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Whatever connection this mythical son had, Salvia did not grasp. She regarded him frankly and without a measure of politeness, gaze frosty. He was older than her, a pale color that reminded her of Itachi but weaker, lighter. He was skinny and almost feminine. Yet as she observed him, he did the same in turn and the very arrogance of him to address the older woman before her offended Salvia on a level she had not expected. Her shoulders squared sharply and her body’s conformation shifted some, weight dropping as if in a fight. It was a subtle movement and lost on the older woman, who blanched under her fur. She looked to Salvia, eyes wide, but could do nothing to silence the man.
Salvia remained still as he circled her but her eyes were burning nuclear winter as they glared at him. Her upper lip pulled away and revealed canines that had killed men for less. When her voice came, it was the rolling thunder of her father—low and dangerous, commanding. She was a Queen now and no one, especially some girly-man loner, would regard her in such a fashion. “I am no brood mare, wretch,” she spat. Temper flaring, she wondered just how easily it would be to cut his throat. Too easy.
Wisteria hurried to try and amend the situation, fearing Salvia more than she did the mystical blood that flowed through the boy. If he was Misery, it would have been different. If he was white, it would have been different. “This is Larkspur’s daughter, and my leader,” she explained. “I have a child from a Brandt man, yes. She has chosen her own life here, and has a daughter herself now.” This was said with a great amount of pride; Wisteria was pleased that her offspring had survived and gone on to produce a little fluffy white thing that secured her own immortality. Then, with a great sense of self-righteousness, she went on. “The Khalif is no longer my home, Zadkiel. I follow Salvia now.” She was careful not to speak of Salsola, but needed to put forth the rank of the girl to make her importance known.
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