i could be the reason you can't sleep at night
Flora had spent the morning at the healing fountain, soaking away the worst of her hangover and pretending it wasn’t grief pooling beneath her skin. The party had been a blur of laughter and colour, of sweaty kisses and clinking glasses (and things that haven't happened yet), but now that it was over and done, Flora was left feeling lonely and cold once more.
She stood now at the edge of the shrine, the white sand cool beneath her sandals and the stars rising like a verdict above. The sea murmured behind them, and though her curls were swept into a salt-tangled knot and her white sundress fluttered gently in the breeze, Flora felt anything but light.
Hadama’s fingers wrapped around hers, solid and grounding. She gripped them tightly, fiercely, as if she could cling to the last pieces of the city through him.
Her other hand unfurled slowly. Nestled in her palm were five Prince Rupert’s drops, glittering teardrop-shaped things formed in glass and sea-coloured magic. They looked impossibly delicate—thin tails tapering like hairline cracks—but their cores were strong enough to shatter metal. Like the city. Like what she hoped this blessing would be. Like the way she wanted to be.
She knelt and set them down gently beside Hadama’s offering, the drops gleaming faintly in the moonlight. Then she straightened, fingers still locked with his, throat thick. "I’m ready," she said, though her voice was barely above a whisper. Not just for Safrin, but for whatever came next.
She stood now at the edge of the shrine, the white sand cool beneath her sandals and the stars rising like a verdict above. The sea murmured behind them, and though her curls were swept into a salt-tangled knot and her white sundress fluttered gently in the breeze, Flora felt anything but light.
Hadama’s fingers wrapped around hers, solid and grounding. She gripped them tightly, fiercely, as if she could cling to the last pieces of the city through him.
Her other hand unfurled slowly. Nestled in her palm were five Prince Rupert’s drops, glittering teardrop-shaped things formed in glass and sea-coloured magic. They looked impossibly delicate—thin tails tapering like hairline cracks—but their cores were strong enough to shatter metal. Like the city. Like what she hoped this blessing would be. Like the way she wanted to be.
She knelt and set them down gently beside Hadama’s offering, the drops gleaming faintly in the moonlight. Then she straightened, fingers still locked with his, throat thick. "I’m ready," she said, though her voice was barely above a whisper. Not just for Safrin, but for whatever came next.
