honey, I rose up from the dead, I do it all the time
Flora lifts a brow at the shift in tone, noting the lack of witty return volley with something like surprise—and maybe the faintest hint of disappointment. So they weren’t playing, then. Not this time.
When Flora finally speaks, her voice is soft—low, deliberate. "I took your warning seriously," she says, folding her hands loosely in her lap. There’s no playful edge to her words, no flash of a smile. Only the steady conviction of someone who’s rehearsed this a hundred times in her head. "And I’m not interested in dying again anytime soon. It's…not really a good look for me."
She lets that settle for half a beat. Enough to hopefully ease the tension but not enough to diminish the weight of what comes next. "I’ve been thinking about what you said. About the benefits of being a Friend of the Family. And after everything that’s happened—" Her jaw tenses for the briefest moment, but she smooths it away with a breath. "—it makes sense. Torchline doesn’t have the luxury of pride right now. Neither do I."
Flora’s gaze lifts to meet the Reaper’s, clear and unwavering. "So I’d like to take you up on your offer. Become a Friend, officially." A pause, her fingers brushing the curve of her wine glass but not lifting it. "But I’d like to make it... personal, hence the few drops of your blood." She leans forward, just enough to signal intent—not aggression. "It feels fitting. A queen’s bond, sealed in kind. You’d get all of me in return—my thoughts, my loyalty, my alignment." Her lips curve faintly, sincere. "You’ve said before how important that is. This is me showing you I understand."
Then, slowly, Flora reaches into her wrap and produces a small glass vial, its delicate stopper glinting faintly in the candlelight. She sets it carefully on the desk between them. "I brought this for your blood," she says, her voice even but steady. "Once you give it, I’ll hand it to Spice and she’ll fly it home. Once she's outside.." Flora pauses, drawing in a soft breath. "I’ll be yours. No tricks. No one waiting outside the Tower. No letters in my pocket with instructions. And as Vox can already tell—" her gaze flicks slightly upward, toward whatever unseen corner he might be watching from, "—I haven’t told anyone about this. Not a soul."
When Flora finally speaks, her voice is soft—low, deliberate. "I took your warning seriously," she says, folding her hands loosely in her lap. There’s no playful edge to her words, no flash of a smile. Only the steady conviction of someone who’s rehearsed this a hundred times in her head. "And I’m not interested in dying again anytime soon. It's…not really a good look for me."
She lets that settle for half a beat. Enough to hopefully ease the tension but not enough to diminish the weight of what comes next. "I’ve been thinking about what you said. About the benefits of being a Friend of the Family. And after everything that’s happened—" Her jaw tenses for the briefest moment, but she smooths it away with a breath. "—it makes sense. Torchline doesn’t have the luxury of pride right now. Neither do I."
Flora’s gaze lifts to meet the Reaper’s, clear and unwavering. "So I’d like to take you up on your offer. Become a Friend, officially." A pause, her fingers brushing the curve of her wine glass but not lifting it. "But I’d like to make it... personal, hence the few drops of your blood." She leans forward, just enough to signal intent—not aggression. "It feels fitting. A queen’s bond, sealed in kind. You’d get all of me in return—my thoughts, my loyalty, my alignment." Her lips curve faintly, sincere. "You’ve said before how important that is. This is me showing you I understand."
Then, slowly, Flora reaches into her wrap and produces a small glass vial, its delicate stopper glinting faintly in the candlelight. She sets it carefully on the desk between them. "I brought this for your blood," she says, her voice even but steady. "Once you give it, I’ll hand it to Spice and she’ll fly it home. Once she's outside.." Flora pauses, drawing in a soft breath. "I’ll be yours. No tricks. No one waiting outside the Tower. No letters in my pocket with instructions. And as Vox can already tell—" her gaze flicks slightly upward, toward whatever unseen corner he might be watching from, "—I haven’t told anyone about this. Not a soul."
