“N-no, sir, she - she hasn't. She-she said that …”

Peeking open one eye she glared at the door, irritated at the sounds that had lifted her from slumber.

“I-I … I don't know sir.”

Groaning quietly she grabbed a cushion, pulling it over her head. Her wings flopped uselessly from her back, as if wanting to wake up but the rest of her body was unwilling. Quite sharply she told them to back down, and they stilled. Mostly.

There was a low, muttering voice of authority, that had no discernible words - yet still was understood enough for an answer.

“Eh, yes sir. She - she just went in.”

She huffed grumpily into the mattress under her, rolling her eyes about the lack of peace. It was different from the seven days within the antechamber, where sorrow had kept her from talking to anyone, and she was respected. Now it was if the world had a bone to pick with her and wanted her to suffer and be awake when her rest had been so little.

Or she was not that sure. How late had she actually fallen asleep? Was it as yet night once more?

“Eh - eh, sir!”

“If you want her out sir,” came a fresher, crisper voice, “We will get her for you.”

Stare opened one beady eye and peeked out from under the cushion. The door was still shut, and the room was still bare, but it was clear there were was eagerness for others to be within. Groaning a little she stretched and muttered under her breath about gods and how they couldn't leave her alone.

Another low rumble, but this time it was questioning in tone.

“What do I mean sir? I do not understand.”

Yawning a little, she lifted her head up from the mattress, knowing that her chances of falling back asleep were limited. Her claws by her side flexed.

“I mean she is yours, sir. So we will get her -”

Slam!

Now she was awake. Startled, both of her eyes opened and she sat up partly, looking at the door that was now a wooden mass shuddering amongst heavy stone. The slam did not seem to come from that, however, but rather the wall nearby, that was still responding with the force that had hit it. It was so horrendously powerful that it was making the door shudder.

“The fuck do you think you are,” hissed the low voice, full of red hot fire, burning anger and loathing, “you dare …”

“S-sir,” came the shocked, first voice. “P-please.”

A second slam. Quickly, Stare sat up, her whole body now fully alert. Pushing the cushion to one side she began to slide out of the bed, heart racing but with more of an understanding now of what was going on, who was speaking and what he was doing.

And now a fourth voice entered the fray. Whose she was certain was Zulon's, a peaceful negotiator in the apparent chaos outside. “Sir,” he tried to speak calmly, passively, “Harringdon did not mean-”

“He perfectly knew well enough what he meant,” spat Vitruvion. Stare swung herself out of bed, tugging down her tunic. “I knew what he meant, and so do you, Zulon.”

“Sir-”

“But, sir she is yours,” came a choked intone. “She is-”