Sarisa was only a breath away now, her presence steady, unblinking. She smelled faintly of lavender and parchment, the strange duality of someone who could read four languages and command a warhost.
Lara had always respected that about her.
Still did.
But in this quiet moment—no council, no table between them—Lara realized something heavier sat in her chest. Not regret, exactly. Not guilt.
Just the weight of all the things left unsaid.
She ran a hand through her hair and looked away.
"I've been kind of a... stubborn ass," she said finally.
Sarisa lifted a brow. "Kind of?"
"Okay. A flaming, reckless, emotionally allergic ass. Happy?"
"Immensely."
There was a pause. A breeze stirred the curtain behind them, casting shadows on the stone floor like shifting memory.
"I meant what I said," Lara continued. "I'm not the marrying type."
"I know."
"It's not about you. Not really. You're... great."
Sarisa's lips twitched. "That sounds almost sincere."
