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Chapter Text

Her sisters had laughed when she first told them of her intentions – trying to imagine her gentle fingers twitching against a trigger, trying to imagine them curled into fists like stone to swing punches against flesh. There was no cruelty in their laughter – there would never be barbs or thorns lurking in their voices. But the weight of their disbelief still hurt. She was Cheedo the Fragile. Cheedo the Weak.

When her eyes glassed over in a shimmer of tears, their laughter had died – only then did they realize that their sister was serious. She caught the worried look that passed between Capable and Dag. Now that Angharad was gone, they had taken up her mantle.

Cheedo had always been the fragile one. The youngest. The protected. Sheltered and safe like the small green seeds that Dag had planted into the dark earth, soaking up the songs she whispered to encourage them to grow

The citadel had changed – but the world outside had not. She had tasted the waters of its brutality – she had drank her fill of grief and pain and rage during those three days on the Fury Road. She remembered the way her heart had pounded in terror. Feeling helpless as chaos reigned around her, flame and bullets and screams and death. Feeling as fragile as the name the Immortan had bestowed upon her. Once, it had made her feel cherished. But outside the Citadel, she had learned how dangerous fragility could be.

I cannot be Fragile again, Cheedo wanted to explain to them. I must learn to be strong. To be clever. To be fierce.

She felt frightened all of the time now. The world had changed so much in the weeks since Joe's death. It made her dizzy sometimes when she thought about it, made the oxygen stick in her lungs, weighted with fear. Sometimes, Cheedo missed the Before Vault. With the big metal door as a shield from the dangers of the outside – with sunlight that reflected through the glass pane windows to send rainbows against the skin. With the lull of Miss Giddy's voice as she spun history into stories, with stacks of books whose pages crinkled heavily when she turned them, letters weaving together to give glimpses into other worlds. Afternoons being curled up with her face pressed against Angharad's lap, feeling fingers curl idly through her long dark tresses. She had been treasured. A doll of cloth and yarn and haphazard stitches, petted and adored and kept on a shelf within a gilded cage.

But Cheedo didn't miss the way Angharad's face had wept blood from the gouges in her flesh, the strength in her eyes as she took back her own body using fingernails as blades. She didn't miss the way Dag would close her lips against morsels of food in hopes that starvation would poison her womb - the way she would spit chewed mouthfuls at Rictus when he was ordered to show it down her throat. She didn't miss the way her heart would pound in her chest, sick with dread when Toast slung curses after Joe left every night – curses that fell thick from a throat trapped with tears she wouldn't allow herself to shed. But sometimes, Cheedo heard the tears anyways. Her sisters were too strong to weep where anyone could see – but she heard them, trapped within their hearts. Tears of anger, tears of pain, tears that bloomed like bruises against soft flesh, tears of the trapped and the hopeless. She would press herself into her mattress, stuffing a pillow over her ears as if she could block out the sound of weeping – only to discover that the tears were rivering down her own cheeks, silver ribbons of fear. She didn't miss Him with His calloused hands, dirty and rough and so fearfully big when He tried to brush against her silken hair – the hunger in His eyes – the smell of rot and death that clung to His skin.

He is gone, she reminded herself.

She had watched His face explode into blood and bone – she had watched His body shredded into pieces as the Wretched had torn Him apart – His flesh in their starving mouths as they howled in celebration.

But sometimes, she woke in the night, gasping with terror while sweat clung cold to her skin, beads of ice in the darkness. She dreamed He had returned. That once again, the warboys fell to their knees and clasped their hands together, fingers folding and heads bowing as they honored the V-8, and she and her sisters were locked away again until their skin turned wrinkled and translucent as paper, skeletons tumbling from their wombs in ash and blood until their bones dissolved into nothingness. She dreamed He was alive, angry and more powerful than before, opening His palms to drown them all in fire and water, punish them for their disobedience.

She had always been Protected. Cherished by Him, comforted by her sisters. Safe.

But safety was an illusion. The youngest of the wives had learned that lesson too well. A web spun of beautiful colors and dangerous lies – and she couldn't be Fragile anymore. She needed to learn to be Strong, strong like Angharad before she had Fallen, strong like Toast with her chromed bullets and wary heart, strong like Dag who had taken beatings to save her, strong like Capable who could look darkness straight in the heart and find a way to shine light upon it. Strong like the Many Mothers who had lost their Green Place and their daughters and their hearts – and yet who still survived, still fought and dreamed of a better future.

She didn't want to be Cheedo the Fragile. She didn't want to be Cheedo the Frightened. Cheedo the Helpless.

She wanted to be Cheedo the Strong. Cheedo the Fierce.

It was time to learn to protect herself. To protect her sisters. To protect the Citadel. To shrug away all silken weakness, to shatter the porcelain of her heart and forge it into something stronger. No longer a treasure but something more.

It was time to learn to fight.

Dawn was barely beginning to brush its fingers against the sky when the girl slipped out from the Citadel. The sky was a dusky grey, a sky of ash and charcoal, the air cool against her skin – it didn't yet hold the promise of scorching heat that filled every day in the Wasteland. On the horizon, the grays had bloomed into bruised violets, which would bleed into cheeries and soon the tawny gold of the sun.

The sparring grounds would be empty, she knew – the citadel was only just beginning to stir from its dreams. In some ways, nothing had changed. Soon, war boys would come tumbling out into the sun, some of them heading down to the deep labyrinth of pits that formed the repair bays – others grasping weapons to continue to train, pushing their bodies into new displays of strength, teaching the young ones how to burn away all hints of softness. They had lost their God, their religion – but they were still warriors.

But she didn't want to train with them. Didn't want to feel blood rush upwards to stain her cheeks, feel the judgment in their eyes, hear the snickers as her soft hands learned to hurt. In the back of her heart, she could still admit – they frightened her. When Furiosa had learned of Cheedo's plan, her eyes had softened with approval and she had first suggested joining the classes of Pups who gathered amongst their elder brothers to soak up knowledge like seeds craving water. The idea made her shudder with fear. Dag had mentioned asking the Vulvalini, who had survived so long amongst this brutal world of sand and pain – yet she was afraid they would look at her softness with that same disbelief she saw reflected in her sister's eyes.

She would teach herself. At least, for now.

Which is why Cheedo found herself slipping out of the Citadel before the sun had awakened from its slumber, when the warriors were sleeping and the sparring grounds were empty. The sparring ground boulders were a jagged circle of stone teeth jutting through the sands, painting dark shadows across the ground. Several targets had been set up – battered bodies comprised solely of cloth and wood, torn from lances and fists and bullets and blades, yet always rebuilt to last another day. The rest of the area was emptied, blank open space where warriors could test their skills upon each other. It was deceptive – bleached sand that hid the endless buckets of blood that had watered its dunes as boys battled and carved away all hint of weakness, warriors to the bone.

She halted in her tracks, surprise freezing her feet to the ground, roots digging into sand and keeping her in place. She wasn't alone in the pre-dawn gloom – she wasn't the only one who had sought the sanctuary of the Sparring Grounds. On the far side, a battered target swayed in the breeze, clad in the tangled dreads and ropes of a Rock Rider helmet – scarce protection from the spears that swayed in its belly.

The spears sprouted from the arms of a War boy, one after another from a pile of wood and metal at his feet. The girl couldn't see his face – his back was turned to her. But she could see the black pants that sagged from his hips, pockets dusted and kept aloft with thick leather belts. She could see the white dust sprinkled across his skin, covering every spare inch – shirtless, even in the cold desert dawn.

Cheedo shivered. In the many weeks since His death, the War boys had begun to forsake the traditional appearance. They were no longer an army of skeleton half-lives – faceless cannon fodder for the war machine. Now, they were beginning to clad themselves in scraps of fabric – a riot of color and bits of chrome, jackets and pants and anything shiny that caught their attention. Now, they didn't darken their eyes to look like empty skull sockets – but they dipped their fingers into grease to draw designs against the flesh, fierce streaks and whirls of war-paint to intimidate the foe. The warboys were learning what it meant to be individuals. Learning how to be Free.

But a few still clung to the old ways. Shaven heads and greased brows and white dust against the skin. The world had changed too much, too quickly – they couldn't let go of what was familiar, what was safe.

“Some of them are reeling about like their brakes have been cut,” Capable had tried to explain, her eyes pools of saddened sympathy. “They're scared.”

This warboy didn't look frightened, though. He seemed angry. His skin was dusted with the pale powder that turned flesh into bone, and in the pre-dawn shadows, he looked painted in marble. Each muscle seemed carved, etched and hard as stone – power coiled in each tendon and sinew. His muscles tightened, rippled as he cradled long lances in his hands, pulling back his shoulder and hurling them at the target, ripping through the air one after another, grunting with the force of each throw.

He never missed.

The girl crept closer, in spite of herself. Trying to memorize the way he grasped those lances, the way his fingers curled around the shaft, the tilt of his body as he angled for another throw. As if she could teach herself through sight alone.

But she must have made some sound, a faint whisper of footsteps against sand, a soft sigh, the fear pounding in her heart. Something betrayed her presence, for the war boy whirled around.

Cheedo wasn't prepared for the sight of his face. The way his cheeks had been carved open, a permanent sneering smile etched through his flesh, scarred and stapled with bits of gleaming metal. The black paint smeared across his brow, eyes smudged with thick kohl – the darkness only enhancing his gaze – two different colors – one eye a frightening red, the other a dark, smoldering blue. The sharp angles of his cheeks, the strong line of his jaw – savagery in every inch.

She flinched, stumbled backwards a step, lips parting involuntarily to mouth silent apologies.

For a split second, he looked just as startled as she. But the surprise vanished as quickly as it had arrived, buried beneath eyes that narrowed into a glare, hurled in her direction as if it were a lance. Burning with anger and frustration, Cheedo felt its weight pierce through her, silencing any words that she might have said. A torrent of accusation, a bullet carving its way through her chest.

She could almost see the thoughts shattering through his mind. He recognized her – they all did. One of the wives. One of the shiny and chrome who had been blessed by His generosity. He had Chosen them, given them everything, and they had returned His benevolence by Traitoring him. Destroying the Immortal One and shredding his kingdom, leaving His child soldiers lost and alone, adrift in a harsh world without a compass to guide them. How many times had she heard such words, especially at the beginning? Most of the youngest Warboys had slowly come around, transferring their devotion and loyalty from the Immortan to Furiosa, and the Wives who were now the Sistes, the mothers they had never known.

But not all of them. Some of the war boys still nursed their resentment and anger – she could hear it in rare curses and hisses slung at her back like handfuls of mud when she walked amongst them. She could see it in the flames that licked their pupils.

We didn't mean to, she wanted to tell them. All we wanted was to be Free. But he wouldn't let us go. He was a monster. He deserved to burn. We left, but we came back. We freed you too.

But no words could have ever soothed the emptiness they felt as their worlds and lives had shattered beyond recognition. Freedom was a poor prize when it bloomed from the loss of everything their half-lives had ever loved, when it was a gift they had never asked for.

And now, Cheedo stood alone before a Warboy with fury and hate in his eyes. A long moment passed. An eternity, stretching like a wire about to snap. Then the anger was gone. Just as quickly, it was hidden. A veil dropped before his face, shrouding all emotions, features of fierce stone carving themselves into pure apathy.

He looked away from her, eyes returning to the target before him, yet she had the uncomfortable sensation that he was still watching her, aware of her presence with the wariness one treated a threat. She could sense it in the tension coiled through his body, the stiffness with which he now held his spear. When he launched his lance, it didn't sail smoothly to embed itself into the cloth stomach of the dummy like the others – it whistled past, striking the stone beyond with such force that it ricocheted off and went wild, veering off to the side and landing helplessly in the sand.

A soft curse exploded from the war boy and he reached down to snag another spear from the pile at his feet.

Cheedo's cheeks were burning, stained with a blush that was beginning to creep down her neck. She shook her head, letting her dark hair fall over face, backing away. She knew that she should leave, she should run back into the safety of the Citadel and forget this entire foolish enterprise.

But her sisters wouldn't run, she knew. Dag would never be afraid of a war boy – she would reply with venomous words and wild eyes. Toast would glower and brush threatening fingers against the cold metal of a pistol at her hip. Capable would disarm him with a soft, understanding smile. Agharad would have viewed his anger with compassion, but her determination would have been as strong as steel, unwavering.

None of them would let fear lick their heels.

I'm not Cheedo the Fragile anymore, she reminded herself. I traitored Rictus and I traitored Him, and He's dead because of us.

It gave her the courage to cross the sands, striding towards the wild lance that lay forgotten in the sands. She picked it up, expecting it to burn in her soft palms, expecting him to shout with anger and demand its return. Weapons had never been allowed near the Wives. The simple act of holding the lance in her hands made her tremble with exhilaration - she could have never imagined such wickedness before.

He was aware of her actions – Cheedo could sense it in the way his body froze as she lifted the lance. But there was no anger, no shouting, no demands – only silence as she retreated to the other side of the sparring grounds. Each yard added between them was a shield of safety, and her legs quivered weakly with relief when he picked up another lance, hurled it at the target. Apparently, the warboy had decided to simply ignore her presence.

Perfect, her heart whispered in gratitude to the dawn skies, and she let out the breath she hadn't been aware of holding.

She turned her back to him, looking down at the lance in her hands. It was long – almost as tall as she was. The wooden shaft was smoothed down and polished by a thousand palms slinging it into flight. There was no explosive attached to its tip, merely a metal casing to model its weight. Its heaviness was surprising in her gentle hands – weighted down by steel and leather and the power to destroy life itself.

She felt foolish as she balanced it in her hand, her arm trembling. There were no dummies on this side of the sparring grounds, but one of the boulders had been spray painted with a target – chipped and faded, but still visible. It would be enough.

Cheedo hoisted it, closed one eye to line up her aim, and threw it.

It didn't come close to the target, of course. It flew a few meters and then tumbled straight down into the sands, harmless and safe. It was a pathetic attempt – any war pup would have been mortified at such a mediocre throw. But her heart was pounding with exhilaration, a wave of wild joy whispering in her veins. She had thrown a weapon. It had been a terrible flight but it had been hers – she had made it sing.

A smile curved her lips as she bent to retrieve the spear, and throw again.

Two dozen throws later, and dawn had fully arrived – orange and vivid and beautiful. Her arm trembled with an aching fatigue, her hands felt raw from the rough wood shaft – and her joy was fading. Exhilaration replaced with frustrated determination as, once again, the spear spun in flight and tumbled to the ground, well short of its mark.

Was she truly too fragile to throw a lance? Weak in name and in body?

“You're twistin' your wrist.”

The voice was the sound of gravel and engines, a rough and ragged sound that seemed more growl than words. It was a shock to the senses – cold water thrown into the face, and she whirled. She hadn't even heard the silence as he had stopped throwing his spears, hadn't heard his approach. His narrowed gaze glaring at her rock target, refusing to look in her direction, but his lips were a smirk – taking pleasure in her failures.

Her heart was pounding in her ears. Up close, he was more frightening than before. Beneath the white powder, his skin seemed covered in scars – the pearled ribbons that the War boys gloried in – carving chrome into the skin in the form of gears and wheels and flames and fury, and wrapped around his back and arms, he could see thick scales of scabs – slow healing burns – some of them broken and oozing to discolor the dust. Scabs torn open with the force of his throws, again and again, and she shivered at the strength it would take to ignore such pain.

But Warboys were never fragile.

“What?” she stammered.

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug, his words clipped, mocking. “Any pup with eyes could see you're chokin' too low on your grip,” he sneered. “An' twistin' your wrist when you throw.”

Cheedo felt herself flush as she retrieved the spear. Her limbs felt heavy and awkward with him so close, and the heavy shaft in her hand made her feel as foolish as a child, playing warrior games and failing spectacularly. He was laughing at her behind those fierce eyes.

It was as if Angharad breathed steel into her spine – fear evaporating beneath determination that threaded through her bones and straightened her shoulders, her chin raising in conviction. No stupid warboy was going to treat her like a foolish girl, only a breeder prized for her full-life and the strength of her womb. She wasn't a breeder. She wasn't a wife. She wasn't a fragile doll of a girl.

She would show him.

Cheedo bit her lip in concentration, turning towards the target once more. Her grip was too low, he had said. So she raised it, searching to find a better balance – palms sliding two-thirds of the way up the spear until she heard a faint grunt of acknowledgment from the war boy behind her. It was harder to keep her wrist still and straight, hard to spread awareness into the sinews and bones that acted of their own instinct. But she tried, lining up the target, taking a deep breath, and hurling it with all of the strength in her slight body.

It didn't hit the target – but it was close, crossing twice the distance of her previous throws before burying its head in the sand, and she couldn't help the triumphant cheer that spilled from her lips, a crystalline laughter of delight.

When she looked over her shoulder at the Warboy, he was staring at her. Not staring at the target, not staring at the spear in her hands, but looking straight at Her, his brows furrowed with an expression of confused puzzlement. As if he wasn't used to the sound of laughter. But it was just a brief flash, a spark fading beneath a shield of coldness as his eyes shifted back to the spear lying in the sand. He looked angry with himself, as if he regretted even parting his lips to acknowledge her presence.

“Mediocre,” he scoffed, voice dripping with all of the disdain of an exceptional Lancer.

The triumph in her veins was too strong – he couldn't puncture it with his cold blunt truth. Her victory made her feel brave, brave enough to flash him a radiant smile. “Mediocre now,” she agreed. “But not for long.”

His only response was an exhalation of curses, too soft and low to be deciphered as he turned on his heel and stalked away, shaking his head.

Cheedo couldn't help the smug smile that curled across her lips, as she bent down to retrieve the spear. Her spear now.

I can do this, she exalted. This is just the beginning. A fresh start for all of us. Even me.

Chapter Text

Slit wished he had died in the car crash. The Razor Cola roaring beneath his body – he hadn't needed chrome against his tongue when there was chrome all around him, hot metal and fierce speed. Fueling him faster – he needed more speed, needed to catch up to Nux, the fucking traitorous filth – needed to tear out the Imperator's tender throat and hurl her metal hand into the desert sands to rust for all time – he didn't even care about the wives at that point. They didn't matter. All he felt was rage – every nerve betrayed. They had traitored him when they had traitored Immortan Joe – and only blood would quell the fury.

But instead of blood, there had only been fire and sand and metal screaming and twisting, glass shattering and pain and then Valhalla opening its shiny gates to welcome him home.

He had woken up, instead. Woken up to a world shattered – everything glorious turned to rust, his God torn down and nothing but ashes and charred bone remained of His power. He had woken up into a world where Joe had been shredded – fucking shredded by a handful of breeders and one Imperator gone rogue and the filth that had once been his driver and friend. The Immortan had given them everything, had brought them out of a life of dust and death, had given them the high-life, the chance to ride eternal through the highways of Valhalla – and they had traitored him. They had brought down the Immortal God himself, and nothing was the same. Nothing would ever be the same again.

It was impossible, yet it had happened – and every day was a new nightmare. The fucking traitors took the Immortan's crown and his kingdom – and now they ruled the Citadel. The Warboys were no more. Sure, they still existed. The pups and the boys and the ones who had worn the grease paint of Imperators – but they were no longer an army of death incarnate – now they were individuals. Now they worshiped their Saviors,

Now they were free. Even the word felt like bitter oil on his tongue, and Slit leaned over to spit.

They were weak. Weak in name and weak in truth, and soon, the Citadel would shatter beneath its own arrogance. How could they be strong enough to hold what the Immortan had built? The Betrayers would find their kingdom in ashes, and everything Slit had ever fought for would be dead. The Warboys forgotten. Their glory gone to rust. And the gates of Valhalla forever shut. Who would open Valhalla to them, now that the Immortan was gone?

They had stolen his life. Stolen his afterlife. He had nothing but his fury to warm him at night – and oh V8, how it burned so bright and fierce within his chest.

He could have left, he knew. Could have stolen a motorbike and crossed the sands to blend in with the ranks of Gastown Warboys - except even that had been stolen. To judge by the rumors, Gastown and Bullet Farm had disintegrated into riots and chaos as lieutenants battled for dominance. They would slaughter each other until one General emerged from the smoke, standing on a hill of corpses. He would have died in a heartbeat for Joe, for Valhalla, for the sweetness of glory – but he had no interest in being battlefodder for some strange Gastown maggot striving for power.

So he stayed. He nursed his hatred like a fire, clean, deadly, bright. Waited for the flames to burn him into a husk, waited for his wounds to heal, waited for the Traitors to collapse beneath their own ignorance, for the Wasteland chaos to settle into something more permanent. Then, he could make his move.

Soon, he promised himself. Soon, he'd be gone.

But the weeks were passing. The fury was growing. Nothing was settled. And everywhere he looked, he saw the ashes of the past.

The days were a blur of frustration and boredom. He refused to join the Warboys serving the Traitors – refused to act as escort for negotiations, refused to make those paltry attempts at supply runs, refused to fight, refused to scavenge, refused to help train. They accepted it for now – they had more important things to worry about than one lone Warboy's defiance.

He was free now, wasn't he? Free to refuse to help them.

The Traitor Who Had Once Been Nux had come to talk to him. Once. Soft blue eyes apologetic, brimming with hesitation. Love, he spoke of, such a disgusting sentiment to tumble from his weak tongue. Begging forgiveness. Like a worm. As if that justified the betrayal. As if those excuses could wash away the taint of his treachery, like a cancer under the flesh. Staring at Slit as if waiting to be thanked, thanked for pulling him out from the sands, dragged away from the wreckage to wake up in the Citadel once more, thanked for toppling his world.

It had taken four Warboys to tear him off of the black-thumb – if they hadn't interfered, Slit would have killed him with his own two hands. Filth, he had screamed, until his throat was raw. He could still remember the horror in his chest when he recognized Nux on the war-rig, helping them escape – traitoring him and everything they had shared during their half-lives. For the sake of a red-bitch breeder.

Slit hadn't managed to kill him, but Nux had needed a few dozen stitches after the lancer had been torn off of him. He was surprised that he hadn't been cast out of the Citadel – or executed right then and there. He blamed Nux for that too – he could taste the mercy of the gesture – weak and soft and glowing with guilt – somehow, Nux had convinced them to spare Slit's life.

Just thinking about it made Slit want to gnash his teeth together, spit and snarl and shred the world. The traitor bastard thinking that his old lancer would somehow be grateful for his life? Saved not once, but twice – doomed to live in a world in which he had lost everything, his glory, his Immortan, his Valhalla. It was the cruelest thing Nux could have done.

He spent his days training. He wouldn't fight for the Traitors, but he couldn't sit around and do nothing either. Not when it felt like there was lightning crackling beneath his flesh, threatening to burn him into ash at any moment. Not when every breath he took tasted of rage and bitterness. The only thing that kept him sane was training. Losing himself amongst targets and spears and knives and torn knuckles and fury.

He woke before dawn, when the world outside was still dipped in ink, when the targets in the Sparring grounds were faint shadows smudged against the darkness. By the time the sun peeked its sleepy head over the horizon, he would be sweaty, exhausted, and aching from the wounds that kept tearing open, again and again. Yet he couldn't stop.

And then one day, she came.

For a brief moment in the near silence of the pre-dawn Sparring Grounds, he had almost felt at peace. His body moved with utter precision as it coiled and drew back and launched spears like knives. The windsong as metal sliced through the air and landed perfectly on mark – it was the only pure thing left in the entire broken world.

And then he heard a whisper, a faint brush of feet against sand – and he hadn't expected to see a girl.

She was honey-skinned, as if the sun itself had leaned down to kiss her lips and breathe its life into her bones. Her skin looked soft – like silk – without a single scar or tumor or bruise to mar it. Never before had he seen such skin. Her eyes were fringed with thick lashes. They were brown – the warm dark mahogany that glinted with sparks of gold and amber within their depths. Hair that looked like the wings of crows – dark and iridescent beneath the dawn light – falling past her shoulders in a cascade of silken strands. She was tall – but slender in a way that made her seem smaller than she was – a willow branch swaying in the wind. Vibrant. Full life.

She was a mirage. First, there was nothing, and then there was a girl who looked like nothing he had ever seen. He, the boy who had lived his entire half-life amongst the hard, scarred bodies of his war boy brethren – whose only experience with women were the filthy, Wretched females with their irradiated flesh and deformed bodies and black, rotten teeth.

For a heartbeat, he froze. And then he saw the fear in her eyes – sharp and fierce, and the truth came crashing down. There were only a handful of perfect women in the entire Citadel – and they were the sisters of filth – the beautiful betrayers. She was not an enchanting desert vision – she was one of the Wives.

She was starting at him – frozen mixture of terror to mingle with something else: an emotion he was much more familiar with seeing. That special abject horror that bloomed when non-Warboys caught their first glimpse of his face. Ugly and wretched next to her beauty – and yet, he was glad. Glad for her horror, glad for her fear – it was soothing against his hatred.

Run away, he whispered with his heart, his mismatched eyes narrowed into a glare. And then he offered her the biggest insult he could think of: clenching his teeth and turning his back. Amongst the adrenaline, turbo-charged males – such a gesture dripped with condescension and disdain.

You aren't a threat, his body language lied. You are too insignificant to even be noticed. You are less than nothing to me.

She came back the next day. And the next. When the world was still grey and the cold chill-breeze dried the sweat on his body, he would turn around to see her. A constant thorn in his side, a sore tooth in his jaw that was impossible to ignore – silk wrapped around an arrow shot straight through his chest. They never spoke – though he was aware of her presence. From the moment she stepped out onto the sands, he could feel her behind him – sense it in the way his heart would pound and the hate would uncurl like a serpent its cage of ribs. He could feel her eyes upon him – those eyes that no longer showed glimpses of terror, but were always slightly narrowed – barely even seeing him. She was watching him, studying him, dissecting his limbs, his movements. Learning from him.

It was infuriating.

He could have stopped training. Found a different place to practice. Arrived in the evening instead of the dawn. But that would have meant admitting defeat. That would mean backing down, showing the throat – it would mean she had won. He was too stubborn to allow her to drive him away. This was his sparring grounds. From the time he was a pup, he had rolled around these sands – shed his blood and sweat and curses, learning to fight. Learning to become hard, steel and flame to destroy the world. He would never back down to the intruder.

He watched her out of the corners of his eyes. His enemy. One always needed to know one's enemy. And he had never seen a pup with worse form, struggling to launch that spear again and again and again. She could barely through it straight – her arms were too thin. Frail. Fragile. How had she helped to topple a God? It was impossible. He frowned, studied her movements, puzzling over the mystery.

She was determined – he had to admit that. Day after day, she returned. Her aim improved – her throw began to cover more distance. Once or twice, she even hit the target – and she would cheer, her cheeks flushed with triumph. And sometimes, the dawn-kissed sunlight would brush a halo around her head, dark hair flashing with hints of copper in a way that made him want to growl. Sometimes, watching her out of the corner of his eyes, he would hear a hint of laughter – a song like water spilled over the dust, and her lips would spread into a smile of pride, wide and radiant and glowing.

Filth, he would whisper to himself. Reminding himself.

One morning, she spoke to him. The first time since their first encounter a week prior. A sound so unexpected that he flinched, whirling around as if she held a grenade cradled in her palms.

“You hate me, don't you?” She stood in the sand, looking at him. He could see her fists clenched at her sides, the slight trembling radiating through slender body. She was frightened. He could see it in her eyes, the slight knit in her brow – but her brown eyes were wide and unguarded.

Slit thought about ignoring her. Thought about swearing in her face and spitting at her feet. Thought about making the fear bloom even wider in her pretty eyes with a twisted snarling smile. But he didn't. He simply glared. “Why should I adore you like the others? You are not my savior,” he said finally.

She shrugged her delicate shoulders, palms spreading in a gesture of helplessness. “We never asked to be saviors,” she said softly – and her voice was so gentle. “We just wanted to be free.”

This time, his lips did twist into a snarl, vicious enough to make her take a step backwards. “Free from the honor he heaped on you? You traitored him. You and your sisters. You destroyed everything.” Slit's voice was a growl, twisting with anger and a bitterness that threatened to choke him.

She didn't flee. She watched him, her eyes filled with pools of sorrow, chewing on her lower lip in a habit of nervousness. “I'm sorry,” she whispered at last. “But we had no choice. You wouldn't let us leave. We didn't mean for so many people to die.”

“Better to die than to be a traitor,” he snapped.

“Better to be a traitor than to live in a cage,” she retorted in an unexpected flash of frustration. But almost immediately, he could see the regret softening her lips. “He was poison. Don't you see that? What he did... it wasn't right.”

It made him feel ill inside, the matter of fact way that she condemned his world, his past, everything he had every known. The ease with which she and her sisters had convinced the others of the same thing – convincing them to shrug away their ideals and their identities, and embrace the “truth”. Sirens with lies on their tongues, hidden behind their sorrowful eyes.

Slit turned his back, eyeing the target before him, its Rock Rider helmet with emptied eyes that mocked him. His shoulders ached from the tension that coiled within, the sudden flush of anger that made it impossible to breath. Lies. Filthy lies. Filthy traitors. He couldn't keep it inside – it was stronger than he was – the fury – the frustration.

Fists clenched tight, lashing out – not at the siren with her ambered eyes, but at the target made of leather and wood and cloth – throwing his entire weight behind the punches. One after another after another, like a cobra striking out with deadly precision. He barely heard the sound she made – a strangled sound that was half cry, half gasp – terrified.

The target was a tangled pile of splintered wood, the helmet rolling sightlessly across the sands, and he sucked in a jagged breath. The knot of anger in his stomach felt loosed, at least – the violence always grounded him. At least it was real.

“You're bleeding,” she whispered, and the lancer turned, faintly surprised that she was still there. Judging from the terrified noise she had made, he had expected her to flee – weak and frightened. But she stood her own ground – had inched even closer, staring down at his hands with her brown eyes widened in concern.

Slit looked down at his knuckles, flesh torn and bleeding – no doubt, ripped raw from the wooden posts.

It didn't hurt. It never hurt.

But the girl reached out, fingertips brushing across the back of his hand, settling against his wrist. As if wanting to touch the injuries, yet not wanting to cause more pain. Slit froze. Her hands were so soft. They weren't hard or calloused – they were cool and delicate, slender fingers tapering into palms of tenderness that made it impossible to breathe. For a moment, he just stared at the soft hand, dusky against his powdered skin.

Then he flinched backwards, ripping his hand away from hers with such force that she leapt backwards too, startled at her own impertinence, the fear blooming once more in her eyes.

“Don't touch me,” he choked, dizzy. His lips twisted back into another snarl, a beast trapped in a corner by something he couldn't quite understand. He glared in a gaze of fire and ice – his reddened eye burning, his blue pupil carved from crystal and cold.

Before she could open her lips to respond, he had pushed past her, leaving his weapons forgotten in the sands.

Filth, he reminded himself.

He could still feel the touch of her hand burning against his.