twinges of resentment blister in the catacombs of her veins, every step she takes fire— almost literally, thin straws of smoke sifting between her toes and body radiating heat. even if not for the steam pooling from her body, it's clear that she's mad, eyes pinched wine red rather than deep plum, and legs stiffer than cardboard. the girl has been in situations like this before, unsurprisingly enough, where her tongue poked and prodded unrest into people and then amends were demanded of her. an apology was what they wanted, but it was not what they got. see, she has never been sorry for the things she believed to be true nor has she taken back words she wholeheartedly meant, ever, but now as she matches pace with her leader, her brain twists around the idea of it.
to even be in this situation points towards her going soft, and she's supposed to apologize, somehow, but it won't be the least bit sincere. the way she pictures it, she'll by lying through her teeth to keep the peace between their groups— as if upsetting one cartellian would do any real damage and determine the outcome of their alliance. as if she cares what happens to the alliance, or who chooses to take offense to what words her tongue spins. she'd rather just let the insults settle like mud, but lucien demands otherwise. the caracal comes to a stop at the border, a soft huff billowing past her lips as eyes chip into the territory; a winter-fitted forest giving way to what looks like a highbrow mansion. they have taste, she'll give them that much.