with each love i cut loose i was never the same
A hush settles over the Wildwood: branches arch overhead in burnished ochres and flame-bright russets, and every lazy breeze releases a confetti of leaves that skitter across the moss. Flora stands at the centre of a small clearing wearing scuffed jeans and a pale tank top, the fabric clinging faintly where morning mist still lingers. A braid of sun-bleached curls brushes the small of her back each time she twists, golden bangles chiming at her wrist like distant windchimes—quiet reminders that even stripped to simplicity, the Queen of Torchline never quite surrenders her shine.
Spice circles above, a snow-white flicker against the autumn canopy. The little dragon’s wings beat with measured grace, scattering cool drafts that offset the lingering LongHeat in Flora’s skin; every exhalation leaves brief, silver ghosts of frost along the nearest branches.
Flora breathes, feeling the weight of each feather dagger balanced between her fingers—poisoned edges gleaming wickedly in the filtered light. One heartbeat more, and she pivots, arm unfurling in a fluid arc. Steel whistles; the blade thunks into a silver birch, vibrating with smug precision dead-centre of a knot.
Spice circles above, a snow-white flicker against the autumn canopy. The little dragon’s wings beat with measured grace, scattering cool drafts that offset the lingering LongHeat in Flora’s skin; every exhalation leaves brief, silver ghosts of frost along the nearest branches.
Flora breathes, feeling the weight of each feather dagger balanced between her fingers—poisoned edges gleaming wickedly in the filtered light. One heartbeat more, and she pivots, arm unfurling in a fluid arc. Steel whistles; the blade thunks into a silver birch, vibrating with smug precision dead-centre of a knot.
