There was a terrible, terrible moment, where Artemis stood thoughtfully over Vasila’s shoulder, and all could see the equations running in her head. Bows and rifles. Thunderbolts and ambush. Ordained victory and the mission. 

She was considering it. By all above and all below, she was considering it.

Then, the moment passed. Or it never began. Or it never ended, and she’d set it aside for later. Guess, guess, as if the answer mattered a whit. “I’d have you clean yourself up. You look like death,” she curtly replied, and walked right past her. Clapped her roughly on the shoulder, before moving on to Galnius. “So, your former Admiral; has a taste for chains and gags, does she?”

Beside her, Dolce winced with a shame she could no longer possess.