with each love i cut loose i was never the same
The sky ripples with sails where stars should be. Torchline’s port, usually alive with sunworn fishermen and reckless teenagers launching off the rocks, is now a mosaic of panicked landings and overloaded decks. Flora stands beside Hadama at the edge of the dunes, skirts pressed by the salt wind, one hand resting lightly against the curve of a ration crate as if pretending it’s just another market day.
But this is not a market day.
This is the world collapsing one flight path at a time.
Already, the emergency stations are set; she and the Tidebreaker had started preparing as soon as they'd heard Vox's broadcast, their efforts hastened and guided by the letter they'd received shortly thereafter from Koa. Pre-packed food parcels stacked and labelled in Hadama’s meticulous script. Bottles of fountainwater glint beneath stretched canopies. Hand-bound scrolls with hastily inked maps pointing to refugee housing and safe havens.
"I'll keep watch for anyone infected," Flora murmurs to Hadama without looking away from the ships. Her voice is low, steady. "If I see anything, I’ll flag the guards."
She breathes in deep, briny air burning at the back of her throat. Her spine straightens. The fear—bright and sharp and entirely impractical right now—gets folded up and pressed beneath the polished smile she wears as the next wave of refugees steps onto the sand.
"Welcome to Torchline," she says, voice golden and steady, even as her heart hammers. "You’re safe now."
But this is not a market day.
This is the world collapsing one flight path at a time.
Already, the emergency stations are set; she and the Tidebreaker had started preparing as soon as they'd heard Vox's broadcast, their efforts hastened and guided by the letter they'd received shortly thereafter from Koa. Pre-packed food parcels stacked and labelled in Hadama’s meticulous script. Bottles of fountainwater glint beneath stretched canopies. Hand-bound scrolls with hastily inked maps pointing to refugee housing and safe havens.
"I'll keep watch for anyone infected," Flora murmurs to Hadama without looking away from the ships. Her voice is low, steady. "If I see anything, I’ll flag the guards."
She breathes in deep, briny air burning at the back of her throat. Her spine straightens. The fear—bright and sharp and entirely impractical right now—gets folded up and pressed beneath the polished smile she wears as the next wave of refugees steps onto the sand.
"Welcome to Torchline," she says, voice golden and steady, even as her heart hammers. "You’re safe now."
