Yearn

Kleya would have called it a long time ago, he suspected.He wondered how close she’d let it come, before the tight pull of her eyes, the questioning look she gave him at the start and close of every day in the gallery, yielded to questions or lectures or demands.Sometimes, he wondered if she grasped how deeply ran his bloodlust. How dearly he wanted this, not for the Rebellion, but for his own satisfaction. To hit them hard, humiliate them, sit back and watch them descend into paranoia and contend with the dilemma of how to staunch the wound after so long believing themselves infallible, untouchable, invincible.