Lysandra
Every face wears a mask
Lysandra listened as he spoke her name, quiet and deliberate, the sound of it gentled by gratitude. She watched him bow, that rare gesture of reverence, and something softened behind her mask. Her head tilted slightly—catlike, curious—as she took in the lines of his face, the steadiness of his eyes, the way the firelight seemed to cling to the edges of him as if it, too, respected restraint.
He was a man built of composure, every motion considered, but she saw the space between—the breath he took after, the small light that hope had left behind. It was always the in-betweens that told the truth.
“I think I would like that,” she said at last, her voice smooth, touched with a quiet humor that carried more warmth than play. “To meet again. To play for you again.”
A beat passed, her attention flicking toward the flame-crowned fountain, where the last of her illusion’s petals had long since burned away. “But hope is a song that never ends,” she said with a faint smile. “May it follow you beneath the deepest tide, even when you think you can't hear it.”
With that, she dipped her head in parting—a performer’s bow, light and unassuming. When she straightened, her fingers lifted to the edge of the mask, and she let it fall back into place. The porcelain caught the firelight once more, its painted smile echoing something truer beneath.
“Until next time, Hadama,” she murmured after him as he made his leave, before turning to linger by the fountain’s edge. The flute rested against her knee as she sat, breath soft, finally still. And when he had gone, she let the mask slip into her lap, blue eyes fixed on the rippling reflection of flame and water as she let the night hold the grief she’d kept quiet all along.
fin
He was a man built of composure, every motion considered, but she saw the space between—the breath he took after, the small light that hope had left behind. It was always the in-betweens that told the truth.
“I think I would like that,” she said at last, her voice smooth, touched with a quiet humor that carried more warmth than play. “To meet again. To play for you again.”
A beat passed, her attention flicking toward the flame-crowned fountain, where the last of her illusion’s petals had long since burned away. “But hope is a song that never ends,” she said with a faint smile. “May it follow you beneath the deepest tide, even when you think you can't hear it.”
With that, she dipped her head in parting—a performer’s bow, light and unassuming. When she straightened, her fingers lifted to the edge of the mask, and she let it fall back into place. The porcelain caught the firelight once more, its painted smile echoing something truer beneath.
“Until next time, Hadama,” she murmured after him as he made his leave, before turning to linger by the fountain’s edge. The flute rested against her knee as she sat, breath soft, finally still. And when he had gone, she let the mask slip into her lap, blue eyes fixed on the rippling reflection of flame and water as she let the night hold the grief she’d kept quiet all along.
fin
✦ ✧ ✦
