flora
For all Flora knows, the way Colt shifts away is only guilt trying to find a better place to stand. She sees the tightening around the other woman’s mouth, the too-careful brightness, the trembling fingers offered over the bar, and because she is already hurt, already certain, already standing with the neat little pile of evidence Sohalia had placed in her lap, Flora reads every last piece of it as someone realizing she’s been caught in more than black and white. The comment about the ability being impressive has her nodding with swift, fervent agreement, because yes, obviously, it is.
Still, when Colt offers her hand, Flora’s head tilts slightly, the movement elegant and skeptical as her aqua eyes drop to the upturned palm between them. She hadn’t expected there to be anything more. She’d expected defence, maybe another sharp twist of words, maybe Colt trying to turn sincerity into a technicality with enough grit and charm to make it sound reasonable. So for a moment Flora only considers her, lips pressed softly together, one hand still resting near her highball glass while Spice’s frosted handiwork keeps the champagne cold and bright between them. Then, with a small shrug that pretends at carelessness far better than she feels it, Flora reaches forward and places her hand in Colt’s.
The bar falls away beneath a wash of grey sky and damp leaves, the scent of the Last Word briefly overwritten by mud and bark and the clean, old weight of the Greatwood. The Mathair rises in the memory like something too large to be merely seen, its roots sprawled through the wet ground while Colt and Sohalia stand nearby with offerings and soft conversation between them. Flora watches hard, waiting for the turn. Waiting for the hook, the pressure, the part where a friendly invitation becomes a lure disguised as loyalty, because surely it must come. Surely Sohalia had not looked at her across that spa and said poach because of this.
Only the scene doesn’t sharpen the way Flora expects it to. Colt speaks about Hak Etme with that lit-up certainty Flora remembers wanting to smack off her face at the party, but the words themselves are plain enough: Soh knows the land, Soh understands safety and resources, Soh has led before, and Colt could use someone like that if she’s going to build anything people might actually want to come to. The offer of a council position follows sincerely, maybe ambitiously, maybe with too much confidence, but not with claws in it, and Flora feels her own hand begin to cool inside Colt’s grip.
The memory continues, and Flora’s fingers grow colder still, not from Spice or the frosted glass or anything simple enough to blame. Colt doesn’t press when Soh says she needs to think about the council. She doesn’t demand an answer, doesn’t frame Torchline like something Soh needs rescuing from, doesn’t make Flora into an obstacle to be managed or stepped around. She looks pleased, sure, maybe even too pleased, but when Soh agrees to come at least for a while, the whole thing settles as easily as a deal made between friends. Bring your maps. Bring camping gear. Stay honest. Bring tequila.
Flora’s fingers fall away from Colt’s hand entirely. The memory goes on for another breath, long enough for the women inside it to shift toward something else, long enough for the absence of anything nefarious to become louder than anything spoken. Flora stares at the scene as if another version of it might still arrive if she just holds her expression steady enough, if she refuses to blink, if she waits one second more for the betrayal to step forward and announce itself properly. But it doesn’t. There is no hidden blade. No luring. No poaching. Just an offer, one Sohalia could have refused, and the illusion fades back into the polished bar and the champagne and the pale dragon watching with curious, crystalline stillness.
For once, Flora doesn’t have a clever shape ready for her mouth and so it remains slightly slack as she blinks, slowly, the hard line of her posture loosening not into softness but into confusion. When her aqua eyes turn back to Colt, they are not cold anymore, just open in a way she clearly hadn’t meant to let happen, her brows drawn together as if the whole room has subtly rearranged itself while she wasn’t looking. "But..." Flora gives her head a small shake, almost too slight to count, her voice quieter now and stripped of all its polished frost. "Is that it?"
Still, when Colt offers her hand, Flora’s head tilts slightly, the movement elegant and skeptical as her aqua eyes drop to the upturned palm between them. She hadn’t expected there to be anything more. She’d expected defence, maybe another sharp twist of words, maybe Colt trying to turn sincerity into a technicality with enough grit and charm to make it sound reasonable. So for a moment Flora only considers her, lips pressed softly together, one hand still resting near her highball glass while Spice’s frosted handiwork keeps the champagne cold and bright between them. Then, with a small shrug that pretends at carelessness far better than she feels it, Flora reaches forward and places her hand in Colt’s.
The bar falls away beneath a wash of grey sky and damp leaves, the scent of the Last Word briefly overwritten by mud and bark and the clean, old weight of the Greatwood. The Mathair rises in the memory like something too large to be merely seen, its roots sprawled through the wet ground while Colt and Sohalia stand nearby with offerings and soft conversation between them. Flora watches hard, waiting for the turn. Waiting for the hook, the pressure, the part where a friendly invitation becomes a lure disguised as loyalty, because surely it must come. Surely Sohalia had not looked at her across that spa and said poach because of this.
Only the scene doesn’t sharpen the way Flora expects it to. Colt speaks about Hak Etme with that lit-up certainty Flora remembers wanting to smack off her face at the party, but the words themselves are plain enough: Soh knows the land, Soh understands safety and resources, Soh has led before, and Colt could use someone like that if she’s going to build anything people might actually want to come to. The offer of a council position follows sincerely, maybe ambitiously, maybe with too much confidence, but not with claws in it, and Flora feels her own hand begin to cool inside Colt’s grip.
The memory continues, and Flora’s fingers grow colder still, not from Spice or the frosted glass or anything simple enough to blame. Colt doesn’t press when Soh says she needs to think about the council. She doesn’t demand an answer, doesn’t frame Torchline like something Soh needs rescuing from, doesn’t make Flora into an obstacle to be managed or stepped around. She looks pleased, sure, maybe even too pleased, but when Soh agrees to come at least for a while, the whole thing settles as easily as a deal made between friends. Bring your maps. Bring camping gear. Stay honest. Bring tequila.
Flora’s fingers fall away from Colt’s hand entirely. The memory goes on for another breath, long enough for the women inside it to shift toward something else, long enough for the absence of anything nefarious to become louder than anything spoken. Flora stares at the scene as if another version of it might still arrive if she just holds her expression steady enough, if she refuses to blink, if she waits one second more for the betrayal to step forward and announce itself properly. But it doesn’t. There is no hidden blade. No luring. No poaching. Just an offer, one Sohalia could have refused, and the illusion fades back into the polished bar and the champagne and the pale dragon watching with curious, crystalline stillness.
For once, Flora doesn’t have a clever shape ready for her mouth and so it remains slightly slack as she blinks, slowly, the hard line of her posture loosening not into softness but into confusion. When her aqua eyes turn back to Colt, they are not cold anymore, just open in a way she clearly hadn’t meant to let happen, her brows drawn together as if the whole room has subtly rearranged itself while she wasn’t looking. "But..." Flora gives her head a small shake, almost too slight to count, her voice quieter now and stripped of all its polished frost. "Is that it?"
My house of stone, your ivy grows
And now I'm covered in you
And now I'm covered in you
