Lady Sanva was unwell. Deeply unwell. I--I could not fathom the affliction that gripped her very soul. Her once kind and stoic disposition had become warped, dispassionate and quick to emotional extremes. It was not a sickness of the flesh, no. Sanva was strong, stronger than I'd ever seen before, moving with an uncanny grace that both mesmerized and frightened me to my core; her eyes shone with a implacable longing. A once humble, yet smoldering flame now lapping outward, hungrily, without restraint or compassion.
"This is the third time we've stopped today. Do your pauldrons truly require another polishing? We should push on to Belgrad and warn them of the conspiracy against them." I pressed with a mixture of concern and nascent contempt; never had Sanva been so obsessively proud.
She smiled, "You're right," The smirk twisted to the corners of her cheeks, beautiful eyes glinting like polished steel; it was a look that sent shivers down my spine. Then those steel-blue eyes flicked downward, tracing over my body. Sanva's fingers twitched with excitement as she traced a line along the ridge of her plumed helm. This pomp was unbecoming of her, but much had changed since our quarrel with the cultists plaguing Belgrad.
Sanva wore the full armor of a knight: a gleaming black breastplate, cuirass, greaves and gauntlets, all embossed with bright silver floral motifs. The set hazily reflected the orange light of the setting sun, scrupulously polished to an almost blinding sheen. This was not mere upkeep. It was pride unchecked and it made my stomach churn.
"Sanva, it wouldn't be right if I didn't ask, what happened in the temple? We were separated for some time." I was trying my hardest to sound concerned and sympathetic, yet couldn't keep the tinge of disgust from creeping into my voice.
Sanva laughed, "Unwell? Unwell! How far from the truth you are." She stood upright, presenting the fullness of her toned yet graceful figure. We'd always been close, sharing an unmistakably familial bond. Though now, under the setting sun of the eve, Sanva stood unabashed and unashamed. She was dressed modestly in the fittings of her tunic and linens, but there was a sultriness to her gait; inhibition discarded. "I see things for how they are now, how they've always been. Do you wish to know?" The question lingered on her lips as an invitation more than anything else. Sanva raised a goading brow.
"Do tell." I gulped.
"Tell me, are you satisfied with sleeping on dusty mats? Huddled around dying embers for warmth? Risking our flesh and blood for mere coins? My eyes have been opened to the truth, that duty and honor have limited what we could be. Made us ashamed of what and who we truly are." The rise and fall of her bosom made evident the passion through which she spoke, "When we were separated in the temple, my eyes were opened. I saw how you lived, in squalor and filth. We pledged ourselves to not only the world, but each other. I saw then that you loved me; do you still?" she asked, gazing into my eyes with such intensity I felt my knees weaken; the fire dimmed and sputtered, as if the darkness of the evening was at its throat.
"Of course. I would give my life for you." I spoke at a whisper, searching for my conviction.
"Would love be enough to make you see? We 'deserve' the fruits of our labor, to make use of our strength as we see fit, no? We've scraped by sacrificing our wellbeing for the weak for far too long Wouldn't it be just that we live a life of comfort and ease, where we could indulge ourselves at our whims?" She offered her hand, and so much more behind it. Sanva wanted the world and would betray everything we stood for to have it. She'd betray them if it meant giving herself the one thing she craved most. I could feel it burning inside her, that flame of desire, smoldering, insatiable. It ate away at my resolve to hold out against her.
"So, what shall we do about this, then? You must see my point. Our lives are short, and the time spent in the service of others is lost forever. Do you think that we should abandon Belgrad for the sake of our own happiness? What if we should die in battle tomorrow, how many would remember us? But what if instead, we took our rightful place in this world?"