Safrin
Safrin chuckles, the sound like wind brushing across harp strings, ephemeral and fond. Your stupidity and your heroism, she says, the light of her smile casting soft constellations in the shadows of the shrine, have always been two of your finest traits, sugar.
Her gaze lingers on him, warm now in a way it hasn’t been in years, as if the space between them has thinned just enough for a quiet peace to breathe.
I wasn’t enough, she concedes softly, the memory of distant stars dimming in her voice. When I ventured into that void, I brought light, but not the right kind. Even starlight can be devoured, if it burns alone. Her eyes glint, a flicker of steel beneath the shimmer. But Vi’s might is not so easily consumed.
Her hand curls inward, as if closing around the echo of that rose. It won’t be easy, she warns, though there’s no fear in it—only certainty. The Reaper will not go gently, not into any darkness, nor away from it. But prick her with what’s real, with what lives, and she will feel it. It will work.
Then, softer, almost like an afterthought woven with unshakable conviction: I believe in you, Ronin.
Her gaze lingers on him, warm now in a way it hasn’t been in years, as if the space between them has thinned just enough for a quiet peace to breathe.
I wasn’t enough, she concedes softly, the memory of distant stars dimming in her voice. When I ventured into that void, I brought light, but not the right kind. Even starlight can be devoured, if it burns alone. Her eyes glint, a flicker of steel beneath the shimmer. But Vi’s might is not so easily consumed.
Her hand curls inward, as if closing around the echo of that rose. It won’t be easy, she warns, though there’s no fear in it—only certainty. The Reaper will not go gently, not into any darkness, nor away from it. But prick her with what’s real, with what lives, and she will feel it. It will work.
Then, softer, almost like an afterthought woven with unshakable conviction: I believe in you, Ronin.
