you wouldn't be the first renegade to need somebody
The salt-slick stairs of the lighthouse spiral upward, familiar under Flora’s bare feet even after all this time. Her voice had been little more than a whisper to Hadama when she called to him near the rocky path below—soft, but unmistakably hers. A warning and a welcome all at once, offered so that he'd know where she was, given she'd rendered herself invisible since having left Pierce's party.
Now, only the muffled hush of waves and the groan of wind through stone fills the air as she climbs, unseen but present. The evening sky outside has long since turned the colour of darkened pearls, and the lighthouse’s watchful eye remains unlit, casting no guidance save for what they bring with them.
At the top, Flora moves with purpose. Her invisibility doesn’t falter as she works—striking a match, cupping her hand around the flame, and lighting the first of the sea-glass-hued candles arranged in a loose crescent around the shrine. Their flicker adds a soft glow to the stone walls, catching gently on bits of mother-of-pearl and broken shell scattered nearby.
She kneels then, pulling from her satchel a single white feather—one of her daggers, cleaned and honed until it gleams—and places it at the centre of the arrangement. Beside it, she lays a strand of golden chain from her own wrist, something beautiful and personal, followed by a polished orb of obsidian, dark as the sky between stars.
Now, only the muffled hush of waves and the groan of wind through stone fills the air as she climbs, unseen but present. The evening sky outside has long since turned the colour of darkened pearls, and the lighthouse’s watchful eye remains unlit, casting no guidance save for what they bring with them.
At the top, Flora moves with purpose. Her invisibility doesn’t falter as she works—striking a match, cupping her hand around the flame, and lighting the first of the sea-glass-hued candles arranged in a loose crescent around the shrine. Their flicker adds a soft glow to the stone walls, catching gently on bits of mother-of-pearl and broken shell scattered nearby.
She kneels then, pulling from her satchel a single white feather—one of her daggers, cleaned and honed until it gleams—and places it at the centre of the arrangement. Beside it, she lays a strand of golden chain from her own wrist, something beautiful and personal, followed by a polished orb of obsidian, dark as the sky between stars.
