honey, I rose up from the dead, I do it all the time
The Tower in Stormbreak rose high above the city like a spine of black bone, its sheer stone face gleaming cold and unwelcoming beneath the pale Flowerbirth sun. Flora had only ever seen it from a distance before. Up close, it was worse.
Every step echoing in the vast corridor feels too loud, the hush around her so unnaturally perfect that it prickles down the back of her neck. Her heels click sharply on the polished floor, each one a declaration of defiance she doesn’t quite feel. The queen of Torchline is dressed the part, of course—her wrap dress is a bold riot of deep tropical green cinched at the waist with gold, airy enough to move easily in, but still heavy enough to drape with purpose. Her curls are swept into an artful braid over one shoulder, but tendrils have escaped, kissed by the wind and worry. Gold glints at her fingers and throat, the usual rings on her hands—protection, truth, invisibility—each one warm and comforting against her skin.
But beneath the gloss of power, nerves coil tight in her belly. Her stomach flips like a fish on the dock, breath catching somewhere between her ribs. She is very aware of how alone she is. Of how every step she’s taken here has been her own.
Except for the soft weight of Spice pressed to her shoulder, tail coiled like white ivy around her neck. The dragonling hums softly against her skin, and Flora reaches up, brushing her fingers beneath the creature’s jaw with silent gratitude. I know, she thinks.
Then, taking a breath she hopes looks steadier than it feels, Flora lifts her hand and knocks—twice, sharp and clear—on the door to Dahlia’s chambers.
And waits.
Every step echoing in the vast corridor feels too loud, the hush around her so unnaturally perfect that it prickles down the back of her neck. Her heels click sharply on the polished floor, each one a declaration of defiance she doesn’t quite feel. The queen of Torchline is dressed the part, of course—her wrap dress is a bold riot of deep tropical green cinched at the waist with gold, airy enough to move easily in, but still heavy enough to drape with purpose. Her curls are swept into an artful braid over one shoulder, but tendrils have escaped, kissed by the wind and worry. Gold glints at her fingers and throat, the usual rings on her hands—protection, truth, invisibility—each one warm and comforting against her skin.
But beneath the gloss of power, nerves coil tight in her belly. Her stomach flips like a fish on the dock, breath catching somewhere between her ribs. She is very aware of how alone she is. Of how every step she’s taken here has been her own.
Except for the soft weight of Spice pressed to her shoulder, tail coiled like white ivy around her neck. The dragonling hums softly against her skin, and Flora reaches up, brushing her fingers beneath the creature’s jaw with silent gratitude. I know, she thinks.
Then, taking a breath she hopes looks steadier than it feels, Flora lifts her hand and knocks—twice, sharp and clear—on the door to Dahlia’s chambers.
And waits.
