honey, I rose up from the dead, I do it all the time
Flora doesn’t rise to the bait.
No smile, no retort. No sharp-edged flirtation or clever volley. Just a soft nod, as if all of Dahlia’s words—her casual cruelty, her thinly veiled threats, her bloodstained pride—are waves washing over rock. Flora has already made her choice. Whatever the Reaper thinks of her, however expendable or underestimated, that will be her weapon, not her downfall.
She simply turns, her fingers brushing lightly against Spice’s flank. The dragonling hops forward onto the desk, pale tail flicking once as she delicately offers up a claw. There’s no hesitation, not even the faintest tremor as the creature leans in, letting Dahlia draw the blood.
As it wells, Flora is quick and precise—tilting the vial just so, catching each crimson drop before it can trail or spill. Her fingers are steady, her gaze fixed. Once the vial is full, she plugs it with the stopper, twisting it shut with reverence. Then, lowering it to Spice’s waiting claws, she nods once.
With a soft, breathy chirr, the dragonling turns. She slips from the desk to the floor with the grace of falling snow, weaving toward the door. A pale shadow in the dim light, she opens the door with practiced ease and disappears into the tower’s long, silent halls.
Only then does Flora move again.
She lifts her wine glass, its contents catching the flicker of candlelight like spilled rubies, and takes a long, slow sip. When she lowers it, her smile has returned—measured, composed, and painted in glassy ease. "Now," she says, her voice light as it cuts through the air. "Your turn."
No smile, no retort. No sharp-edged flirtation or clever volley. Just a soft nod, as if all of Dahlia’s words—her casual cruelty, her thinly veiled threats, her bloodstained pride—are waves washing over rock. Flora has already made her choice. Whatever the Reaper thinks of her, however expendable or underestimated, that will be her weapon, not her downfall.
She simply turns, her fingers brushing lightly against Spice’s flank. The dragonling hops forward onto the desk, pale tail flicking once as she delicately offers up a claw. There’s no hesitation, not even the faintest tremor as the creature leans in, letting Dahlia draw the blood.
As it wells, Flora is quick and precise—tilting the vial just so, catching each crimson drop before it can trail or spill. Her fingers are steady, her gaze fixed. Once the vial is full, she plugs it with the stopper, twisting it shut with reverence. Then, lowering it to Spice’s waiting claws, she nods once.
With a soft, breathy chirr, the dragonling turns. She slips from the desk to the floor with the grace of falling snow, weaving toward the door. A pale shadow in the dim light, she opens the door with practiced ease and disappears into the tower’s long, silent halls.
Only then does Flora move again.
She lifts her wine glass, its contents catching the flicker of candlelight like spilled rubies, and takes a long, slow sip. When she lowers it, her smile has returned—measured, composed, and painted in glassy ease. "Now," she says, her voice light as it cuts through the air. "Your turn."
