[ his hands go up to set's forearms on reflex, but the god has the advantages of more grounded footing and plain surprise. cassian does stumble backwards onto the chair, forced to let go so he can instead catch himself against it instead of landing on his back. he's already knocked literally off-balance, but it's nothing to what set says after that; and to that he comes up snarling, braced on his elbows, alight with the rage set knows so well. ]

You don't know anything.

[ oh, set thinks he's done something for zenith? (you might as well be a stormtrooper.) he calls this fragility, tranquility, he calls this reminiscent of the empire? cassian's heart had beat hard in his chest at the climb, and it doesn't slow now, hot beneath his chill skin. it feels a counterpoint to the cord around his throat, knocked askew and visible at his collar, that leads down to the small pouch resting against his chest. his sister's shard, impossible to let go of, yet heavy as a condemnation.

(she wouldn't recognize him now; he wouldn't want her to.)

his anger is, as always, as restrained as it is hot. for all that he bites off every syllable, he doesn't raise his voice. ]

What, you think, [ with a scornful breath of a laugh, ] that because you've seen a few things, a couple of memories, that you know me? That you know the Empire? [ a brief shake of his head: no. ] I've done nothing for Zenith.

[ plucking at the mysteries within springstar doesn't serve zenith. following the questions of previous bearers doesn't serve zenith. refusing to murder the aggravating, powerful, composed god in front of him — doesn't serve zenith.]