[b]Olesya![/b]

[i]You were twelve when you wrestled with a Fallen Star.

You did not know back then. You knew nothing of what your mother had touched in her hubris, in her pride, in her glory. All you knew is that the sluzhanka was hot. Painfully hot. Feverish, sweating, wild-eyed. She laughed and gloried in the struggle, your strength against hers, and in the shattering of furniture, the breaking of porcelain, the tearing of rugs. And when you cried out to your mother, she sipped her tea and watched. You knew then that you would have to be strong or that you would perish.

And you won. You brought that burning woman to her knees in a headlock until her thrashing stopped, and then she granted you a token of victory: a red word.[/i]

Your arrows have proven useless. The wolf arrow, the fox arrow; the heartseeker, the howler, the birdcatcher. All spin around the head of this dragon from before the world's birth. These are secrets that your mother passed down to you, weapons proof against the half-real creatures that you hunt. And each has failed.

[i]Juniper.[/i]

This event is in distinct risk of being canceled. Your vision narrows with the certainty of horror. If you cannot win Hazel's heart to your mother's satisfaction, you will not be the one who is punished. Will you be allowed to see her again? Will you be blamed for the failure of your quiver? Told that you should have wanted it more? Should have felt more? Should have let your fury roar?

And Hazel is not here. There is no risk of him becoming afraid. Juniper is not here. There is no risk of her disapproval. Your mother is here, and she is prepared to step in if you cannot do what is needful. You know that like you know the beat of your own heart.

It beats faster.

You draw the string of your heart's bow, and you feel. You dredge the red word from inside yourself. Light bleeds from you in banners, in pennants, in fire. A word which no one should have hidden in their hearts. You are so calm, so gentle- does not Hazel think so? Because you are strong. Because you felt bones give way under your palm, then. Because you have a red word in your heart.

[b]"-MIAOUQASTRA-"[/b]

Somewhere in the ballroom, a child screams. You screamed then, too.

For a moment, your light spans wall to wall.

For a moment, you feel nothing. Because Juniper is not here.

[hr]
[b]Sayanastia![/b]

The really funny part is that Civelia would have had a [i]fit.[/i]

She would have summoned a shield to make Kalentia positively pink with jealousy, one designed to let that furious howling wrath dissipate down countless labyrinthine grooves in its face, one which would accept the poisonous anger of Demon Queen Miaou and envelop it within smothering acceptance of eternity.

Firing this thing, in here? In [i]here?[/i] After all the repairs? It would have blown through the walls of the whole block. The shockwave would have knocked down everyone in the building. Blown out all the windows. Knocked down some door or other and revealed Hazel in a compromising position with a wanted fugitive. Only--

Only, it is focused on [i]you,[/i] instead. And the raging light of the Hell Star enters into you like a meteor striking the sea. Light which [i]defines.[/i] Light which says [i]Be.[/i] A weapon which could blow open the very walls of Vespergift, in the hands of a panicking child, instead disappears into your depths and forces your power to turn inward likewise. In that moment, you are solid, connected, present, forced to reckon with existence and its weight, as the howl of an imprisoned queen at the very roots of the world resounds within you, every inch, from your brow to your fingertips to the lashing end of your tail.

And that's when Aria Thendragon lands a right hook on your jaw.

[hr]
[b]Yuki Edogawa![/b]

Aria Thendragon stands victorious over her reincarnated self. Simulated lungs wheeze. Her teeth are bared in challenge. The leaves of her false corsage sway in no wind. There is a terrible silence, punctuated only by hyperventilation and sniffles and, from Purnima, complaints about how she just got wine on her dress.

Then Aria grins, and for a moment she has the charisma that caused Thellamie to bow to her, once upon a time.

"Friends, I may have been an evil queen," she says, holding her arms out. Showboating. "I may have conquered, fought wars, made cursed blades, and been brought low by Heron. But damn it all, I can't just sit by and let this faker ruin our party! We're here to dance, aren't we? We're here to see a pretty boy, aren't we? And we're here for Thellamie, aren't we?"

The tension breaks. There's applause - for a dead tyrant. There's cheering - for the woman who stepped up and defused the situation. There's whistling - for the pawn of a tree. In a moment like this, after terror and fear and confusion, there is a desperate need to cling to the first relief that makes itself known.

"Now, I'll go down and have a look at Civvy, and my old enemies the Paladins will see to it that this shabby has-been won't bother us any more! Everyone else - let's drink! Let's feast! And let's tell Hazel Valentine Fletcher that we want him to [b]come! out![/b]"

The chant starts, even as Aria pushes past you and Aadya. This close, you can tell: that may have been her charisma, but it wasn't [i]her[/i] speech. There's still honey clinging to her, honey and rot.

And up on a balcony, a huntress slumps to her knees in defeat. She may have made a reckless, awful shot-

But she never would have had the words.