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Flora knows that she's dangerously close to repeating old mistakes, even as her blade bites into him—knows the exact shape of this illusion: the flicker of control, the false high of holding the monster at bay. She’s danced this razor line with Astaroth once already, thought she understood the rhythm and the risk. And yet here she is again, heart pounding like a war drum, breath sharp as frost, with the shadows rising like tidewater and the butcher grinning through pain like it’s a gift.
But the dagger did stop him, and that tiny, treacherous fact lets her believe—if only for a second—that she’s still got her hands on the reins.
"A little pain’s never stopped you before, has it?" she murmurs, her smirk dark as spilled wine, sharp enough to cut if he leaned too close. The sound of his voice—a wrong-note chord vibrating through the bones of the clearing—sets every hair on her neck on end, but she doesn’t flinch. Not as the shadows ripple, not as his grin widens like a rift.
Her hand reaches forward, fingers parting the veil of dark like pushing through brambles. The illusion clings, writhes, but her palm finds something solid—his chest, or maybe his stomach, heat thrumming beneath the surface like a live wire. She doesn’t wait before pulling her blade free in a single clean motion, just as her other hand presses flush to his body, the ring on her finger pulsing softly with healing magic.
But the dagger did stop him, and that tiny, treacherous fact lets her believe—if only for a second—that she’s still got her hands on the reins.
"A little pain’s never stopped you before, has it?" she murmurs, her smirk dark as spilled wine, sharp enough to cut if he leaned too close. The sound of his voice—a wrong-note chord vibrating through the bones of the clearing—sets every hair on her neck on end, but she doesn’t flinch. Not as the shadows ripple, not as his grin widens like a rift.
Her hand reaches forward, fingers parting the veil of dark like pushing through brambles. The illusion clings, writhes, but her palm finds something solid—his chest, or maybe his stomach, heat thrumming beneath the surface like a live wire. She doesn’t wait before pulling her blade free in a single clean motion, just as her other hand presses flush to his body, the ring on her finger pulsing softly with healing magic.
