Lysandra
Every face wears a mask
When Flora spoke of flying, of finding a pod, Lysandra listened, still as a held breath. The words once and last time seemed to settle on her skin, soft but weighted. For a moment she only watched Flora’s face in profile, the way the light shifted along it—like watching clouds slide across the moon. Something flickered in Lysandra’s expression. Wonder, yes, but threaded with understanding; she knew what it was to love things that didn't stay. Her gaze drifted to the orca she’d conjured, now suspended midair like a half-forgotten thought.
Her hand lifted again, a subtle adjustment, and the illusion responded. The orca’s course shifted; its light softened, its pace slowed until it hovered near them, exhaling a faint pulse of warmth like the ghost of a tide. It no longer looked like something distant and unreachable—it looked present, steady, almost protective.
“I heard a story once,” Lysandra began, her voice low and even, “that the first starwhale was born from someone’s wish not to be alone. The gods took pity—if gods ever do—and gathered pieces of the night sky to give the wish a shape. Since then, the whales seek out those who’ve forgotten how to wish. To remind them who they were, before the world asked them to be anything else.”
Her smile was soft, not bright but genuine, eyes reflecting the glow of the creature between them.
The orca turned lazily above Flora’s shoulder, its light brushing the curve of her coat, scattering tiny lights like fallen stars. Lysandra let the moment breathe before the queen’s next words reached her.
“You know who I am,” Flora said.
“I do.” Lysandra’s answer came without ceremony, her head tipping in something close to a bow. “The sea has a way of sending its stories inland. Torchline has been loud with yours.” Her tone carried no flattery—only a storyteller’s fascination with the way rumor built crowns out of flesh and salt.
Then, “Who I am is not nearly as important or as storied," she said, waving a hand as though brushing away the beginnings of apology in Flora’s voice. The motion was light, dismissive, but not unkind. "But my name, if you wish to have it, is Lysandra,” she said, straightening, voice soft but sure, “Lysandra Rosewood. Bard, illusionist, artist, dreamer...” The smile deepened, wry at the edges as her gaze drifted toward the stars overhead. “But tonight.. I’m just a girl keeping watch for things that never seem to come.” A quiet sigh followed, shoulders rising and falling like the tide retreating.
The orca’s light dimmed to a softer glow, circling both of them now.
Her hand lifted again, a subtle adjustment, and the illusion responded. The orca’s course shifted; its light softened, its pace slowed until it hovered near them, exhaling a faint pulse of warmth like the ghost of a tide. It no longer looked like something distant and unreachable—it looked present, steady, almost protective.
“I heard a story once,” Lysandra began, her voice low and even, “that the first starwhale was born from someone’s wish not to be alone. The gods took pity—if gods ever do—and gathered pieces of the night sky to give the wish a shape. Since then, the whales seek out those who’ve forgotten how to wish. To remind them who they were, before the world asked them to be anything else.”
Her smile was soft, not bright but genuine, eyes reflecting the glow of the creature between them.
The orca turned lazily above Flora’s shoulder, its light brushing the curve of her coat, scattering tiny lights like fallen stars. Lysandra let the moment breathe before the queen’s next words reached her.
“You know who I am,” Flora said.
“I do.” Lysandra’s answer came without ceremony, her head tipping in something close to a bow. “The sea has a way of sending its stories inland. Torchline has been loud with yours.” Her tone carried no flattery—only a storyteller’s fascination with the way rumor built crowns out of flesh and salt.
Then, “Who I am is not nearly as important or as storied," she said, waving a hand as though brushing away the beginnings of apology in Flora’s voice. The motion was light, dismissive, but not unkind. "But my name, if you wish to have it, is Lysandra,” she said, straightening, voice soft but sure, “Lysandra Rosewood. Bard, illusionist, artist, dreamer...” The smile deepened, wry at the edges as her gaze drifted toward the stars overhead. “But tonight.. I’m just a girl keeping watch for things that never seem to come.” A quiet sigh followed, shoulders rising and falling like the tide retreating.
The orca’s light dimmed to a softer glow, circling both of them now.
✦ ✧ ✦
