small dreams, wide skies

Lysandra

Every face wears a mask

The Observatory was quiet in the way only the sky could be quiet — deep, endless, daring you to fill it with your own noise. Lysandra obliged. She stood barefoot on the wooden floorboards, skirts whispering as she moved, one hand raised like a conductor guiding an orchestra only she could hear.

In her palm glowed a little star whale, no bigger than a lantern flame. It shimmered faintly, flickering at the edges like a candle fighting wind, its tail more suggestion than substance. Anyone else might have dismissed it for what it was — a trick of light, a beginner’s parlor act. But Lysandra tilted her head up and followed it as though it swam through galaxies.

“Steady now,” she whispered, pacing slow circles around the Observatory as her illusion drifted ahead of her. Each time it wobbled she coaxed it back, murmuring lullabies under her breath. As it took greater shape, she encouraged it to swim higher, fingers fluttering as though the stars themselves might listen to her touch.

She was so intent on guiding her fragile creation that she didn’t hear the footsteps climbing the stair. The little whale, oblivious to its maker’s concentration, drifted lazily toward the doorway — a wavering scrap of light and tail-flicker diving straight for whoever came through next.

✦ ✧ ✦

your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand

The stairs creaks softly beneath her boots, the kind of sound that belongs to the Greatwood; old and wooden and too familiar to jolt her nerves. Flora’s wrapped in a long wool coat the colour of smoke and hibiscus, belted tight against the Deepfrost air, curls pinned up in a haphazard knot that still smell faintly of sea salt and citrus oil. Her gloves are tucked into one pocket, hands bare now that she’s inside, fingers trailing lightly along the curved rail as she climbs.

The Sugartide is parked neatly above in the skyport, floating like a dream she doesn’t quite feel part of at the moment. Torchline’s been...loud. Messy, lately. Too many sharp words and tangled feelings, and with Kaisel busy up in Stormbreak, she’s had far too much time to think. So Flora’s wandered home; the kind of home that still echoes with Enzo’s laughter and tastes like cold fruit and bark tea and snow caught on lashes.

Given the hour, she isn’t expecting anything to greet her when she pushes open the door, just the hush of branches and whatever constellations haven’t gotten bored of watching.

Instead, something flickers straight into her face.

"Ah—!" she gasps, the sound small and startled, the kind of breath you let out when you walk through a cobweb or someone else’s perfume clings to your cheek. Her hands fly up instinctively, batting at the air, gold rings flashing like tiny suns before she blinks and realises there’s nothing there.

No — that’s not quite true.

There was something. A shape. Soft and shimmered and gone too fast to name. Her brows knit, a small huff escaping her as she glances over her shoulder, trying to follow the path of whatever just dissolved into her.

Only then does she see her; another girl, barefoot, and circling the room like it’s a stage only she knows the choreography to. "Oh." A blink, a shift. Flora straightens, brushing invisible strands off her blouse, tone switching to polite but still tinged with amusement. "Didn’t mean to crash the performance. Your, uh—whale? Was very cute. Right up until I murdered it with my face."

Lysandra

Every face wears a mask

The gasp and the fizzled spark happened at once. Lysandra’s hands froze mid-gesture, eyes widening as if she’d been caught mid-line in a script she hadn’t realized someone else was watching. The little whale blinked out against Flora’s cheek — startled as much as she was — and for a moment both performer and audience hung in the same breath.

The woman was all smoke and hibiscus, curls pinned in a knot that looked ready to tumble apart with the next breeze. Even from where she stood, Lysandra thought she could catch the trace of salt and citrus, as though the sea itself had clung to her before letting her go. For a moment, it tangled with the stories she already knew — tales spun by voices quicker than ships, of Torchline’s queen who ruled young and brightly, who weathered storms and laughed louder than thunder.
Recognition flared not as certainty, but as fire meeting kindling. The girl in the doorway was both less and more than rumor, smaller in the frame of her wool coat, larger in the way her presence shifted the air of the room.

A soft smile slipped back into place as though Lysandra had meant for the interruption all along. “Then it has the rare honor of dying for an audience,” Lysandra said, though her hands were already weaving it back to life. The tiny creature shimmered again, wobbling at the edges but cheerful enough to circle past Flora’s shoulder. A faint, whale-like song echoed behind it before Lysandra tilted it upward toward the stars.

Only when she let it dissolve into starlight did she lower her hands. She smoothed her palms against the knit of her skirt, a pale braid slipping loose to brush her cheek. Her cloak and boots lay in a careless heap by the door, abandoned for this strange little ritual.

Her eyes settled on Flora, steady now, touched with amusement but sharpened by something more inquisitive. The soft smile never slipped, but her head tilted, pale braids catching silver light as though she were listening for a secret only Flora might tell. “I didn’t expect a queen to be my critic,” she murmured, light as air, the words almost playful. A pause stretched — not heavy, only thoughtful, dreamlike. “And yet here you are, treading old paths.” Her voice thinned to a wondering lilt, not a question so much as an invitation. “What pulls you back to them, I wonder?”

✦ ✧ ✦

your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand

Flora laughs, the sound soft, sheepish, curling around the edges like the steam off a cup of something warm. "Gods," she murmurs, lifting a hand in gentle surrender, "closest I’ve been to a starwhale in years. And of course I had to go face-first into it." Her grin follows quick on the heels of apology, white-teethed and unapologetically crooked, the kind that winks even when her mouth doesn’t.

She gives a little shrug, the gesture tugging her coat askew to reveal the gleam of layered necklaces beneath, gold winking like mischief against the soft winter dark. For a heartbeat she seems ready to pass through the space entirely—a visitor, not a fixture—feet already angling toward the next flight of stairs. But then as she's called out as being a queen by the other woman, Flora pauses mid-step, turning halfway with a breath caught somewhere between surprise and amusement. Her smile returns slower this time, more angle than sparkle. "No criticism here," she says lightly, voice smooth and bright.

Her gaze drifts upward to where the illusion dissolved, then back to the taller woman, watching her with that peculiar stillness as if she were listening not with ears, but with the bones of the Observatory itself.

"To be honest," she says, tucking a curl behind one ear, "I like to come back when I can. The Greatwood’s...quiet in its own way." Her voice dips there, wistful but not melancholy, words cradled in something warmer than nostalgia. "Also, I've got a friend who lives here but who's staying with me for Deepfrost. Thought I’d grab a few things from his place before heading back to Torchline."

Her hands find her coat pockets, fingers curling lightly inside. "Didn’t mean to interrupt," she adds, a little wry, though her eyes linger now on the woman instead of the door. "But if your sky’s taking requests, I wouldn’t say no to seeing another one of those." Her gaze a touch sad for a moment, before Flora blinks it away.

Lysandra

Every face wears a mask

Lysandra’s laugh came softer, more breath than sound, like paper lanterns catching on a breeze. “Interrupted? Not at all. Pleasantly surprised, maybe. But the sky is big enough for both of us.” Her smile lingered as if to seal it true, not simply polite.

Her gaze followed Flora’s upward, to the rafters where the whale had vanished. “I came up here hoping to see the starwhales. But they only ever pass when it suits them.” A shrug, skirts whispering. “I grew impatient. So I made my own.”

The words trailed, but her eyes didn’t miss the sadness that brushed across Flora’s. Lysandra tilted her head, as though she were listening for a note gone off-key. She didn’t ask. Instead, her smile softened into something more certain. “They say starwhales will find whoever needs them most,” she murmured, her voice like a tale told by firelight. “Maybe that’s why you walked through the door.”

Her hands lifted, weaving light until a second whale, an orca, shimmered into being — larger than before, steadier, her concentration knitting it bright. Its fins fanned like sails of starlight, tail scattering soft sparks as it swam. A low hum followed, richer than her first attempt, seeming to thrum through the boards beneath their feet.

She guided it gently toward Flora, close enough for its glow to brush her shoulder before it swam slowly upward, circling like a watchful star. Only then did Lysandra lower her hands, though her smile remained, touched by something knowing.

“The real ones go where they please,” she said softly. “But mine? Mine will stay as long as you’d like.”

✦ ✧ ✦

your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand

Flora laughs, the sound carried light on the cold Observatory air, her breath fogging faintly before vanishing into the rafters. "When I was little," she says, smile tugging at one corner of her mouth, "I only ever saw them when I wasn’t looking. Nights my nonna dragged me up here to study constellations, those are always when we'd see them, never when we came looking." Her hands shift in her pockets, shoulders lifting in a small shrug.

She glances over her shoulder, catching Lysandra in her periphery, the way her pale hair catches the light and echoes with something almost mythic. "Maybe," Flora agrees, under her breath. The word is airy and uncertain and quietly honest, a thread pulled loose that she lets drift rather than tug. Her gaze lifts again as the orca takes shape, and for a heartbeat something shifts behind her ribs, not because of the illusion itself, but because of the memory it stirs. "Once," she says softly, eyes following the whale’s slow arc, "someone took me up in a ship, high up in the clouds. We flew so high, for so long, that we found a whole pod." The memory arrives in colours and cold wind and heartache; starlight caught in someone else’s hair, the hum of the wind, her hands clenched on the railing of the Ark with Jack's arms bracketing her.

She inhales, but the air doesn’t stay. It thins, brittle in her chest. "That was the last time I saw them," she finishes, shaking her head like she can scatter the ache. The smile that follows is gentler now, quieter. She doesn’t look at the whale directly anymore; it’s easier not to, because when she does the illusion flickers, the strings show. But when it’s just on the edge of her vision, it gleams the way real things do, the way hope sometimes does, impossible and just close enough to believe in.

Her attention returns to the woman who summoned it, warmth softening the edges of her voice. "You know who I am," Flora says, tilting her head, curls bouncing loose from their knot. "But I don’t know who you are." The admission is easy, almost apologetic, like an overdue curtsy or a forgotten name at a party she never meant to crash.

Lysandra

Every face wears a mask

When Flora spoke of flying, of finding a pod, Lysandra listened, still as a held breath. The words once and last time seemed to settle on her skin, soft but weighted. For a moment she only watched Flora’s face in profile, the way the light shifted along it—like watching clouds slide across the moon. Something flickered in Lysandra’s expression. Wonder, yes, but threaded with understanding; she knew what it was to love things that didn't stay. Her gaze drifted to the orca she’d conjured, now suspended midair like a half-forgotten thought.

Her hand lifted again, a subtle adjustment, and the illusion responded. The orca’s course shifted; its light softened, its pace slowed until it hovered near them, exhaling a faint pulse of warmth like the ghost of a tide. It no longer looked like something distant and unreachable—it looked present, steady, almost protective.

“I heard a story once,” Lysandra began, her voice low and even, “that the first starwhale was born from someone’s wish not to be alone. The gods took pity—if gods ever do—and gathered pieces of the night sky to give the wish a shape. Since then, the whales seek out those who’ve forgotten how to wish. To remind them who they were, before the world asked them to be anything else.”

Her smile was soft, not bright but genuine, eyes reflecting the glow of the creature between them.

The orca turned lazily above Flora’s shoulder, its light brushing the curve of her coat, scattering tiny lights like fallen stars. Lysandra let the moment breathe before the queen’s next words reached her.

“You know who I am,” Flora said.

“I do.” Lysandra’s answer came without ceremony, her head tipping in something close to a bow. “The sea has a way of sending its stories inland. Torchline has been loud with yours.” Her tone carried no flattery—only a storyteller’s fascination with the way rumor built crowns out of flesh and salt.

Then, “Who I am is not nearly as important or as storied," she said, waving a hand as though brushing away the beginnings of apology in Flora’s voice. The motion was light, dismissive, but not unkind. "But my name, if you wish to have it, is Lysandra,” she said, straightening, voice soft but sure, “Lysandra Rosewood. Bard, illusionist, artist, dreamer...” The smile deepened, wry at the edges as her gaze drifted toward the stars overhead. “But tonight.. I’m just a girl keeping watch for things that never seem to come.” A quiet sigh followed, shoulders rising and falling like the tide retreating.

The orca’s light dimmed to a softer glow, circling both of them now.

✦ ✧ ✦

your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand

Flora smiles as the story unfolds, slow and wistful as candlelight. There’s a warmth to it that catches her gently, the kind that brushes her ribs without pressing too hard. Her head tilts slightly, curls brushing the collar of her coat as she listens. "I’ve never heard that version," she says, voice soft and tinged with something brighter. "But I like it." Her gaze flicks over one shoulder as the orca drifts lazily past, its light trailing along her coat like spilled pearls.

The sight pulls another small smile from her—wistful, reflexive—and then Lysandra speaks again, and the queen’s lips twist with dry amusement. "That figures," she murmurs, shoulders lifting in a shrug that’s half-knowing, half-apologetic. "Never seems to matter where I go, someone’s already heard the last chapter." But there’s no sharpness in it, no defensiveness, just tired humour layered beneath the glitter.

As Lysandra gives her name, Flora nods, expression easing into something warmer. "It’s nice to meet you, Lysandra." And it is, genuinely, despite the strangeness of the setting or the quiet ache that still coils somewhere behind her ribs. There’s something soothing in this whole moment, like touching the edge of a dream you don’t quite want to wake from.

Her eyes lift to the domed ceiling above, where stars blink silently overhead, impossibly far and impossibly bright. Her lips twitch faintly, and then she turns back, brow raised, voice light but curious. "So what is it," she asks, gesturing loosely toward the whale as it completes another slow arc between them, "that you’re waiting for?" A pause, and then with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, "Because from where I’m standing, it kinda looks like you can make anything you want."

Lysandra

Every face wears a mask

Lysandra’s expression flickered with something like sympathy, though finer, quieter—a recognition that didn’t need to name itself. She’d heard that tone before, in taverns and temples, in the voices of those who’d been turned into stories while they were still breathing.

“Legends,” she began, gaze tipping toward the orca’s fading trail, “are slippery little things. They shed the blood and suffering that built them, keeping only the.. glamor and drama that pleases the crowd.” Her smile curved, wry but not unkind. “But stories can always be amended. If something’s been left out. If you’d rather the truth be beautiful and honest, not one or the other. ”

She let that hang a moment, an open door if Flora chose to walk through it. Then she raised a hand in a small, thoughtful shrug. “It’s not always about getting the truth exactly right,” she added quietly, for this was something of a 'trade secret', “but about how it makes people feel when they hear it. The best tales carry a little mercy in them.”

Flora’s next question pulled her elsewhere.

The queen’s curiosity landed with disarming simplicity, and Lysandra hesitated — a rare falter in her expression. “What I’m waiting for,” she echoed, as if testing the words. Her gaze lifted toward the dome, to the cold scatter of stars above. “That’s the trouble, isn’t it? You can make almost anything…” She watched the orca’s slow orbit, its glow ghosting across the ceiling. “Except the thing you’re really waiting for.”

Her smile returned, small and almost apologetic for the frail truth of it. “I suppose I don’t really know,” she said at last. “Isn’t that strange?” A tilt of her head, eyes finding Flora’s. “To miss something you’ve never had—or to long for a place that doesn’t exist. Have you ever felt like that, Flora?”

✦ ✧ ✦

your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand

Flora listens, arms crossed loosely now as if to keep her hands from giving too much away. Her head tips gently, curls falling from their knot in slow rebellion, but when Lysandra speaks of amending stories—of mercy, of honesty and beauty coexisting—she softly shakes her head. "Maybe," she allows, the word light and noncommittal. But her smile is thinner now, polished at the edges. "In my experience, stories are what they are. They stick to you like perfume on old clothes, doesn’t matter how true it is, or how much you wish it was something else." A shrug follows, quick and practiced, before she tosses a brighter grin across the space like a coin flipped between them. "But, I was called the Doubletake before I even earned a crown, so if the stories that precede me don't match onto reality, what of it?" She leaves the question hanging like tinsel, pretty and evasive. Some truths are too jagged to show strangers, no matter how softly they speak.

But when Lysandra speaks again, the queen stills, the quiet weight of those words settling like snow across her shoulders. Her gaze flickers to the orca—still circling, still shining—and she thinks about the ache tucked deep into that confession. To miss something you've never had, to long for a place that never was. It's like poetry, she thinks; the kind that scratches at your ribs when you're not paying attention.

"I do," Flora says, and this time there’s no humour to soften it. Her voice is quieter now, stripped of show. "My twin brother died a few years ago, during the war." She doesn’t look away as she says it, though something in her gaze flickers, light behind sea glass. "And sometimes...it feels like there’s this other version of my life. One I was meant to be living, one where he’s still in it."

Her lips tug faintly, not into a smile exactly, but something close. "I miss it," she says. "Even though I never had it."

Lysandra

Every face wears a mask

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full—of breath, of the low hum of the whale, of things too sacred to name. Lysandra’s hands stilled at her sides, and for a moment she couldn’t quite look away from Flora.

Twin. The word echoed somewhere inside her, small and sharp. She felt it like a string drawn taut between ribs. Alexei’s laughter, his voice in the dark, the shape of him in her memory—what would the world be without that tether?

When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, steadier. “I can’t imagine that kind of silence,” she said, truth soft as a bruise. “To lose the other half of your song.” Her gaze lifted to the orca, its glow rippling against the Observatory walls. “But I have a ghost, too. I lost my father, when I was young. I have.. memories that live louder than people. It’s strange, isn’t it? Missing what might have been.”

She tilted her head, the faintest smile warming the edge of her words. “Maybe that’s why we make stories. To visit the places we can’t go anymore.”

When she did speak, her voice was quiet, steady as the tide. “Some people say grief is a tether. It keeps the ones we’ve lost from drifting too far.” She glanced up at the circling whale. “But I think it’s the other way around. They’re the ones holding on to us—making sure we don’t drift too far from who we were when they knew us.”

For a heartbeat the illusion hung there, soundless but resonant, before she looked back to Flora. Her smile returned, faint but real, an offering rather than comfort. “If you could tell any story about your brother," she asked, "real or not real, what story would you tell?"

✦ ✧ ✦

your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand

Flora hums softly, a thread of sympathy woven through the sound. Her head tips in quiet understanding, curls shifting as she nods. "I’m luckier than most," she says, and though the words hold truth, there’s no pride in them, only the fragile kind of grace that comes from knowing how rare it is. "My father’s one of Mort’s demigods. So when someone we love dies, he can..." Her hand lifts vaguely, as if conjuring the memory, the shape of a soul cupped in reverent hands. "He can bring them back, for a time. Not all the way, but enough to speak. To see them."

A small shrug follows, the gesture softer than usual, edged with the honesty she doesn’t often wear in front of strangers. "I know how lucky that is. But it’s still not the same as having them around."

The next question doesn’t need much thought. Flora's eyes lift to meet Lysandra’s, clear and certain. "I’d tell the story where he comes back from the dead." It’s not fanciful, not wistful. It’s fact, delivered like a promise wrapped in prophecy. Like a page already written, just waiting to be read aloud. For all her sparkle and charm, Flora is steady in this moment, bright with something far more dangerous than grief; hope.

But it’s brief. Her smile tugs into something lighter, a small shift of weight back into herself. "Anyway," she says, gently brushing her coat sleeve as if to settle the moment back into the folds of her day, "I should be going."

She casts one last glance toward the orca above—not directly, just enough to catch the edge of its shine—before looking back at Lysandra with a warmer smile. "It was nice to meet you, Lysandra." And then she turns, bootsteps soft against the ancient wood as she starts down the stairs, the sky above her full of stories not yet finished.


~FIN