Candles and smoke. The scent of black ink scorched her sinuses and her eyelids were heavy. How long had it been, now? With Isra back on her feet and Obieth partially trained and aware of what was threatening the palace, Aethril could work in peace, but that didn't necessarily feel like a good thing. She was tired of maps and scheming and it'd only been-- what, a month and a half? --since she'd woken up. While being busy was good, Aethril found herself longing for just a moment to spend laying in the grass somewhere and resting in dappled light.

Her fingerbones were stiff. The muscles cramped, and she was beginning to lose the ability to read her own handwriting. It was just when she was debating heading back to her chambers to rest that a shadow dropped over her desk despite the candle flickering back and forth with a violet flame. Aethril froze where she sat.

Oh, but not with fear.

Anticipation. Her belly flipped with delight and there came that little voice of Chaos chattering in the back of her head-- a fight! --preparation spilled into her very fingertips. Adrenaline made her breath shake. Pointed ears strained for the sound of footsteps, a predator waiting in the faint darkness of a shelf corner and candlelight. She just needed the right moment to set every book in this room ablaze.

But, she realised. Even a failing memory couldn't turn away from Dhracia's presence. She knew that shadow, that walk, that voice.

A very slim part of her felt disappointed. Another was grinning ear-to-ear, the type of genuine delight that forces its way through and scrunched up her eyes. Although she was left often intimidated by Dhracia and her sheer power, it still very much felt like seeing an old friend. Hell, seeing any other Valkhand right now was something of a blessing.

A clip of a heel on marble floor and Aethril had stood up to face Lord Dhracia. "You're here," she responded-- an attempt to match that slight amusement mostly overpowered with something akin to relief. "You look very well, Lord Dhracia."

Her head inclined and her hands clasped over in front of her, briefly brushing down the skirt of her dress. For a moment she was simply... enjoying herself. Relishing in the presence of someone other than Isra worth talking to. Dhracia's words, her voice, were a perfectly-tuned siren's song to her ears, until she realised what she'd said.

And it did sting. A shallow cut in her chest that almost stole the breath from her lungs, not terribly deep but enough that Aethril could swear she felt the tang of blood in the back of her mouth. Hibernation had done nothing good to her but weaken her, make her soft, give her nightmares-- but surely, Lord Dhracia wasn't aware of this. Surely, she was jesting. Being sarcastic.

Don't go soft, the Hand chided herself, and although her smile had faltered-- weaker --it lingered on painted lips all the same. "Thank you," and she was pleased to find her tone was bright, strong, ringing like a clear, silver bell. "There is much to do here-- it keeps things... a little fresher, I suppose."

It should be noted that Aethril did not find it fresh in the slightest. The Palace was beginning to feel like another chrysalis to be trapped in already; that chattering, nagging voice wailed at her day in and day out to burn it all to the ground, bring each pristine, ivory deer to slaughter and watch white hallways run with streams of scarlet. The very thought of the destruction made her shudder (or perhaps that was Dhracia's hand in her hair?) with twisted delight.

Wait--

There was no shared feminine spite for Dhracia-- in fact, there was something akin to wonder in sparkling eyes, only made brighter by the darkened flush of high cheekbones. Whatever cut the Lord had tried to impart with this glided off Aethril like water sliding from feathers. Whatever Dhracia had meant to say-- 'you're not prettier than me,' 'you're not as powerful as me,' 'you're not as important as me' --Aethril's response was blatantly clear in large, hungry eyes.

'I know.'

As Dhracia dared to touch Aethril, Aethril dared to touch Dhracia. Her own touch was feather-soft, barely-there, catching the Hand's hand just as it began to move away. She held Dhracia's hand in both of her own, knuckles to the ceiling, and slowly bent at the waist.

A bow was all she did. Though her nose came close to Dhracia's knuckles in a gesture that might have suggested something else (and what had stopped her from kissing her hand? There was so much reverence in this quiet gesture as it was) she soon lifted with a little smile and let go.

She held Dhracia's eye for a moment. One stolen breath later, she continued with a much smaller voice. "I do what I can. I think, perhaps, you may be interested in what plans I have to clean up the rest of this nest."

Aethril's chest was tight, but her thoughts were careful-- was this a casual visit, or had Dhracia something to request of her? Regardless, her head was was inclining to a seating area filled with plush chairs and cushions. "Would you like to sit?"

"As do I," said Aethril, and for a moment she barely recognized her own voice. Soft, silky satin around the edges, but focused-- none of that daydreaming tone or precise point she often found in it. Heels clicked against alabaster as she followed Lord Dhracia. "I intend to root out the last of the filth--" the rebels "--and either make something useful of them or put them to the pyre. It is early days-- but I do not expect it'll take too long."

Pride, something bordering on arrogance. While Aethril did like to consider herself patient with her strategies, she certainly didn't expect this to take as long as, say, five thousand years. "I have a number of creations looking for their little dens and nests. As I understand it, Farina has some creations of her own doing the same-- though I've yet to find and speak with her."

She waited for Dhracia to sit down first before she followed suit on a lounging chair. Not too close. Not too far. One arm hung over the back as she leant right back and lifted her legs onto the plush to settle. Her eyes trained on the Lord for a moment still, her exhaustion not drifting past her head.

For a time, Aethril was silent. A thought crossed her mind to offer Dhracia something to eat or drink, but this was quietly tucked away for the time being. She knew that fatigue, to fall and melt as soon as you're no longer entirely vertical. Dhracia needed some solace, some quiet peace, just for a moment.

That wasn't hers to take away, but she was still watching with her tongue thoughtfully swiping along her teeth. Aethril let her gaze drop away, and she was stretching quietly before relaxing again.

A minute or so later, her head turned towards Dhracia again. "Will you stay here for the night?" The Hand asked. "Or, perhaps, is there anything I can do for you?"

Anything, Aethril realised a split second later, being a little too vague for her liking.