Safrin
For a moment, the candles burn gold and flattering in the glass-walled room, until every light in Wildering House gutters out as if pinched between unseen fingers, plunging the shrine into a darkness even the glittering Ahi Coast beyond the windows cannot quite pierce. Then starlight blooms across the glass in a thousand fine points, spilling over the offerings until each celestial trinket gleams like a captured piece of heaven; the candles relight themselves in pale blue flame, and Safrin appears before the shrine as if she has merely stepped through the night and found the room improved by her presence.
"Flora," she purrs, and there is approval already brightening her smile, not merely for the offering or the shrine, though both receive a pleased sweep of her gaze, but for the sheer deliciousness of beginning a prayer with drama and suspicion and the promise of tea. Reaching for the delicate glass bottle, Safrin turns it between her fingers, admiring the way it catches the starshine before lifting it and spritzing the jasmine perfume lightly into the air. She inhales with slow, indulgent pleasure, lashes lowering as the scent settles around her like something remembered from a garden that only blooms beneath constellations, and when her eyes open again, they are glittering with wicked amusement.
At the mention of Vi, Safrin’s expression shifts into something coy and theatrical, one hand rising lightly to her chest as her eyes widen with a performance of astonishment so perfectly polished that the mockery of it gleams at the edges. "Yes, well. That Vi chose to answer you was..." Her smile sharpens into something private, bright as a blade glimpsed beneath silk. "Certainly a surprise to us all, I think."
The shape of recent drama in Flora's life lies around the queen like perfume, like smoke, like fingerprints left on polished glass, every accusation and half-truth and sharp little betrayal catching Safrin’s interest the way jewels catch light. She smiles as if Flora has brought her a particularly beautiful mess tied up in ribbon, and with a tilt of her head, she lifts one brow before extending both hands. "Come here." Her voice is velvet over command, intimate enough to feel like affection and inevitable enough to make refusal seem faintly absurd. Taking Flora’s hands, Safrin turns them palm-up between her own, glancing down at the queen’s fingers with open amusement as gold and magic wink back at her from nearly every surface. Rings for secrets, rings for lies, rings for being unseen or untouchable in ways mortals always think will make them safe. Safrin’s thumb brushes lightly over one band, then another, her smile curving with fond, merciless delight.
"My sweet girl," she says, and the tenderness in it is real enough to be dangerous, because with Safrin even affection has teeth if one presses too hard against it. "Unless you intend to leave no surface of your body unadorned, no. There will never be enough items to do what it is you have in mind." Her gaze lifts from the rings to Flora’s face, the corners of her lips tilting higher, slyness gathering there like moonlight over deep water. "But," she adds softly, releasing the word as though it is a secret being slipped beneath a door, "there might be a way."
Safrin lets Flora’s hands go, her own fingers trailing free with a final glimmer of starlight before she turns toward the windows. Beyond the glass, Torchline sprawls beneath the sun, white sand and brilliant water and the Arclight glittering outward in all its reckless, beautiful excess. The goddess looks at it with an expression that is almost fond, almost possessive, as though even the coastline has committed the minor sin of being lovely enough to tempt her attention. "What a shame," she muses, voice light and leading, each word placed with exquisite care, "That with Hadama gone, Torchline is not ruled by one of my demigods any more." Only then does she glance back, one brow arched, her smile luminous and pointed. "Don’t you think?"
"Flora," she purrs, and there is approval already brightening her smile, not merely for the offering or the shrine, though both receive a pleased sweep of her gaze, but for the sheer deliciousness of beginning a prayer with drama and suspicion and the promise of tea. Reaching for the delicate glass bottle, Safrin turns it between her fingers, admiring the way it catches the starshine before lifting it and spritzing the jasmine perfume lightly into the air. She inhales with slow, indulgent pleasure, lashes lowering as the scent settles around her like something remembered from a garden that only blooms beneath constellations, and when her eyes open again, they are glittering with wicked amusement.
At the mention of Vi, Safrin’s expression shifts into something coy and theatrical, one hand rising lightly to her chest as her eyes widen with a performance of astonishment so perfectly polished that the mockery of it gleams at the edges. "Yes, well. That Vi chose to answer you was..." Her smile sharpens into something private, bright as a blade glimpsed beneath silk. "Certainly a surprise to us all, I think."
The shape of recent drama in Flora's life lies around the queen like perfume, like smoke, like fingerprints left on polished glass, every accusation and half-truth and sharp little betrayal catching Safrin’s interest the way jewels catch light. She smiles as if Flora has brought her a particularly beautiful mess tied up in ribbon, and with a tilt of her head, she lifts one brow before extending both hands. "Come here." Her voice is velvet over command, intimate enough to feel like affection and inevitable enough to make refusal seem faintly absurd. Taking Flora’s hands, Safrin turns them palm-up between her own, glancing down at the queen’s fingers with open amusement as gold and magic wink back at her from nearly every surface. Rings for secrets, rings for lies, rings for being unseen or untouchable in ways mortals always think will make them safe. Safrin’s thumb brushes lightly over one band, then another, her smile curving with fond, merciless delight.
"My sweet girl," she says, and the tenderness in it is real enough to be dangerous, because with Safrin even affection has teeth if one presses too hard against it. "Unless you intend to leave no surface of your body unadorned, no. There will never be enough items to do what it is you have in mind." Her gaze lifts from the rings to Flora’s face, the corners of her lips tilting higher, slyness gathering there like moonlight over deep water. "But," she adds softly, releasing the word as though it is a secret being slipped beneath a door, "there might be a way."
Safrin lets Flora’s hands go, her own fingers trailing free with a final glimmer of starlight before she turns toward the windows. Beyond the glass, Torchline sprawls beneath the sun, white sand and brilliant water and the Arclight glittering outward in all its reckless, beautiful excess. The goddess looks at it with an expression that is almost fond, almost possessive, as though even the coastline has committed the minor sin of being lovely enough to tempt her attention. "What a shame," she muses, voice light and leading, each word placed with exquisite care, "That with Hadama gone, Torchline is not ruled by one of my demigods any more." Only then does she glance back, one brow arched, her smile luminous and pointed. "Don’t you think?"
