And now the stench of blood is mixing into the bitter cocktail Odoacer is serving with her meal. What a vile, disgusting scent. Insidious, the way it seeps into everything, an iron-soaked tang that is nothing but acid and misery. Every tiny whiff that travels up her nostrils sends ripples through Bella's brain, activating instincts so ancient they predate the technology that gave rise to the servitor race by countless centuries. They're hunter's instincts: pounce, bite, tear, feast. Even wrapped so tightly around her leg, her tail bristles. 

It gets worse with every breath she takes through her nose. But she dare not open her mouth; every time she has before, she's vomited. Her hand is sharp and deliberate as it sets down her fork. Her bell rings softly when she reaches under the table. She closes her eyes and clenches her jaw before she squeezes her tail past the point of agony, filling her darkened world with starbursts of white hot pain until she's dragged her palm across the length of it and flattened out the lush white fur. With equal deliberation, she lifts her hand back up and plucks her utensil off the table. She fills her mouth with this poor excuse for venison, and her breathing slows once more.

She is the only one in the hall to make no motions toward rising from her seat. She is the only one who spares less than half a glance at the Codexia. This is good. She must be calm. This is not a place of honor. It is a place of death.

Finally, she lifts her head. Her golden eyes sweep languidly across the many tables and note with fresh interest the names and faces she can recognize that are seated at each. All of these people gathered here right now are useful. Every one of them is a tool to see her past this stupid politicking. Her tongue glides across her lips while a pattern takes hold inside her. Which are predators? Which are prey? Who among them represent locks, and who among them keys? 

It is not even worth considering attacking Odoacer herself. Every guard at the banquet, and a hundred more yet unseen are watching for that move. The first to try it, no matter which gods cling to their lips, will be the next to join King Anthi at the table of the dead. And whichever lucky idiot [i]succeeds[/i] will be hunted to the edges of infinity by the Empress herself. It is suicide. No, worse. But several shit-for-brains heroes will try it anyway. It's inevitable, once the writing on the wall becomes plain enough for all with eyes to read it. This place will turn from worshipful feast to bedlam in an instant, and that will be her moment. 

It will be a simple thing to slide wherever she wishes in the battle she smells in the air around her. She can gather allies, encircle whomever she needs to break in order to open up her line, and make for her [i]real[/i] target before any eyes properly fall on her. After all, her greatest weapon is that she's--

Her fist clenches around her fork so tightly it snaps in half. Her whole body is taken with the rumble of her low, frustrated growl. The pieces bounce off the table and fall to the floor with tiny clangs nobody has any spare attention to notice. It takes her an overlong and terrifying moment to realize that her fangs are fully bared. She glances down, which is how she notices her hands are shaking so badly that she probably couldn't hold a spear, let alone throw one. If she even had one to begin with.

They sat her at his table. They put her within an arm's reach or three of disaster. They marked her as a dissident! And then... they left her to sit quietly, and eat. Her! Bella! Who even now is closer to their precious princess than any of them could dare to dream of being! She is a Praetor! The Empress' own hand amidst the stars!

And no one. No. One. Thinks. She. Matters. Not here, and not in all the wide and terrible universe. She raises one trembling hand to grab her temple, and snarls.