The assassin wanted to be stubborn, she wanted to fold her arms across her chest and ignore any orders given to her. She was childish and arrogant; but even Vhalla could see that it wasn't helping her to learn anything more with her power. Instead, she swallows her pride, with some difficulty, and falls to the ground, crossing her legs and resting her palms along her knees, the woman practically looked like she was meditating. "I don't know how metaphorical embers will help me learn how to control my fire," she mutters darkly, unable to help the glower that twists her features for but a moment. "Do you really think you can help me?" she questions Dorian rather forcefully.

The witch had her doubts that a faerie king could help her control her affinity but she had no one else to turn to.

The notion that Dorian seats himself a little farther away from her gave the woman a small amount of pleasure. At least he didn't take her fire for granted. When he lounges backwards, Vhalla raises her brows, she had never seen the king so casual before, she typically found him hard to be around, solely because of his high and mighty self. However, she found she rather liked this casual Dorian.

At the very least, she liked him until he started asking questions.

The blood drains from her face, her already pale complexion becoming a ghostly white. That, was not something Vhalla ever wanted to relive again in her life, let alone tell Dorian about it. She could still hear their screams ringing in her ears, the smell of burning flesh; that was the night Ivan found her and took her in to create what she was today. Clenching roughly at her knees, her nails almost breaking skin, she looks away from the faerie king. Not that she particularly cared what Dorian thought about her, she simply couldn't take the horrified expression on someone if they knew what she did.

Perhaps she should just leave and conquer her fire on her own or perhaps she could rid it for once and for all. Sighing, she knows it's a foolish notion, it was impossible to extract someone's magic from them. Refusing to meet Dorian's eye, she stays silent for a while, debating if she really wanted to share her past with this man. In the end, her practical side wins out, no one else was willing to be burnt by her; Dori was the last chance she had at controlling herself.

"I was eight and I was upset," she scoffs briefly, "I can't even remember why I was so upset. I just remember smelling smoke right before I burst into flames. After that I remember feeling this- this terror like nothing I've ever felt before. My mother was screaming trying to put out the flames but they wouldn't stop, if anything they got bigger and hotter. My father came from downstairs to help but they couldn't do anything so they stayed with me, afraid for me, until their bones turned to ash."

Refusing to make eye contact, Vhalla's voice takes on a dead note, her shoulders slumping in exhaustion. She had never told that story to anyone, not even Sam was privy to that information. Falling over backwards onto her back, she rests he hands on the ground, toying with the new grass beginning to sprout from the earth as she traces the expanse of the blue sky; the last thing she wanted to do was to see the horror and disgust written across Dorian's face. Perhaps he would simply tell her she was on her own, she wouldn't even despise him for it.

He owed her nothing.