i will cut the dragon's feet

It’s Saturday morning, and Malaya was supposed to be accompanying you and Chapar to one of his parties. The rest of the troupe had deigned not to join: Khaneh said it sounded lame, and Trieua had work, both of which you’d been grateful for.

You’d never admit it, but Chapar’s maybe your favorite person in the whole troupe. And of course, you never turned down an opportunity to have Malaya to yourself! (Or, well - mostly to yourself.)

But at the last moment, after the two of you had been dawdling in your cart for nearly an hour, Malaya’d arrived, his hair wind-tousled and already apologising before he’d even made it through the doorway. “Sorry! Mysore called,” he’d said, pressing the invitations into Chapar’s loose grip. “But you two have fun, yeah?”

And then he’d bolted back to whatever emergency his moirail had embroiled themselves in this time.

If you’d had it your way, that would’ve been the end of it: you’ve been to highblood parties before, and they’re not much fun, if you don’t know the people there already. (For one, no one wants to talk to the maroonblood, not unless they’re trying to order drinks.) But Chapar had insisted on going. “When’s the next time we’re going to get to go to a bash like this?” he’d asked you, pleading. “Come on, Pheres, I already picked out an outfit and everything!”

So you’d agreed.

And now that you’re here… well, it’s not exactly as bad as you thought it’d be.

Both you and Chapar are wearing white and one of Malaya’s scarves, the fancy ones embroidered with his symbol. He’d insisted on it, back when the three of you were supposed to be going together: for safety’s sake, he’d said! None of you are quadrants, but you’re a sort of clade all the same, and that makes showing off his colour like this alright.

And, surprisingly, it’s effective even without him here. No one’s mistaken you for one of the serving staff the entire time you’ve been here, and no one’s even really noticed your symbol: their eyes hit the white and then the scarf, and then they slide right off like oil on the water, like the fact you’ve got a rich highblood quadrant - friend - roaming the halls somewhere is all that matters.

If you’re honest, the party so far has actually been pretty amazing. People have been talking to the both of you, and not because they want you to take drink orders: they’re chatting and joking and flirting, which you’re used to, but Chapar’s face keeps lighting up whenever anyone so much as looks his way. It’s adorable.

Adorable, but a little exhausting, so you and Chapar have holed yourself up at one of the tables near the mostly abandoned buffet, making a game of stacking your plates full of the fanciest tidbits you could find. Chapar’s been winning, by virtue of the fact he’s more willing to rummage through the platters to find the sort of things they hide in the back. “Look at this, Pheres,” he crows, lifting the lid off of a plate bristling with roll-up bugs: “They’ve got stuffed idotea!”

“.. stuffed with what?” They didn’t bother removing the legs, or the antannae, and it looks like they’re ready to unfurl right off the plate. You blanche, wrinkling up your nose, but Chapar dumps a handful onto his plate like he’s not even bothered. “I dunno,” he says, cheerful. “But I’ll find out!”

You don’t even like food much, but every time you finish something, Chapar’s right there, dumping some appalling new find on your plate to try. (Not just stuffed idotea: they’ve got candied seastars. Gross.) And between bites, the two of you gossip about the people around you. Guessing who’s who’s quadrant turns into a discussion of outfits turns into –

“Look at her,” Chapar breathes beside you.

– bluebloods are so pretty.

And Chapar’s got an excellent eye for spotting the most striking ones. The girl he’s nodding towards is tall, with the sort of smooth, glowing skin and softness that only highbloods ever seem to quite get, and small, elegantly curving horns, so unlike the massive clodhoppers stuck on you and Chapar’s heads.

For one, she’s got jewelry on them, little gold chains that are just as delicate as the horns holding them up.

But there’s something off about the way she’s walking: jerkily, a little unsteadily, like she’s got on shoes that’re a size too small. (She doesn’t: she’s barely even wearing shoes, just blue slippers, and they’re perfectly fitted. So maybe it’s the way her skin is moving? It’s dimpling in a way you didn’t know skin could move, bunching up like rubber every time she moves.

It takes you a moment to realise it’s the fins.

You’ve never actually seen a seadweller before in real life! They stay in the docks district, for the most part, or with the Imperial Education Program, and you’re not allowed near either of those things - that’s the one thing that everyone you know agrees on, from Sipara to Malaya, like they think something terrible will happen if you even see one.

Nothing terrible’s happening, though, except for the way your mouth’s gone all dry and papery. There’s just enough off that it feels a little like you’re looking at a mutant - the sort of prickly unease you get whenever someone’s got too many pupils, or too few horns.

You’re just being silly, though, because when you glance at Chapar, he’s all big eyes and sunstruck looks. “Man, she is so hot,” he murmurs, and you bob your head before you can think twice, because that’s just the truth, no matter how you feel: she *is* pretty. She looks like everything a highblood should, even down to her clothes, and, yes, the fins. “.. but she’s too high caste for me,” he sighs.

“She isn’t!” The denial’s reflexive. You like Chapar so much: he’s the only other lowblood in the group, and he’s only half a sweep older than you, which means the two of you might as well be clutchmates compared to everyone else. More than that, he isn’t like Khaneh, or even sometimes Malaya. He’s always seeking you out, asking about your books, talking to you even when he isn’t bored or looking for attention.

He’s nice! And the idea that anyone’s too high for him feels like a personal affront. “You’re olive,” you huff, looking away. He’s staring at you like you’re speaking Common. “That’s only…”

You count off on your fingers, each movement slower than the next. “.. um. Six steps.”

“Seven. You’ve got to count olive, too.” He sounds glum.

“Ah, it doesn’t matter how much of a caste gap it is!” He sounds soglum. You puff out your cheeks and gesture with your free hand, a big, decisive swoop that nearly knocks the plate out of his hand. “Don’t you watch vids? Everyone likes analogous pairings, and you’re practically blue. You could talk to her! I’m sure she won’t mind.”

“I could talk to her first, if you’d like,” you add. “Just to show you how!”

He blinks at you, like he didn’t quite hear what you said. “What? Pheres –”

“Just stay right here,” you tell him, shoving your plate into his hands, and you trot over to her, ignoring the way Chapar’s spluttering behind you.

The crowd’s easy to navigate. Everyone here is so tall! (Everyone’s always so tall compared to you, but that’s alright: you’re sure you’ll grow soon enough.) All you have to do is bob and weave to duck the occasional wayward elbow and slip between the dancers, and then you’re next to the seadweller girl.

“Hello!” you chirp, angling your head up so that you can see her face. You’re going to get a crick in your neck if you try to keep this up, but you don’t care. You’re going to prove Chapar wrong.

She blinks down at you. The movement’s all wrong: too slow and too twitchy all at once, with a soft, wet noise you can hear from all the way back here. This close, you can see what you thought were fins are just a strange sort of ear, instead, and her eyes are purple as the church tents you see sometimes. She must be a cusp. You’ve never seen one of those before! “Hello,” she says, baffled, and you clear your throat, making your eyes big and apologetic.

“Ah, I’m so sorry to bother you, miss –”

“Oh, no, it’s alright,” she murmurs, still confused. This is why you love dealing with highbloods: they’re so reflexively polite, and it’s easy to use that to your advantage. You dimple at her, tilting your head so that your hair cascades to the side, and her smile becomes a little more genuine.

“- but I just saw your dress from afar, and I thought.. well, it’s just amazing! And that’s such a lovely colour.” It’s made of leather, and it has to be the most ghastly shade of black you’ve ever seen, somehow yellow and brown all at once, but her face lights up all the same.

She’s only said a few words, but they were thick, heavy in a way that you don’t really recognise. But you used to talk strangely, too, before you learned how to speak Standard properly, and it gives you an idea. “Did you buy it in Temasek?” you ask, widening your eyes.

“Temasek..? Oh! The city! No, no, I bought it from Blackstone.” She gives a self-conscious little laugh. “I’m not from around here,” she explains. “Farther up north. Much farther.”

“But, ah, I like your scarf,” she adds, reaching out and taking a hold of the end. You hold still patiently as she rubs it between her fingers, testing out the fabric even as her eyes flit down to your symbol. You’re used to this sort of thing: everyone’s always touching you, like being maroon means they don’t have to ask, but you suppose that’s alright. It’s not like you mind! “You’ve got a Juno as your matesprit, hm?”

“Oh, no, not my matesprit! Just my friend. Ah..” The conversation isn’t going where you planned: she’s talking to you right now, but there’s no way you can bring in Chapar, and that was the entire point of this.

But that’s alright. If the conversation isn’t working, you’ll just have to make it work! Luckily, she seems like the nicer sort, and you’ve always got a plan for those. You sigh, letting your shoulders fall just enough that she notices, and when she makes a little questioning noise, you put on a brave face: tilt your chin back up, furrow your brows just enough to look worried, and then you smile weakly, biting your lip just the slightest amount.

Most people like it when you look pathetic, and judging by the ways her eyes soften, she’s not any different.

“He was supposed to be here,  but I think..  well.  He just forgets sometimes.”

“Oh,  that’s dreadful,” she breathes, pressing the back of her palm to her mouth.

“Oh, no, no!” You shake your head, hard enough that your hair goes flying, and you make your voice high and earnest: “I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea! He’s just - you know -” You wring your hands, glancing up towards her long enough to make eye contact, and then letting your gaze drop back down to the floor. You can’t push it too heavily! People get mad when they think you’re trying to manipulate them. But a soft enough touch - “I suppose he just forgot Chapar and I don’t know anyone here,” you murmur, peering up at her through your eyelashes.

“You don’t know anyone? And he left you here by yourself?” She looks appalled. You hope she isn’t a gossip, or else Malaya’s going to find this all dreadfully unfunny. “You know..” She bites her lip, and then frowns, decisive. “You can sit with me at my table, yes. Plenty of people! Friendly people,” she says, emphasizing the word. “Not everyone here is friendly to little lowbloods, yeah? We will make sure you have good time. You and your other friend.”

“Oh,” you say,  clapping a hand to your mouth and letting your eyes widen. (The better to hide the way you want to laugh. Of course it worked, but – you can’t believe this worked.) “You don’t have to! Ahh, I don’t - if we’d be a bother –”

“I insist! Where are they?”

All the way back against the wall, Chapar’s looking at you like you’ve grown a second head, a toothpick full of vegetables dangling from his hand. You beam at him, give a little wave. “Chapar,” you call,  and the girl behind you turns to gesture with you. “Come here! She wants us to sit with her!”