Anastasia does not see the world as the others do.
She does not see it with the mind of a conquerer—the craftiness, the politics, the romance beyond her. She does not understand their feigned evolution; the lies they tell themselves about how they have grown beyond their feral predecessors. Anastasia sees that as it is: a falsehood. But neither does she live as the most basic of Beqanna’s residents; they who, like Violence’s siblings, have devolved into nothing but instinct and desire and need. Instead, she walks a fine line in between.
It leaves her alone more often than not, although the isolation has never resulted in loneliness. Instead, she busies herself with learning everything there is to learn about the shadows. It took every piece of her mind to try and study them, testing herself with how quickly she could move through the portals and how quickly she could guide them into things of use. She was pleased with her progress, pleased with the way the shadows were learning from her too.
Pleased enough that she does not mind when her time, her space, is interrupted by the other. Instead, she simply tilts her dark head, yellow eyes peering out at the mare.
“Hel-lo,” she parrots, tongue thick and disobedient in her mouth. “I am Ana-sta-sia.”
Of course, the better question would be what is she, but that question was not asked and Anastasia was not in the habit of offering up more information than was necessary. Instead, she turns her attention toward the bones that danced next to the mare’s side. Almost absentmindedly, Anastasia calls to the shadows until they spiral out from the earth, molding themselves until they perfectly mimicked her pet. She smiles, revealing sharp teeth, giving the shadows a nod of approval. What good little beasties.
She turns back to the mare. “Who are you?”
like the moon, we borrow our light
{I am nothing but a shadow in the night}