lay your soul onto mine
A soft hiss of steam greets Flora as she steps from the twisting tunnel into the cavern proper, the air thick with mineral heat and the faint, heady scent of wild honey that lingers anywhere Frey’s touch seeps through stone. She pauses on the threshold long enough to let the warm mist kiss her cheeks, willing the knot between her shoulders to melt before she’s even reached the water.
Frey’s Breath is quieter than she expected this late in the afternoon. A few clusters of bathers recline in shadowed pools farther down the slope, their voices little more than bubbling murmur. Here by the spring-fed cascade, only one bather claims the stone seat carved by centuries of water: a woman with burnished skin and an unapologetically minimal bikini, glimmering like a coin at the bottom of the pool. Even by Flora’s generous standards the suit is daring; it would make half of Torchline blush and the other half cheer in approval.
Flora’s mouth curves. Drama, it seems, has a long reach—even into natural sanctuaries meant for quiet restoration. She leaves her sandals beside a jut of rock, shrugging out of a gauzy cover-up to reveal a sea-glass–green two-piece whose ties whirlpool across her back. Curls coiled high and a string of tiny pearls looped in one ear, she wades into the pool opposite the stranger, water lapping silky heat over sun-gold limbs.
"Frey really knew what they were doing with this place, huh?" The greeting floats across the steamy air in a voice low and lazy with relief. Flora slants a sidelong glance at the woman’s wicked grin, catching the spark that dares anyone to intrude. Unintimidated, she matches it with a mischievous glint of her own, bouncing her brows.
Frey’s Breath is quieter than she expected this late in the afternoon. A few clusters of bathers recline in shadowed pools farther down the slope, their voices little more than bubbling murmur. Here by the spring-fed cascade, only one bather claims the stone seat carved by centuries of water: a woman with burnished skin and an unapologetically minimal bikini, glimmering like a coin at the bottom of the pool. Even by Flora’s generous standards the suit is daring; it would make half of Torchline blush and the other half cheer in approval.
Flora’s mouth curves. Drama, it seems, has a long reach—even into natural sanctuaries meant for quiet restoration. She leaves her sandals beside a jut of rock, shrugging out of a gauzy cover-up to reveal a sea-glass–green two-piece whose ties whirlpool across her back. Curls coiled high and a string of tiny pearls looped in one ear, she wades into the pool opposite the stranger, water lapping silky heat over sun-gold limbs.
"Frey really knew what they were doing with this place, huh?" The greeting floats across the steamy air in a voice low and lazy with relief. Flora slants a sidelong glance at the woman’s wicked grin, catching the spark that dares anyone to intrude. Unintimidated, she matches it with a mischievous glint of her own, bouncing her brows.
