we show off our different scarlet letters
Flora nods slowly, absorbing his words like puzzle pieces that almost—but not quite—fit her own. "I’ve heard people say you can choose your family, or whatever," she murmurs, her voice low and thoughtful as they walk, the point being that blood isn't necessarily all that there is. But for better or worse, she'd been stuck with hers, so how that played out in reality, Flora didn't know.
Her gaze flicks up to him as he mentions they weren’t supposed to know their mothers. Her brow furrows, curiosity overtaking her for a beat. "Why? What would that change?"
She doesn’t press the point, though—especially not when he squeezes her arm and thanks her with that soft smile. Her grin returns easily, bright and warm. "I’ll take credit for it for as long as you’ll let me," she teases, though her expression says she knows full well her part was small. Still, she’s proud of it, tucked somewhere between mischief and meaning.
Then the hunt begins. She takes the dagger without hesitation, her fingers wrapping around the unfamiliar hilt as if it’s second nature, though the weight is different, the balance strange. She tests it lightly as she follows behind him, adjusting her grip, breathing slow. And then everything happens fast. Asta’s blood slices through the air with the burn of magic. The wolf’s yelp cuts through the quiet like thunder. Flame and fang and fur collide in a blur as the butcher throws himself into the chaos with no hesitation, no fear, only instinct.
Flora’s heart slams against her ribs, the air vibrating with tension and violence. For a heartbeat she freezes, hands twitching toward daggers that she'd mentally promised not to use. She’s not used to this kind of fight; not without her own weapons, not in a real hunt. But then she sees him—Asta, beneath the wolf, blood already slick across his shirt, fire coiled in his breath—and that single image wipes away her hesitation like morning fog.
Stalking forward, knees bent, feet near-silent in the underbrush, Flora draws back her arm with practiced precision. The dagger is foreign, but she knows how to make any blade sing. With a flick of her wrist, the weapon flies: not at the beast’s flanks or legs or some easy wound, not picking the safe option just because Asta was beneath it. No, Flora aims for the throat. The flash of steel is a clean, silver arc through the trees, and the moment it leaves her hand, her breath stills.
Her gaze flicks up to him as he mentions they weren’t supposed to know their mothers. Her brow furrows, curiosity overtaking her for a beat. "Why? What would that change?"
She doesn’t press the point, though—especially not when he squeezes her arm and thanks her with that soft smile. Her grin returns easily, bright and warm. "I’ll take credit for it for as long as you’ll let me," she teases, though her expression says she knows full well her part was small. Still, she’s proud of it, tucked somewhere between mischief and meaning.
Then the hunt begins. She takes the dagger without hesitation, her fingers wrapping around the unfamiliar hilt as if it’s second nature, though the weight is different, the balance strange. She tests it lightly as she follows behind him, adjusting her grip, breathing slow. And then everything happens fast. Asta’s blood slices through the air with the burn of magic. The wolf’s yelp cuts through the quiet like thunder. Flame and fang and fur collide in a blur as the butcher throws himself into the chaos with no hesitation, no fear, only instinct.
Flora’s heart slams against her ribs, the air vibrating with tension and violence. For a heartbeat she freezes, hands twitching toward daggers that she'd mentally promised not to use. She’s not used to this kind of fight; not without her own weapons, not in a real hunt. But then she sees him—Asta, beneath the wolf, blood already slick across his shirt, fire coiled in his breath—and that single image wipes away her hesitation like morning fog.
Stalking forward, knees bent, feet near-silent in the underbrush, Flora draws back her arm with practiced precision. The dagger is foreign, but she knows how to make any blade sing. With a flick of her wrist, the weapon flies: not at the beast’s flanks or legs or some easy wound, not picking the safe option just because Asta was beneath it. No, Flora aims for the throat. The flash of steel is a clean, silver arc through the trees, and the moment it leaves her hand, her breath stills.
