He raised his eyes and visibly started. Valla basked in satisfaction at surprising a Promised for a brief moment, allowing it to color her smile. It was clear that he hadn't looked up at the sound of her approach, but instead at the absence of music. Once again, he averted his gaze, his face an odd picture of resignation and wariness. It was a pretty gaze, she noted, clear amber that complemented shorn brown hair so dark it was almost black, lit with reds in the dying firelight. His actions were obvious; there was no quarrel here unless she started one. She might have suspected a ruse, the supposed honor of the legionnaires of the Promised be damned, but as the night had grown old Valla grown trust this man was what he seemed. Not simply a Shamed Promised, but someone tired and starved for music. The Promised forbid learning music and frowned upon listening to it, but he sought it out. The Promised supported Carram, but this man hated the Empire. She was tired herself, starved for new songs, and she hated the Empire. She wanted to trust him. It was foolhardy of her to simply sit and stare him down, but after years of caution, she was tired of acting wisely. Valla had learned so much and yet so little by sitting and watching, by acting wisely and joylessly, by nursing wounds that would not heal, and by waiting and waiting and waiting. For what? She wanted now so badly to act before she faded into nothing. 

And so, she decided to act.