marked me like a bloodstain
The House of Midnight, ever attuned to the hearts it shelters, had shaped itself into something soft and contradictory for Flora.
A wide room breathed with open air and impossible geography, lit in hues that shifted between sunset and dawn depending on which way one looked. Trees like those from the Greatwood arched skyward from floors that were not quite wood and not quite earth, their bark iridescent, leaves aglow with magic that pulsed in time with memory. Beneath them, where roots should have sunk into loam, the ocean sloshed—Torchline’s ocean, clear and endless, its tide curling impossibly against bark and moss. The scent of salt hung faintly in the air, tempered by the sweetness of tree-sap and warm stone. It didn’t make sense, but it didn’t have to.
Near the water’s edge—though there was no true edge at all, just the strange peace of dreams folded over one another—Flora sat on the lip of a wide, stone-framed tub, her bare feet trailing through the gently heated water with lazy movements meant to mimic waves. She wore an oversized, backless dress, the fabric soft and worn, the colour somewhere between cream and blush depending on the light. It fell off one shoulder, careless and comfortable, pooling at her hips with all the modesty of a memory. Her back, still tender, bore the pale sheen of healing salves and magic-soaked ointments, patches of gauze peeled back in favour of air and time.
Her curls, half-damp from earlier, had been swept into a loose knot at the base of her neck, though strands had escaped to cling to her cheekbones and throat. No makeup adorned her face; she didn’t need it here, and even if she had, she wouldn’t have bothered. She wiggled her toes just beneath the surface, trying to imagine the grainy tug of real sand or the way seaweed sometimes kissed at her ankles. It didn’t feel quite right. Then again, not much had lately.
A wide room breathed with open air and impossible geography, lit in hues that shifted between sunset and dawn depending on which way one looked. Trees like those from the Greatwood arched skyward from floors that were not quite wood and not quite earth, their bark iridescent, leaves aglow with magic that pulsed in time with memory. Beneath them, where roots should have sunk into loam, the ocean sloshed—Torchline’s ocean, clear and endless, its tide curling impossibly against bark and moss. The scent of salt hung faintly in the air, tempered by the sweetness of tree-sap and warm stone. It didn’t make sense, but it didn’t have to.
Near the water’s edge—though there was no true edge at all, just the strange peace of dreams folded over one another—Flora sat on the lip of a wide, stone-framed tub, her bare feet trailing through the gently heated water with lazy movements meant to mimic waves. She wore an oversized, backless dress, the fabric soft and worn, the colour somewhere between cream and blush depending on the light. It fell off one shoulder, careless and comfortable, pooling at her hips with all the modesty of a memory. Her back, still tender, bore the pale sheen of healing salves and magic-soaked ointments, patches of gauze peeled back in favour of air and time.
Her curls, half-damp from earlier, had been swept into a loose knot at the base of her neck, though strands had escaped to cling to her cheekbones and throat. No makeup adorned her face; she didn’t need it here, and even if she had, she wouldn’t have bothered. She wiggled her toes just beneath the surface, trying to imagine the grainy tug of real sand or the way seaweed sometimes kissed at her ankles. It didn’t feel quite right. Then again, not much had lately.
