She moved around him like a siren circling the sinking wreck of what had once been a splendid warship. She possessed the power to alter his fate without the slightest effort, to rewrite the grim tale unfolding for Julius—but instead, she had chosen to imprison him in uncertainty, and with it, quietly donning the role of his gaoler.
She, who delighted in the game, who cast the shadow of a curse above his head, danced with the sly grace of the desert vixen she was. She savored her influence — her many powers —each capable of swaying the man in white in countless, unseen ways.

It was a condition foreign to the man in the heavy coat—to be made the plaything of fate, prey to its cruel whims. And yet, he fought to regain his footing, to reclaim the illusion—no, the conviction—of control.
He had allowed himself to collapse into the puddle of mud he’d left behind, rolling in it, coating every inch of his body as best he could. An instinct, perhaps—the desire to carry with him that lingering coolness before returning to face the merciless brilliance of the golden expanse.

Once more, he pressed his head against her thigh, leaned into it, then followed with his shoulder.—this time, with a firm push. He was commanding her to resume the journey. He would follow. They had no choice. She no longer had a choice.