flora
At the mention of retribution, Flora’s grin falters; not sharply, not dramatically, but like a candle guttering in a breeze. The memory presses in: Kaisel in the House of Midnight, the kiss, the truth tangled too tightly behind their ribs to name. She clears her throat, fingers twitching against the rim of her teacup before she brushes it off with a half-hearted smirk. "I’d like to see him try," she says, but the usual sparkle is missing, her voice softening into something nearly wistful. Then, with practiced ease, she reroutes herself—reaches for her cup and sips the sugary blend like it might anchor her to the moment.
She nods as Niki mentions Ludo’s Woods, eyes drifting toward the window. "Yeah, I believe it. I miss living in the trees, sometimes. Leafchange especially—there’s something about the way the whole forest leans into its death that makes it feel more alive than ever. Everything’s glowing and crumbling and clinging to beauty even as it lets go."
But when he mentions going for a classic Ludo look, Flora’s brow arches. "Classic? So...what, just a regular old black cloak?" she teases, narrowing her eyes at his oversized sweater as if he’s already failed the aesthetic. "No drama? No theatrics? No swish?" Setting her cup aside with care, she reaches for a bolt of heavier fabric—black, but with a subtle shimmer when it catches the light. "I mean, I get the classic appeal, but I want mine to have some shape to it. A waist, definitely. Maybe even a train."
She nods as Niki mentions Ludo’s Woods, eyes drifting toward the window. "Yeah, I believe it. I miss living in the trees, sometimes. Leafchange especially—there’s something about the way the whole forest leans into its death that makes it feel more alive than ever. Everything’s glowing and crumbling and clinging to beauty even as it lets go."
But when he mentions going for a classic Ludo look, Flora’s brow arches. "Classic? So...what, just a regular old black cloak?" she teases, narrowing her eyes at his oversized sweater as if he’s already failed the aesthetic. "No drama? No theatrics? No swish?" Setting her cup aside with care, she reaches for a bolt of heavier fabric—black, but with a subtle shimmer when it catches the light. "I mean, I get the classic appeal, but I want mine to have some shape to it. A waist, definitely. Maybe even a train."
I can't stop you putting roots in my dreamland
