Theea
Yla
The music spills out before I even reach the bar—low and dusky and alive, the kind that sinks into your bones and tries to convince you you belong. I pause just outside the open doorway of the Hanged Man, letting the scent of sea salt and fruit-heavy cocktails wash over me. The party's already in full swing: laughter bubbles like champagne, bodies sway to the rhythm, and light flares off the fringe of lanterns overhead. It’s… a lot.
And I’m definitely not dressed like myself.
My travel clothes are gone—washed and tucked away. I’m in a gray bikini top and a white wrap skirt that slits too high for comfort unless I walk very carefully in the sandals that wrap around my ankles. I'd never thought of myself as modest before, but gods, I miss the weight of my jacket. And my backpack. I feel naked without it, like I’ve left a piece of armor behind.
I step further inside, arms tight at my sides and trying not to look like a kid who wandered into the wrong party. Everyone here looks so sure of themselves—like they were born into saltwater and starlight. I try to fake it. I even manage big grin at someone.
In my hand, I’m clutching a piece of rolled parchment—probably hard enough to crumple it. A charcoal drawing, smudged slightly in the corners from my overthinking fingers. It’s Spice—Flora’s dragon—perched and preening like I remembered her in the Greatwood, wings flared and catching the light like a mirror. I’d signed it in the corner, which suddenly feels… personal. Presumptuous. I don't know if it's the right kind of gift. I don’t know if Flora’s the type to like drawings. I don’t even know if she has anywhere to put it.
And now she’s leaving.
I hadn’t realized until now just how comforting it was, having her close. Knowing she’d be somewhere in the city if I needed her. The pit in my stomach tightens as I scan the crowd for her—curls, red lips, impossibly short shorts.
There she is. Surrounded, of course—people laughing, calling out to her, offering drinks and gifts, offering congratulations and goodbyes. It makes sense. She belongs to this place. To these people, her people.
And I don’t know a single one of them.
So I hang back, still clutching the drawing, heart fluttering a little too fast in my chest. I can wait a minute. Just long enough for the knot in my throat to loosen. Just long enough to convince myself I’ll know what to say when it’s finally my turn.
And I’m definitely not dressed like myself.
My travel clothes are gone—washed and tucked away. I’m in a gray bikini top and a white wrap skirt that slits too high for comfort unless I walk very carefully in the sandals that wrap around my ankles. I'd never thought of myself as modest before, but gods, I miss the weight of my jacket. And my backpack. I feel naked without it, like I’ve left a piece of armor behind.
I step further inside, arms tight at my sides and trying not to look like a kid who wandered into the wrong party. Everyone here looks so sure of themselves—like they were born into saltwater and starlight. I try to fake it. I even manage big grin at someone.
In my hand, I’m clutching a piece of rolled parchment—probably hard enough to crumple it. A charcoal drawing, smudged slightly in the corners from my overthinking fingers. It’s Spice—Flora’s dragon—perched and preening like I remembered her in the Greatwood, wings flared and catching the light like a mirror. I’d signed it in the corner, which suddenly feels… personal. Presumptuous. I don't know if it's the right kind of gift. I don’t know if Flora’s the type to like drawings. I don’t even know if she has anywhere to put it.
And now she’s leaving.
I hadn’t realized until now just how comforting it was, having her close. Knowing she’d be somewhere in the city if I needed her. The pit in my stomach tightens as I scan the crowd for her—curls, red lips, impossibly short shorts.
There she is. Surrounded, of course—people laughing, calling out to her, offering drinks and gifts, offering congratulations and goodbyes. It makes sense. She belongs to this place. To these people, her people.
And I don’t know a single one of them.
So I hang back, still clutching the drawing, heart fluttering a little too fast in my chest. I can wait a minute. Just long enough for the knot in my throat to loosen. Just long enough to convince myself I’ll know what to say when it’s finally my turn.
occupation: aspiring beam of light
