Dahlia had spent the past two days begging to see Quinn, and trying to sneak out anyway when she wasn’t allowed to. The promises that she was okay weren’t enough, Follen’s personal visits weren’t enough. She needed to see her, needed to speak with her, and tell her how glad she was that she had made it, how much she cared. 

She needed to tell her sister that she loved her. 

But when the moment finally came, and Quinn—and Besca—arrived in her room, it was…off. Not bad, it could never be [i]bad[/i], but she knew immediately from Quinn’s face that something was wrong. So she contained herself, winced as she sat up and her new ribs very politely reminded her that they were resting. 

“[color=skyblue]What’s going on?[/color]” she asked, trying to sound more comforting than concerned. 

“[color=ffe63d]...If you hate me after this I won't blame you.[/color]”

Dahlia felt her stomach drop. She felt a deep and potent revulsion at the mere idea. 

But she said nothing. Quinn needed to speak, and she needed to listen. 

So she did. She listened, and Quinn spoke about the swordsman. She claimed it had spoken to her, and though she found the idea absurd, Besca very clearly did [i]not[/i]. She’d never seen the woman so hollow-eyed, so calmly confused. It…[i]talked[/i] to her? The Modir. Had that ever happened? She was certain it hadn’t, she’d never heard of such a thing, and doubted very much they’d be warring for so long and so hard against an enemy they could talk to. 

But Quinn wouldn’t lie to her. Perhaps she was wrong, or confused, but if she wasn’t, then Dahlia was sure she was telling the truth. 

Then she talked about Hovvi. 

“[color=ffe63d]My fault. It was my fault my fault [i]all my fault.[/i][/color]”

Dahlia though she’d been slapped. The room practically spun. [i]Her[/i] fault? How…how on Illun could that have been her fault? She couldn’t help the flood of images that came to her, the fires, the screaming. She remembered that last, choked sound from Safie’s mic. She remembered identifying her dad in the morgue. She remembered that empty feeling that came from knowing her home and everyone she’d ever known was gone, like her whole life had been erased. 

Quinn’s fault? 

[i]Hunted?[/i]

It didn’t make sense. It didn’t make [i]any[/i] sense. The Modir didn’t…they didn’t [i]hunt[/i] people, they just…they just killed. No purpose, no target, no goal other than to kill as many as they could before the Saviors pushed them back. That was all. 

It…no, it couldn’t be her fault. 

“[color=ffe63d]I—I should go.[/color]”

Dahlia jolted, like time had just started again. “[color=skyblue]Wha—wait! Quinn![/color]”

But the girl had already turned and bolted for the door. Luckily Besca had been behind her, caught her—or really, it was more like she’d been dashed into and managed to stay upright—and held her. 

“[color=gray]Woah, hun, woah! Easy, hey. You don’t have to run. You don’t.[/color]”

Pulling herself up, Dahlia swept her legs over the edge of the bed and got to a shaky, hunched stand. “[color=skyblue]Quinn…[/color]” she said, a bit winded. “[color=skyblue]I don’t…I don’t understand. What do you mean [i]hunted[/i]? Did…do you know that Modir?[/color]”