flora
The market is louder than usual, which is saying something. Deepfrost hasn’t stripped it of colour or noise, just wrapped everything in a saltier, sharper edge. The sky bruises purple where the floating half of the city slices through the clouds above, but down here it's all haggling, seagulls, and the occasional splash of mischief in the form of the Doubletake.
She’s bent slightly over a merchant’s table, flipping through a set of etched dice with the kind of scrutiny normally reserved for gemstones or lovers. "You’re telling me these roll fair?" she asks, voice skeptical but playful. "Because if I get snake eyes three times in a row, I will be coming back with a grudge and a very cute dragon." Spice chirps from her perch above, fluffing her wings like punctuation.
The merchant’s halfway into a defensive pitch when it happens: first the clatter of something big and wooden crashing over, then the wave of startled shouting that ripples through the market. Spice chirps sharply, launching from her perch in a flurry of wings, and Flora straightens instinctively just in time to catch a flash of movement as someone barrels past.
She knows that voice.
Damien.
He’s shouting for someone—Aria?—and the urgency in it yanks something taut inside her. It isn’t fear, not exactly, but it’s the same thread that always tugs when someone she knows is in motion for the wrong reasons. Her eyes follow him down the row, tracking the blur of white fur weaving ahead of him and the much less friendly shape in pursuit.
"Shit," she mutters, not bothering to explain herself to the dice vendor as she turns on her heel. "I’ll be back. Maybe."
She slips into the flow of the crowd with practiced ease, skirt hitched, sandals skimming splintery boards as she picks up speed. Her fingers brush a fishmonger’s stall as she darts past, murmuring a rushed apology as the scent of brine gives way to the sharper sting of adrenaline. Whoever Aria was, if Damien’s chasing her like that, Flora doesn’t hesitate. Torchline doesn’t always reward stopping for other people’s messes, usually, but today, she’s not in the mood to be cautious.
She’s bent slightly over a merchant’s table, flipping through a set of etched dice with the kind of scrutiny normally reserved for gemstones or lovers. "You’re telling me these roll fair?" she asks, voice skeptical but playful. "Because if I get snake eyes three times in a row, I will be coming back with a grudge and a very cute dragon." Spice chirps from her perch above, fluffing her wings like punctuation.
The merchant’s halfway into a defensive pitch when it happens: first the clatter of something big and wooden crashing over, then the wave of startled shouting that ripples through the market. Spice chirps sharply, launching from her perch in a flurry of wings, and Flora straightens instinctively just in time to catch a flash of movement as someone barrels past.
She knows that voice.
Damien.
He’s shouting for someone—Aria?—and the urgency in it yanks something taut inside her. It isn’t fear, not exactly, but it’s the same thread that always tugs when someone she knows is in motion for the wrong reasons. Her eyes follow him down the row, tracking the blur of white fur weaving ahead of him and the much less friendly shape in pursuit.
"Shit," she mutters, not bothering to explain herself to the dice vendor as she turns on her heel. "I’ll be back. Maybe."
She slips into the flow of the crowd with practiced ease, skirt hitched, sandals skimming splintery boards as she picks up speed. Her fingers brush a fishmonger’s stall as she darts past, murmuring a rushed apology as the scent of brine gives way to the sharper sting of adrenaline. Whoever Aria was, if Damien’s chasing her like that, Flora doesn’t hesitate. Torchline doesn’t always reward stopping for other people’s messes, usually, but today, she’s not in the mood to be cautious.
We need love, But all we want is danger
We team up, Then switch sides like a record changer
We team up, Then switch sides like a record changer
