( There, little nephew of opportunity. There’s the moment. Watch, when they’re two of them, Lan Wangji and the first man, woman or child of his party that he’s stumbled upon, and the aim is clear, the corridor of the Keep barely a routine race of fallen or still collapsing obstacles. The goaded assaults were thunderous, ruinous. Before them, the game of escaping pillars and gravel and the swarm of rushing guards is afoot.
The Barracks have been largely stormed, emptied. The Wards live overcrowded. Even now, blood royal hides in the glory of its many privileges, the child Cle-Florens half-ferried, half-dragged to her quarters, as they watch, as they wait.
There is talk to kill her, for victory. Lan Wangji suspects, for sport.
It would be easy, to look at her. Some might decree, expected. White of her roiling eyes and her fussing, spoiled groan from a rosebud mouth. She is a sheltered thing, pale from a life lived under paltry, unassuming cover. Were she any less green in her years, he might think to despise her oblivious, manicured indolence. As the dice have rolled, he pities her, the fate that paladins greedily whispered for her among each other.
They say that king Deimar has thinned her palace guard and rerouted her man to serve in the war. They say all roads to the girl’s rooms are largely barren. They say much, for men who do not purport to want her liberated. )
We might remove her, now. ( If they were tempted, if they had the design. ) If we located a stand-in.
obi-wan is definitely cle-florens' last hope
( There, little nephew of opportunity. There’s the moment. Watch, when they’re two of them, Lan Wangji and the first man, woman or child of his party that he’s stumbled upon, and the aim is clear, the corridor of the Keep barely a routine race of fallen or still collapsing obstacles. The goaded assaults were thunderous, ruinous. Before them, the game of escaping pillars and gravel and the swarm of rushing guards is afoot.
The Barracks have been largely stormed, emptied. The Wards live overcrowded. Even now, blood royal hides in the glory of its many privileges, the child Cle-Florens half-ferried, half-dragged to her quarters, as they watch, as they wait.
There is talk to kill her, for victory. Lan Wangji suspects, for sport.
It would be easy, to look at her. Some might decree, expected. White of her roiling eyes and her fussing, spoiled groan from a rosebud mouth. She is a sheltered thing, pale from a life lived under paltry, unassuming cover. Were she any less green in her years, he might think to despise her oblivious, manicured indolence. As the dice have rolled, he pities her, the fate that paladins greedily whispered for her among each other.
They say that king Deimar has thinned her palace guard and rerouted her man to serve in the war. They say all roads to the girl’s rooms are largely barren. They say much, for men who do not purport to want her liberated. )
We might remove her, now. ( If they were tempted, if they had the design. ) If we located a stand-in.
( Not that he is suggesting —
…not that he is not. )