Page 10 of Fog of War
"Hello."
"The Muru grace us," both Tertana and Aescia greeted.
My eyes popped open to find the Satoris human looking up at me like I was a living set of armor. A fitting expression, considering my plates were silver and my eyes icy blue.
“You looked a little nervous, so I thought I'd give you some luck.”
Me?
She was smiling self-consciously, hugging a pot of lumi powder to her chest, her five thin fingers smeared with pink. Just like her cheeks, filled with blood and hotter than the rest of her face.
Pink...
I glared at Maranba Tetradi from across the field, where little swipes of pink–too small for a venandi finger to make–decorated the top of his groin plate.
So he’d teased ahrumat the human… I thought the gesture was from a lover that would miss him, but apparently he really was just as disgusting as I’d always taken him for. It’s not as if the human would know what the sound–
Aescia shoved me hard.
"The Muru grace us," I said hastily, bowing my head with a curt snap. I ripped my eyes from the Tetradi trio and found the human again.
She wasn’t short, but she feltslight.Perhaps it was her restrained posture or the quiet, soothing chime of her voice.Thisdove was friends with galavanting, brawling, loud-mouthed Leopha Satoris?
Of course, all of the clansmen knew who she was and who she’d come with. The first human at a Festival of Souls was gossip fodder anywhere, let alone the boozy tents of a clan encampment. How many venandi had rumbled her way? Satoris was doing a good job of protecting her, at least. She seemed at ease, happy even, despite the chilly promise of violence in the air and the fog that blanketed the ancestral resting place of more than two million souls.
The human pushed the thin circular discs decorating her face up the protruding bridge of her nose, smearing pink on the frames, then held up her pot and dipped her fingers in. She glanced at my uncle as he painted one of Tertana’s short spires and gave her a flutter of fatherly affection.
Gathering courage, she bit her lip. “Could I paint your spires? My friend painted her brother’s and, um… I-I’ve never touched one before.”
Despite the fact that she didn’t know the meaning and I was having a thoroughly terrible time coming to terms with myfate, I felt a thrill at the honor she offered to bestow upon me. I cleared my throat and tamped down the greedy voice at the back of my head that said,Just accept. The Muru offered. Accept her favor.
“Anywhere is fine.” Unable to help myself, I lowered my head for her to reach.
“Really? Thanks,” she exhaled, a bounce in her shoulders as she bit back a smile and held up her fingers.
“But,” I managed, my conscience getting the better of me. She paused, hand lifted towards my crown. “Painting a champion’s spires means they’re your favorite for the battle.” Maranba Tetradi flashed in my mind with his interestedhrum.“You should know that, before you choose to paint them.”
“Oh,” she said, dejected. She looked in the direction of the Satoris clan. “I should save that for Leonide then.” She glanced between Tertana and Aescia. “Team pride, and all that.”
I dipped my head in agreement, but when I stood up straight, I felt a scowl coming on. I didn’t want to feel sour about the rejection, but it stung anyway.
“I’ll powder your scars then,” she decided with more cheer, dipping her fingers into the pot again out of habit. I looked down at the cracked serratus plates over my ribs with surprise.
“These?” I asked, brushing my talon over them. “A crate fell on me during warehouse duty as a new recruit years ago. They’re nothing of note.”
The human’s fluttery touch traced the cracks, leaving a tingling web of pink like a pane of broken glass. Her brows came together with concern. “That sounds serious.” Her touch slowed and turned prodding. It tickled. “Do they hurt?”
Without thinking, I winced with a theatrical hiss of pain. She gasped, snatching her hand away, and her eyes flew up to mine. My face broke on a grin and a purr of amusement vibrated through my chest as she froze in apologetic shock.
“No,” I chuckled. “They don’t hurt.”
She smacked my chest with the world’s tiniest growl of frustration and that chuckle bloomed into a laugh as I held up my palms.
“Hey, that stung,” I teased in mock surrender. My mandibles broke open in the first smile I’d worn since being chosen for the festival.
“Shoot! I’m so sorry,” she breathed, mortified, covering her mouth with her hands. Did she actually think she’d hurt me? Sweet soul, she couldn’t hurt a fly. We both stared at the neon pink palm print she’d left on my chest. Small, with five fingers, perfectly defined. “Here, I can–”
“It’s alright.” I caught her wrist before she could try to wipe the mark off with her sleeve. “Ididtell you anywhere was fine.”
