her grin widens, something pleased creeping across her features. perhaps, she echoed. there is no sense in flinching from the implication; it is not a thing she is ashamed of. i’ve always preferred softer mouths. gentler tempers. the truth, plain as a cut to the bone.

her eyes lifted to his, catching the want there, and something sly warmed in her expression—was her assumption misguided? —but even a woman who favors silk knows the appeal of stone.

her gaze dipped again—over his chest, his stance, the hard angles built by training—before returning to his face. are you hoping to be the exception, sapair?

“Hope is for young men.” Jodai’s mouth took no shape though his eyes did not lose their amusement. He returned them to her soft green gaze— not her mouth, nor the hips he swiftly envisioned flush against his own.
Sapair was no longer a mazoi. He was a commander of the king's guard. He did not believe Pharaoh would deny him any woman of his choosing.
Yet, “wanting is not the same as trusting,” and in the weeks to follow, Sapair intended to test whether or not she merited this.

y’var’la’s grin softened, losing its sharp edge as she watched him. there was no disappointment in it—a man like sapair did not trade in hope. no, she said, it isn’t. her gaze stayed steady on his, unbothered by the distance he set between them. and i wouldn’t ask you to confuse them.

her tail gave a small, idle flick. come. hunt with me, an invitation outstretched, should he find himself wanting.

“You do not wish to supper with the kingdom?”
Jodai’s brow was an arched hill upon his face. The notion that she would rather hunt for her own meal surprised him. Though, he was not dissuaded even by the work earlier that had soared leg muscles.
“Tell me your preference,” he went on anyway, made aware of her height by it’s new position at his side.

y’var’la angled her head, considering him from the corner of her eye as they walked. no harm in catching extra, she said simply.

her gaze slid toward the brush beyond the camp, where the land dipped and rose in soft folds. birds, if they’re about. pheasant. quail. a faint glint of approval crossed her expression.

The captain let his smirk linger.
“This way,” his tail flicked in invitation as he led them toward the babbling creek that fed Satriya’s water source.
No harm— only the private pleasure of watching the woman forced into a pace that would leave her heaving and breathless.

y’var’la followed without comment, though the corner of her mouth twitched at his smirk. she lengthened her stride easily to match him, long legs built for distance rather than bursts, breathing steady and unhurried.

the creek’s chatter reached her ears before the water showed itself, and with it the rustle of brush where small bodies moved careless in the fading light. her head lowered slightly, posture shifting as instinct slid into place, every step set to land soft.

hear that? she murmured, eyes cutting toward a patch of scrub ahead. left bank. a pause, then a sidelong glance at him, faintly amused.

Pharaoh’s scribe was keen to take control of the hunt and Sapair was keen to yield it, following her swift passage through the boreal scrub and toward a faint flutter of wings.
At the river’s edge he came alongside her, allowing the length of his flank brush her hips in passing. Amber eyes dared Y'var'la to challenge it.
“Where does a woman of the court learn to hunt?”

y’var’la did not break stride when his flank brushed hers, though her ear flicked once in acknowledgment. the contact lingered only a heartbeat before she eased ahead again—no protest, but there is little joy to be had in a mere tease. his challenge earns the faintest tilt of her mouth before her attention slipped back to the scrub ahead, where something small shuffled through dry stems.

it is a basic skill, she remarks under her breath. was a political woman with knowledge of the hunt truly so novel? everyone should know how.

reassigning her attention to the task at hand, hazel eyes fix on the brush ahead where the faint stir of wings betray movement. a pheasant, by the sound of it—heavy and careless in the reeds. she listened for the bird’s next step, then flicked him a brief look. ready?

“Should, perhaps. Few ladies of the court do. You are quite accomplished, scribe.” He commented as she pulled away and up into the further reeds.
Was it a break from tradition, this natal kingdom of hers? And how then might she adjust to Pharaoh's forum in Satriya?
“Lead on,” the captain urged, further intrigued to see how she might ground their quarry.