Theea
there exists no mightier miracle than this:
I’ve only just arrived in Torchline—barely off the skyship, still dusted with the scent of wind and wood—but I promised Flora I’d find the Hanged Man first thing. I’ve been winding through the sun-bleached streets ever since, wide-eyed and half-lost, hot, but determined. I'm just starting to think I’ve gone in the wrong direction again when something catches my eye: a flyer fluttering lazily against a post. I freeze, half way through stuffing my jacket into my backpack. I stare at the paper for a moment too long, half expecting the letters to rearrange themselves into something more reasonable. But they don’t. My heart starts thudding, loud and fast and a little giddy with excitement.
It can’t be this easy.
Still, I follow the scent of delicious smoke curling through the streets, my feet moving faster than my head can keep up with. I make it down to the beach and spot a small crowd beginning to gather—strangers laughing, lounging, milling about with plates and drinks in hand. My nerves twist hard. I stay at the edges, trying not to hope too loudly.
And then I see the host.
At the grill, flipping food like he doesn’t have a divine resume longer than my life, is a man in sky-blue trunks and a KISS THE COOK apron.
I almost laugh. Not because it’s funny—but because I’ve spent seasons imagining how hard this would be, how many obstacles I’d have to leap over to even get near them. And yet—there he is. Just a guy with a spatula.
My mouth is suddenly dryer than a bone, and I wished I'd waited and gone to find Flora first. Swiftly, so I don't draw more attention than I already do with my travel clothes and all my belongings, I head for a plate and pile on a couple of chicken wings, eyes flickering constantly back to the grill, waiting to see which powerful person here was Remi.
It can’t be this easy.
Still, I follow the scent of delicious smoke curling through the streets, my feet moving faster than my head can keep up with. I make it down to the beach and spot a small crowd beginning to gather—strangers laughing, lounging, milling about with plates and drinks in hand. My nerves twist hard. I stay at the edges, trying not to hope too loudly.
And then I see the host.
At the grill, flipping food like he doesn’t have a divine resume longer than my life, is a man in sky-blue trunks and a KISS THE COOK apron.
I almost laugh. Not because it’s funny—but because I’ve spent seasons imagining how hard this would be, how many obstacles I’d have to leap over to even get near them. And yet—there he is. Just a guy with a spatula.
My mouth is suddenly dryer than a bone, and I wished I'd waited and gone to find Flora first. Swiftly, so I don't draw more attention than I already do with my travel clothes and all my belongings, I head for a plate and pile on a couple of chicken wings, eyes flickering constantly back to the grill, waiting to see which powerful person here was Remi.
to feel.
