren's loyalty would be something she could always trust. in that, there was a kind of comfort that she hadn't realized she needed until now. the joining of their tribes, the consolidation of power, and the blending of cultures—these were things she was not prepared for. her strength lay in the battlefield, in the strategy of war and the command of troops, but none of that would serve her in the delicate dance of politics and diplomacy that awaited her come her ascension to the throne. she had always thought of herself as strong and unshakable, yet the truth was far less flattering. calista's strength lay in confrontation and in action, in carving her will into the world with brute force. but she could not rule a kingdom with sword and shield alone, nor could she bind two disparate peoples with the same tactics that had won her victories abroad. the intricacies of court politics, the weaving of alliances, the settling of domestic affairs—those were domains in which she was woefully inexperienced. she was unprepared for the subtler battles of diplomacy and governance that awaited her, and it was this realization that brought her to the precipice of understanding. she didn't need søren to be her equal in title or station. no, she needed him to be her balance, guiding her through the trials she might otherwise struggle to face alone. the path forward was no less daunting, but it felt less insurmountable with him at her side, even if only in the shadows. the unification of their people would not be a smooth, easy process. she and prince halvor would have to navigate cultural divides, lingering distrust, and mediate the deep-seated animosities that might exist between their commonfolk. and truth be told, she would need someone who could help her make sense of it all, someone who was familiar with the art of political maneuvering, whose perspective could help her navigate the tricky waters of diplomacy and governance. søren's counsel would be that missing piece, the steady hand that could guide her through the tumultuous journey of uniting two distinct cultures. the lord ascendant's insight would soon prove invaluable, and she couldn't afford to lose that, especially not now. calista had been shaped by her upbringing as a gladiator, not by the slow, methodical art of diplomacy. the pressures of a queen's court were far more labyrinthine, the stakes much greater, and the dangers not always as obvious. but søren could help secure the stability of their future with her. her marriage to prince halvor remained an inevitability for the unification of their people─he would be her husband in name, the man to stand at her side during ceremonies, a link in the chain binding two peoples together─but did it actually matter that much? was that what søren was trying to suggest? her desire to make the lord ascendant her equal in the public eye had been an unspoken attempt to prove something—to the court, to the world, and perhaps even to herself. but that impulse had been shortsighted. it wasn't equality that mattered in the way she had initially believed, nor was it the visibility of their partnership. søren's strength, and now her own, came from the quiet understanding of their shared purpose: to shape the future, not by the overt symbols of power, but by influencing its undercurrents. in this, calista seemed to have inadvertently taken on søren's perspective. perhaps power was not always about what could be seen or measured. the bond they shared, built on loyalty and trust, transcended the need for validation through titles or public acknowledgment. the lord ascendant's faithfulness didn't need to be displayed to hold its power. if anything, the flexibility of his position gave them both the freedom to maneuver without constraint, and by allowing him to serve her in such a way, she was not diminishing his importance but preserving it.
indentcalista's gaze softened as she looked down at søren, her eyes tracing the lines of his features. without thinking, her hand reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear, the movement tender. her fingertips grazed the curve of his ear before her palm found the side of his face, his skin warm beneath her fingers. her thumb absentmindedly caressed his face as she cupped it. "i need you," she murmured, barely more than a whisper, the words not a command or a plea but a confession. "now, and always. without question. but what you're saying... if you truly believe we can spark change..." she trailed off, the conviction she'd clung to moments before splintering into something more vulnerable, more uncertain, as if the enormity of his words were beginning to press down on her again. his certainty unsettled her—not because she doubted him, but because she doubted herself. søren spoke of a future unshackled from the constraints of their world, a vision so vast and consuming it felt like staring into the sun. it terrified her. it thrilled her. it was everything she had never allowed herself to imagine. the rulers of gibraltar and the heartlands had never dared to dream so boldly. they lived by the old ways, through the systems that had preserved their power for centuries. her mother, relentless in her pursuit of dominance, embodied this. queen anastasia spent her life building an unassailable dynasty, her every action a calculated maneuver to tighten their grip on annexed canada. calista's betrothal to prince halvor was no exception. it was a necessary political arrangement, designed to stabilize an empire before it even had the chance to buckle under its own weight. to calista, it felt like a leash—a final act of control from a mother who had never trusted her. queen anastasia never saw her daughter as a ruler to depend on, but as a threat to the legacy she had spent decades fortifying. too impulsive, too volatile, too wild. calista's unpredictability wasn't a strength to her mother. it was a flaw to be mitigated. and so, the queen had done what she always did—found a solution that secured power, even if it meant sacrificing tradition. but in doing so, she had unwittingly undermined the very foundation of their rule. their matrilineal culture, the sanctity of the athanasiou bloodline, the right of primogeniture—all of it had been cast aside in favor of political survival. queen anastasia's ambitions weren't rooted in the strength of their people but in her fear of losing control. it was a hypocrisy calista had never dared to name aloud. but she'd always recognized the cracks in her mother's reign, the slow erosion of everything their ancestors had built. but anastasia couldn't—or wouldn't. her ambition was a hollow thing, born not of strength but of fear. her mother had already abandoned so much of what had made their lineage strong, forsaking tradition in her desperation to secure power. so why not go further? if the old ways were already crumbling, why not let them fall and build something entirely new? the question gnawed at her, sharp and relentless. søren's words had lit a spark within her, igniting ideas she had never dared entertain. her mind reeled with the sheer magnitude of it all, yet she couldn't ignore the quiet certainty beginning to take root within her. søren had given her a glimpse of a future untethered from the chains of tradition, and for the first time, she could imagine what that might feel like. it wasn't a vision fully formed; it was raw, chaotic, and frightening in its scope. but it was also theirs to shape. "you know," she began, her voice emerging slow and deliberate, "someone once told me that nothing can change unless you're first willing to burn everything down." she hesitated, her gaze searching his for something she couldn't quite name—reassurance, perhaps, or a shared understanding. "maybe... they were right." the notion felt dangerous and electric, crackling like a live wire beneath her skin. for so long, she had rebelled against the life her title had given her. but now, with søren before her, she saw the glimmer of a different path. a way forward that wasn't defined by her mother's cold pragmatism or the suffocating weight of tradition. perhaps this was the change she had been searching for—a chance to redefine her role in the empire, not through the lens of her mother's ambitions, but through her own strength and the quiet devotion of the man before her. calista's hand lingered on his face. she looked at him as someone she could trust with the fragility of hope. "it's true," she said, her voice gaining strength, each syllable taking on a greater sense of resolve, "i've been pushed into this corner my whole life. but i don't want to fight for their future anymore." she felt as if she were teetering on the edge of something vast and unknowable, the weight of it pressing against her chest. "whatever this is—whatever we become—it has to be ours. not theirs." the words she spoke seemed strange on her tongue—half-formed and raw, their edges jagged with uncertainty. but they were not borrowed from anyone else. they were hers. truth be told, calista had never known how to think beyond herself. her struggles had always been immediate, visceral, like fighting to claw her way free of a net that tightened the harder she thrashed. søren was asking her to stop thrashing. to see not just the cage, but the world beyond it. and she didn't know what that would look like. she didn't know how it would unfold, or what it could cost them both. "you must promise me this," she said finally, her voice a quiet demand. her eyes searched søren's face for a flicker of doubt, for a sign that this wasn't some fleeting idea, some passing whim. "that whatever happens next, we will be in this together. no matter the cost. no matter what comes after." the future felt vast and unknown, like a chasm waiting to be crossed, but for the first time, she wasn't afraid. not if søren was with her. the old world was already crumbling. what remained to be seen was whether they would stand by and watch it burn or if they would cast it down together, rising from the ashes to build something new.
