every bait and switch was a work of art
Safrin only tilts her head at his apology, a single, elegant shake of it dismissing the notion entirely. There is no offence here, no slight to be forgiven; she has never expected reverence to look like composure in moments such as this. Her gaze lingers on him then—truly lingers—and for all the immensity of her presence, there is something achingly focused about it, as though Zavien alone occupies the centre of her awareness. When his question breaks loose from him, raw and unguarded, the faint curve of her mouth falters.
She steps closer, her fingers rising to brush against his cheek, light as falling stardust, warm enough to steady without overwhelming. The contact is brief but deliberate; ancient and intentional. "You will find a way." For a moment longer she holds his gaze, letting the truth of that settle where it needs to, before her attention drifts away; not from him, but through the space beyond him. Safrin turns, eyes lifting across the Celestine gardens as though stone and distance and sky are little more than veils to be parted. Starlight brightens faintly in her irises, constellations shifting, aligning, searching.
She sees them—the fractures, the strain, the slow, inevitable unravelling at the heart of the floating city—and her expression tightens. "I would be surprised," Safrin says at last, voice quieter now, if Stormbreak endures to the end of the season." She turns back to him, the weight of her words settling with measured gravity rather than panic, meeting Zavien’s fear without amplifying it. "More likely," she continues, gently, "you have weeks. Perhaps a month."
The air seems to still around them, the stars overhead burning on in indifferent brilliance. Safrin’s hand lowers from his cheek, but her presence does not yet recede. "What you do with that time," she adds, eyes luminous and intent, "will matter far more than how much of it you have."
She steps closer, her fingers rising to brush against his cheek, light as falling stardust, warm enough to steady without overwhelming. The contact is brief but deliberate; ancient and intentional. "You will find a way." For a moment longer she holds his gaze, letting the truth of that settle where it needs to, before her attention drifts away; not from him, but through the space beyond him. Safrin turns, eyes lifting across the Celestine gardens as though stone and distance and sky are little more than veils to be parted. Starlight brightens faintly in her irises, constellations shifting, aligning, searching.
She sees them—the fractures, the strain, the slow, inevitable unravelling at the heart of the floating city—and her expression tightens. "I would be surprised," Safrin says at last, voice quieter now, if Stormbreak endures to the end of the season." She turns back to him, the weight of her words settling with measured gravity rather than panic, meeting Zavien’s fear without amplifying it. "More likely," she continues, gently, "you have weeks. Perhaps a month."
The air seems to still around them, the stars overhead burning on in indifferent brilliance. Safrin’s hand lowers from his cheek, but her presence does not yet recede. "What you do with that time," she adds, eyes luminous and intent, "will matter far more than how much of it you have."
you're the one prize i'd cheat to win
