your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand
Flora smiles as the story unfolds, slow and wistful as candlelight. There’s a warmth to it that catches her gently, the kind that brushes her ribs without pressing too hard. Her head tilts slightly, curls brushing the collar of her coat as she listens. "I’ve never heard that version," she says, voice soft and tinged with something brighter. "But I like it." Her gaze flicks over one shoulder as the orca drifts lazily past, its light trailing along her coat like spilled pearls.
The sight pulls another small smile from her—wistful, reflexive—and then Lysandra speaks again, and the queen’s lips twist with dry amusement. "That figures," she murmurs, shoulders lifting in a shrug that’s half-knowing, half-apologetic. "Never seems to matter where I go, someone’s already heard the last chapter." But there’s no sharpness in it, no defensiveness, just tired humour layered beneath the glitter.
As Lysandra gives her name, Flora nods, expression easing into something warmer. "It’s nice to meet you, Lysandra." And it is, genuinely, despite the strangeness of the setting or the quiet ache that still coils somewhere behind her ribs. There’s something soothing in this whole moment, like touching the edge of a dream you don’t quite want to wake from.
Her eyes lift to the domed ceiling above, where stars blink silently overhead, impossibly far and impossibly bright. Her lips twitch faintly, and then she turns back, brow raised, voice light but curious. "So what is it," she asks, gesturing loosely toward the whale as it completes another slow arc between them, "that you’re waiting for?" A pause, and then with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, "Because from where I’m standing, it kinda looks like you can make anything you want."
The sight pulls another small smile from her—wistful, reflexive—and then Lysandra speaks again, and the queen’s lips twist with dry amusement. "That figures," she murmurs, shoulders lifting in a shrug that’s half-knowing, half-apologetic. "Never seems to matter where I go, someone’s already heard the last chapter." But there’s no sharpness in it, no defensiveness, just tired humour layered beneath the glitter.
As Lysandra gives her name, Flora nods, expression easing into something warmer. "It’s nice to meet you, Lysandra." And it is, genuinely, despite the strangeness of the setting or the quiet ache that still coils somewhere behind her ribs. There’s something soothing in this whole moment, like touching the edge of a dream you don’t quite want to wake from.
Her eyes lift to the domed ceiling above, where stars blink silently overhead, impossibly far and impossibly bright. Her lips twitch faintly, and then she turns back, brow raised, voice light but curious. "So what is it," she asks, gesturing loosely toward the whale as it completes another slow arc between them, "that you’re waiting for?" A pause, and then with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, "Because from where I’m standing, it kinda looks like you can make anything you want."
