Kalaya sits at the table, her body sagging into the wicker seat and hands clinging to a cup of tea. The gesture of thanks she'd made to the server had been in the formal style - a product of years of training so repetitive as to eventually become reflex. Her ears do not register the conversation going on, her eyes are unfocused.

The young knight was at the table - but her mind was elsewhere.

She finds herself replaying scenes from that morning. Of the plans for the tourney, grand hopes hastily scrawled in a way so reminiscent of her childhood drawings. Of her happiness at seeing those aspirations become reality. Of the excitement in the faces of the villagers. Of how [i]alive [/i]everything had felt in the melee - where she was surrounded by dozens, hundreds, of people who had wanted to become part of a knight's retinue. Of [i]her [/i]retinue. People that could have been compatriots, companions ... friends.

Those memories tasted bitter now.

They'd all been duped. None of it had been real. Kalaya sighed. It[i] had[/i] seemed too convenient, too good to be true, that so many people would want - could want - her dream. That was why she'd participated in the melee after all. Test the waters, follow that instinct. But investigating, even [i]suspecting [/i]that something might be amiss was very different from having the whole thing [i]confirmed [/i]as a sham.

Sometimes it hurt to be right. Who would [i]want [/i]to join up with her after all? The weird princess of Lily. The knight of no name. Just another worthl---

A voice, no, a [i]name [/i]pierces through the haze.

Kalaya looks up, eyes returning to the present, just in time to see Giriel stand back from her speech.

"Did you say Ven?" she asks, voice too quiet to be heard.

The highlander comes forward next, somehow looming at Petony despite being shorter. But Kalaya finds herself unable to leap to her mentor's defence. In fact, her whole body sits rigid as the words register in her mind.

[i]"I had to leave the kingdoms, Kal" she says, voice slipping out like a dagger leaving their sheath. "... There wasn't any future for me here ..."[/i]

Her breath catches. She sets the teacup down hastily, hand shaking.

[i]"I don't want people to know I came back. Not unless it's on my terms. Thus. You know. The hat. And the cloak"[/i]

Kalaya stands, head swimming. She mutters excuses and heads for the washroom. Eyes averted. Unable to meet them.

[i]"... some wilted creep who likes dark cloaks, big straw hats, and kidnapping priestesses with demon magic ... the coin she left behind."[/i]

The coin. The cloak. The hat.

Snapdragon.

The brooch. Kalaya's fingers prizing it out of a totem that still smells of sulphur.

She doesn't remember the walk to the washroom. Only that one moment she's leaving the table, the next she staring at a wild eyed, pale faced young woman in the water-filled basin. She reaches into the visage, splashing the water on her face. As much a search for solace as an attempt to dispel the stranger looking back at her. 

More water. A gasping breath.

Bracing herself against the basin, she tries to rally her mind but it refuses. Formless. Shapeless. Thoughts that simply will not coalesce. A buzzing sandstorm of white noise. She has to get out. Has to [i]breathe[/i]. This place. That pathway. What Ven did. [i]Why didn't she say anything?[/i]

She stumbles out of the teahouse, away from the gathering. Her feet are moving without instruction - but with direction.

To the hills, back the way she'd come. To Kingeater Castle.

Her cup of tea sits on the table, untouched and cooling.