I'm sorry.
Qia
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A Little Weasel
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6 days ago
Why do all good things come to an end?
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likes
11 days ago
I can't believe I binge watched this show. But damn Dark is so good.
27 days ago
Or maybe melons>>> lemons?
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27 days ago
God now I have Daddy Cop stuck in my head. My fault xD
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29 days ago
And gave a big 'ol grin at the camera too. "Hey Drake." LMAO
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Bio
Hi, Qia here <3. I'm a gamer and RP fan just looking to have a good time.
Most Recent Posts
Jeez ok
Mentions: Vincent (@Estylwen) Interactions: Willy (@Estylwen)
The Ragged Tavern, Corlet
A few Thorned Roses tossed drinks back in the early morning at the Ragged Tavern in Corlet, a nice little hole-in-the-wall where most could sit unnoticed. One of these Thorned Roses, Willy Castles, a thin-framed, dark-haired man whom few would recognize as the one who set up the impossible deal with the Iron Roses spy the other day, stood from the group.
”I'mma order us another round of drinks and some grub. I'm famished.” He declared to a round of ‘hurrah’ and ‘you're the man, Willy’.
So he made his way from the booth to the bar, only a little sauced so early in the morning. ”Boss, we'll need three more whiskies and three more rum and cokes. And an order of fries, and an order of nachos.”
The bartender nodded, ”You're got it! And for yourself?”
Willy smiled, shaking his head. ”Almost forgot me, haha. Another one of those scotches.”
”And a scotch, you got it!” The bartender nodded, and gestured for Willy to sit. And that he did, drumming his fingers on the counter as he waited for his order to be complete.
The tavern door creaked open, admitting a rush of cool morning air. Emilia slipped inside without ceremony, her movements a ballet of elegance and discretion. Dressed in a sleek black dress that hugged her figure just enough to suggest refinement without drawing undue attention, she commanded presence without the need for ostentation. The hem of the dress fell just below her knees, its capped sleeves lending an air of understated elegance, while an oxblood leather jacket draped about her shoulders, softening the incisive contours of her form.
Her heels made only the faintest sound against the worn wooden floor as she crossed the room, her gaze flitting over the myriad denizens with the practiced nonchalance of a seasoned observer. If anyone noticed her arrival, they said nothing—she carried herself with the kind of confidence that discouraged idle curiosity. Without a word, she slipped into the seat beside Willy, settling in as though she belonged there.
For a moment, she said nothing, letting the din of conversation and clinking glass swallow the beat of silence between them. Then, as if merely continuing an unfinished conversation, she murmured, “You drink too early.”
Willy chuckled at that, pushing his dark hair back into a tousled mess. ”A couple drinks never hurt anyone, doll.”
He glanced over, looking at her, really looking at her. Then his eyes narrowed in confusion. The red-ish hair, could it be…? ”Wait, do I know you?”
Emilia’s lips quirked into a delicate smirk, one that hovered tantalizingly on the edge of mirth and something far more biting. “Perhaps,” she mused, her tone a silky cadence, “or maybe I simply have one of those unforgettable faces.” With a graceful shift, she crossed her legs, her gaze drifting to the barkeep before returning to Willy.
“But let's not get distracted. We need to have a little chat, you and I, about some… mutual acquaintances.”
Willy stared a little longer before his eyes widened. A hand inched toward the gun holstered within his jacket.
”Emilia Castiglione. If this is what I think it is… I'm afraid I can't help you. So, I suggest you walk back out that door you came in.”
Emilia exhaled a quiet, almost languid sigh, the kind that spoke of mild amusement laced with something colder—an irritation too insignificant to be worth more than a passing thought. Willy’s bravado was nothing new, nothing unexpected, and she treated it as such. Her gaze remained unwavering, undisturbed by the firearm between them, as irrelevant to her as the air between breaths. Instead, she leaned forward, just enough to collapse the distance between them, her voice slipping into something softer than a whisper—yet no less lethal.
“You’re rattled,” she murmured, her words almost pitying, almost indulgent. “Your pulse gave you away the second you set eyes on me. And your hand—” her gaze flickered, the briefest glance at the betraying tremor before settling back onto him with cold, immutable certainty—“it’s shaking, Willy. Hardly the steadiness of a man with nothing to conceal.” Her tone was not mocking, nor did it demand a rebuttal. It simply was, an irrefutable observation laid bare in the dim light between them.
His fingers stiffened over his jacket, but Emilia's demeanour remained unruffled. She tilted her head ever so slightly, her gaze shifting—reading the minute details that told her more than Willy would ever dare admit outright. The minute dilation of his pupils, the taut line etched upon his jaw, the erratic hitch of his breath—all crafted a narrative far more vivid than mere confession could encapsulate. She saw it, dissected it, and laid it bare between them with the ease of a seasoned player dismantling a novice’s game.
“Vincent’s got his claws in you, hasn’t he?” Emilia’s voice dipped, deceptively soft and insidiously coaxing. “It must be maddening. Bowing and scraping for a man who wouldn’t hesitate to carve you open the second you outlive your usefulness.” A pause, her words winding tighter, pressing in. “But the leash is fraying, isn’t it?” Her eyes narrowed and her next words were but a whisper before the guillotine’s drop.
“Does he know yet?”
Willy stared at Emilia for a long moment, before he shook his head. He was indeed rattled, but- ”You're got it all wrong, doll. It's not my boss I'm afraid of. It's you. Speaking of which-”
Willy gave a low whistle, and immediately, the other Thorned Roses at the table looked over in his direction and came over. They crowded Emilia, obviously trying to get into her personal space as they stood over her.
”Willy, you didn't say you had a new pet. Why don't we take her home with us?” One of the men said, giving Emilia a threatening look.
Emilia didn’t so much as blink. If the prowling figures around her unsettled her, she did not deign to show it. Instead, she let a slow smile creep onto her lips—one that hovered in the liminal space between amusement and menace, a silent harbinger of consequences yet to come.
“Gentlemen,” she purred, her voice a languid ribbon of sound, her gaze drifting indolently between them before anchoring itself back on Willy. “I do hope you’re not under the impression that this—” she gestured vaguely at their circling postures, “is a productive use of my time.”
One of the men stepped closer, his leer spreading like a stain across his face. “What else should we do with you, sweetheart? You walked into the wrong bar.”
Emilia’s laughter unfurled, rich and unhurried, a sound that seemed to coil around the room like smoke. It was not the nervous titter of someone outmatched, nor the hollow chuckle of someone feigning confidence. It was genuine, velvety, and utterly disarming, the kind of laugh that made lesser men falter and second-guess their footing.
“William,” she murmured as if speaking to a child who had just made a terrible, terrible mistake. “Did you really think I came here unprepared?”
The moment stretched just long enough for discomfort to take root.
Then, she struck. Not with force, not with the kind of open violence these men expected—but with words sharpened into scalpels.
“I hear tuition has gone up this year. Private schools, always such a hassle.” Emilia exhaled, feigning sympathy. “It must be difficult, keeping up with payments. And I do admire the effort, Willy. After all, what kind of brother would you be if you didn’t try?”
She tapped a finger against her chin as if turning over a particularly amusing thought. Then, with a tilt of her head, she delivered the final incision.
“The only thing is… when you start pulling money from the wrong places, people eventually notice, don’t they?”
Willy frantically clamped a hand over Emilia's mouth, ”Shut up, will you!?”
The men around Willy gave him odd looks. ”The hell is she talking about, Willy?”
”Nothing, nothing-” Willy waved their concerns away, before he eyed their order in its way. ”Listen, why don't ya'll sit back down and enjoy the grub, and I'll walk miss sunshine outta here, m’kay?”
”Whatever, Willy.”
So, Willy soon had Emilia by the arm, half dragging, half-leading her out of the establishment. As they reached the door, he leaned in. ”There's no way you know about that. No one, no one, knows about that.”
Indeed, he had been selling off Sugarcrush to pushers, taking the dough, and forging the books to make it all look legit. He'd be a dead man if Vincent ever knew…
As Willy's grasp tightened, Emilia let him think he held the reins, allowing him to savour the fleeting illusion of control. Yet, the moment the tavern door closed behind them, she surrendered to her own volition, effortlessly extricating her arm from his grasp.
Then, she straightened the sleeve of her jacket as if brushing away something insignificant. Like him.
“No one knows about that?” she echoed, her voice carrying just enough incredulity to make him doubt himself.
Then she smiled.
Not a smirk. Not that teasing, razor-edged thing she’d wielded inside the bar. A smile meant to unravel him.
“Oh, Willy.” Emilia took a step forward, her voice slipping into something lower, softer—something that wormed beneath the skin. “You should know better than to think you’re the only man who knows how to lie.”
Her head tilted, her eyes drinking into his every reaction like a connoisseur savouring a fine wine. He was already spiralling. Good.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she continued smoothly. “You’re going to tell me where Delacroix is.”
He gritted his teeth, fear in his eyes. ”You know I can't tell you that.”
“Can’t? Or won’t? Because from here it seems more like the latter than the former.”
Willy pressed a hand to his face, before he growled, ”Fine, fine! He's in the basement of the Arakasa Tower. Not like knowing will do you any good…”
Emilia’s smile deepened, unfurling like a slow revelation, steeped in the quiet satisfaction of inevitability. Because Of course.
So Vincent was keeping Mathieu close. Not some obscure warehouse on the outskirts, not a safe house buried in the ruins of forgotten streets—but right under his nose, in the heart of White Pine.
Emilia filed the information away, her mind already moving several steps ahead, mapping out the logistics. Security. Access points. Surveillance. Who was on Vincent’s payroll, and more importantly, who wasn’t?
But first-
She took another step forward, her presence pressing into the man in front of her without so much as a touch.
“Now, William,” she mused, her tone almost affectionate, “I’m feeling generous, so let me offer you a piece of advice.”
Emilia leaned in, her breath warm against his cheek.
“Disappear.”
Her smile sharpened, a glint of teeth beneath the crimson curve of her lips.
“ Because the next time someone comes looking for you, it won’t be me. I can promise you that.”
”I'mma order us another round of drinks and some grub. I'm famished.” He declared to a round of ‘hurrah’ and ‘you're the man, Willy’.
So he made his way from the booth to the bar, only a little sauced so early in the morning. ”Boss, we'll need three more whiskies and three more rum and cokes. And an order of fries, and an order of nachos.”
The bartender nodded, ”You're got it! And for yourself?”
Willy smiled, shaking his head. ”Almost forgot me, haha. Another one of those scotches.”
”And a scotch, you got it!” The bartender nodded, and gestured for Willy to sit. And that he did, drumming his fingers on the counter as he waited for his order to be complete.
The tavern door creaked open, admitting a rush of cool morning air. Emilia slipped inside without ceremony, her movements a ballet of elegance and discretion. Dressed in a sleek black dress that hugged her figure just enough to suggest refinement without drawing undue attention, she commanded presence without the need for ostentation. The hem of the dress fell just below her knees, its capped sleeves lending an air of understated elegance, while an oxblood leather jacket draped about her shoulders, softening the incisive contours of her form.
Her heels made only the faintest sound against the worn wooden floor as she crossed the room, her gaze flitting over the myriad denizens with the practiced nonchalance of a seasoned observer. If anyone noticed her arrival, they said nothing—she carried herself with the kind of confidence that discouraged idle curiosity. Without a word, she slipped into the seat beside Willy, settling in as though she belonged there.
For a moment, she said nothing, letting the din of conversation and clinking glass swallow the beat of silence between them. Then, as if merely continuing an unfinished conversation, she murmured, “You drink too early.”
Willy chuckled at that, pushing his dark hair back into a tousled mess. ”A couple drinks never hurt anyone, doll.”
He glanced over, looking at her, really looking at her. Then his eyes narrowed in confusion. The red-ish hair, could it be…? ”Wait, do I know you?”
Emilia’s lips quirked into a delicate smirk, one that hovered tantalizingly on the edge of mirth and something far more biting. “Perhaps,” she mused, her tone a silky cadence, “or maybe I simply have one of those unforgettable faces.” With a graceful shift, she crossed her legs, her gaze drifting to the barkeep before returning to Willy.
“But let's not get distracted. We need to have a little chat, you and I, about some… mutual acquaintances.”
Willy stared a little longer before his eyes widened. A hand inched toward the gun holstered within his jacket.
”Emilia Castiglione. If this is what I think it is… I'm afraid I can't help you. So, I suggest you walk back out that door you came in.”
Emilia exhaled a quiet, almost languid sigh, the kind that spoke of mild amusement laced with something colder—an irritation too insignificant to be worth more than a passing thought. Willy’s bravado was nothing new, nothing unexpected, and she treated it as such. Her gaze remained unwavering, undisturbed by the firearm between them, as irrelevant to her as the air between breaths. Instead, she leaned forward, just enough to collapse the distance between them, her voice slipping into something softer than a whisper—yet no less lethal.
“You’re rattled,” she murmured, her words almost pitying, almost indulgent. “Your pulse gave you away the second you set eyes on me. And your hand—” her gaze flickered, the briefest glance at the betraying tremor before settling back onto him with cold, immutable certainty—“it’s shaking, Willy. Hardly the steadiness of a man with nothing to conceal.” Her tone was not mocking, nor did it demand a rebuttal. It simply was, an irrefutable observation laid bare in the dim light between them.
His fingers stiffened over his jacket, but Emilia's demeanour remained unruffled. She tilted her head ever so slightly, her gaze shifting—reading the minute details that told her more than Willy would ever dare admit outright. The minute dilation of his pupils, the taut line etched upon his jaw, the erratic hitch of his breath—all crafted a narrative far more vivid than mere confession could encapsulate. She saw it, dissected it, and laid it bare between them with the ease of a seasoned player dismantling a novice’s game.
“Vincent’s got his claws in you, hasn’t he?” Emilia’s voice dipped, deceptively soft and insidiously coaxing. “It must be maddening. Bowing and scraping for a man who wouldn’t hesitate to carve you open the second you outlive your usefulness.” A pause, her words winding tighter, pressing in. “But the leash is fraying, isn’t it?” Her eyes narrowed and her next words were but a whisper before the guillotine’s drop.
“Does he know yet?”
Willy stared at Emilia for a long moment, before he shook his head. He was indeed rattled, but- ”You're got it all wrong, doll. It's not my boss I'm afraid of. It's you. Speaking of which-”
Willy gave a low whistle, and immediately, the other Thorned Roses at the table looked over in his direction and came over. They crowded Emilia, obviously trying to get into her personal space as they stood over her.
”Willy, you didn't say you had a new pet. Why don't we take her home with us?” One of the men said, giving Emilia a threatening look.
Emilia didn’t so much as blink. If the prowling figures around her unsettled her, she did not deign to show it. Instead, she let a slow smile creep onto her lips—one that hovered in the liminal space between amusement and menace, a silent harbinger of consequences yet to come.
“Gentlemen,” she purred, her voice a languid ribbon of sound, her gaze drifting indolently between them before anchoring itself back on Willy. “I do hope you’re not under the impression that this—” she gestured vaguely at their circling postures, “is a productive use of my time.”
One of the men stepped closer, his leer spreading like a stain across his face. “What else should we do with you, sweetheart? You walked into the wrong bar.”
Emilia’s laughter unfurled, rich and unhurried, a sound that seemed to coil around the room like smoke. It was not the nervous titter of someone outmatched, nor the hollow chuckle of someone feigning confidence. It was genuine, velvety, and utterly disarming, the kind of laugh that made lesser men falter and second-guess their footing.
“William,” she murmured as if speaking to a child who had just made a terrible, terrible mistake. “Did you really think I came here unprepared?”
The moment stretched just long enough for discomfort to take root.
Then, she struck. Not with force, not with the kind of open violence these men expected—but with words sharpened into scalpels.
“I hear tuition has gone up this year. Private schools, always such a hassle.” Emilia exhaled, feigning sympathy. “It must be difficult, keeping up with payments. And I do admire the effort, Willy. After all, what kind of brother would you be if you didn’t try?”
She tapped a finger against her chin as if turning over a particularly amusing thought. Then, with a tilt of her head, she delivered the final incision.
“The only thing is… when you start pulling money from the wrong places, people eventually notice, don’t they?”
Willy frantically clamped a hand over Emilia's mouth, ”Shut up, will you!?”
The men around Willy gave him odd looks. ”The hell is she talking about, Willy?”
”Nothing, nothing-” Willy waved their concerns away, before he eyed their order in its way. ”Listen, why don't ya'll sit back down and enjoy the grub, and I'll walk miss sunshine outta here, m’kay?”
”Whatever, Willy.”
So, Willy soon had Emilia by the arm, half dragging, half-leading her out of the establishment. As they reached the door, he leaned in. ”There's no way you know about that. No one, no one, knows about that.”
Indeed, he had been selling off Sugarcrush to pushers, taking the dough, and forging the books to make it all look legit. He'd be a dead man if Vincent ever knew…
As Willy's grasp tightened, Emilia let him think he held the reins, allowing him to savour the fleeting illusion of control. Yet, the moment the tavern door closed behind them, she surrendered to her own volition, effortlessly extricating her arm from his grasp.
Then, she straightened the sleeve of her jacket as if brushing away something insignificant. Like him.
“No one knows about that?” she echoed, her voice carrying just enough incredulity to make him doubt himself.
Then she smiled.
Not a smirk. Not that teasing, razor-edged thing she’d wielded inside the bar. A smile meant to unravel him.
“Oh, Willy.” Emilia took a step forward, her voice slipping into something lower, softer—something that wormed beneath the skin. “You should know better than to think you’re the only man who knows how to lie.”
Her head tilted, her eyes drinking into his every reaction like a connoisseur savouring a fine wine. He was already spiralling. Good.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she continued smoothly. “You’re going to tell me where Delacroix is.”
He gritted his teeth, fear in his eyes. ”You know I can't tell you that.”
“Can’t? Or won’t? Because from here it seems more like the latter than the former.”
Willy pressed a hand to his face, before he growled, ”Fine, fine! He's in the basement of the Arakasa Tower. Not like knowing will do you any good…”
Emilia’s smile deepened, unfurling like a slow revelation, steeped in the quiet satisfaction of inevitability. Because Of course.
So Vincent was keeping Mathieu close. Not some obscure warehouse on the outskirts, not a safe house buried in the ruins of forgotten streets—but right under his nose, in the heart of White Pine.
Emilia filed the information away, her mind already moving several steps ahead, mapping out the logistics. Security. Access points. Surveillance. Who was on Vincent’s payroll, and more importantly, who wasn’t?
But first-
She took another step forward, her presence pressing into the man in front of her without so much as a touch.
“Now, William,” she mused, her tone almost affectionate, “I’m feeling generous, so let me offer you a piece of advice.”
Emilia leaned in, her breath warm against his cheek.
“Disappear.”
Her smile sharpened, a glint of teeth beneath the crimson curve of her lips.
“ Because the next time someone comes looking for you, it won’t be me. I can promise you that.”
<Snipped quote by The Savant>
The Newport paradox.
Is that Emily (Eve???) on a date with Asterion (Jax???). The shapeshifter lore will go crazy.
Also cliff hanger if Kairo dies or not I'm like < : o rn.
he better fucking not like brrroooo
<Snipped quote by Qia>
I think Emilia would notice right away that something was wrong. 😂 She'd probably be like "He doesn't smell the same..." And the ear piece that Krish or Zarek would be guiding him on, or the odd behaviors that are totally different compared to the last interaction she had with asterion.
All the wrong things even if they look right. Uncanny valley style.
Emilia:
<Snipped quote by Qia>
Bella and Emilia could always visit. 😉 Sadly, they will be talking with Krish. Haha! 🤔 OR Jax disguised as Asterion.
The second one sounds most interesting (though I feel like Emilia would pick up on the difference). :P While Bella would just be like "I don't want to talk to the shrimp."
Aye. The man gotta do what he gotta do.
He will not be doing anything for a hot minute tho so no one will see any of that for a little bit. He's out for at least a couple of GM posts of time progression.
dawww ok
<Snipped quote by Qia>
Too chill. He suffering for it. Haha!
I mean he's the one killing people on live tv so
Asterion is so chill xD
Interactions/Mentions: @c3p-0h Amaya
Elara does not fight it. She does not question it. She simply nods a barely perceptible movement before offering a measured, formal bow—one Amaya has not seen from her in years.
“As you wish, Princess.”
She does not linger, nor does she reach for Amaya. If she hears the tremor in Amaya’s voice, she does not acknowledge it. Her steps are silent as she moves toward the door, every motion controlled.
But at the threshold, she hesitates.
The weight of a decade unfurls within her, pressing into the marrow of her bones, settling like dust in a chamber left untouched, forgotten.
It clings to her skin, to her breath, to the space between them.
Still…she does not turn. She merely bows her head once more, murmuring, “
Rest well.” And then, she is gone.
Elara had walked far enough that the cabin was no longer within reach. Only a distant ember remained, a sliver of firelight trembling through the skeletal branches, too feeble to offer warmth. The snow crunched beneath her steps, but even that fragile sound was swallowed by the vast, unmoving hush of the night. The world stretched wide and empty, a canvas of silence that neither beckoned nor forbade.
She had not thought about where she was going, only that she needed to leave. That she needed space. That she needed—
The thought fractured before it could fully take shape, splintering beneath the unspoken truth that lurked in its wake.
She came to a stop.
The air around her was still, cold and unmoving, as if the world itself had frozen in place, waiting for her to acknowledge what she had done.
What she had lost.
Her hands trembled before she could stop them. Slowly, carefully, she curled them into fists at her sides, feeling the fabric of her gloves strain against her grip. She had spent years mastering restraint, tempering emotion into something refined, something quiet. But now, beneath the vast expanse of the winter sky, there was no audience. No role to uphold.
Just her.
And the hollow ache that had taken root in her chest.
A breath slipped from her lips, pale and weightless against the night.
She turned her gaze over her shoulder, the distant glow of the cabin a steadfast reminder of what she had just relinquished.
Had Amaya moved? Was she still sitting where Elara had left her?
She had not looked back as she left.
She had wanted to. She had wanted to so badly that it had taken every ounce of discipline to keep walking, to ignore the pull of something that had once been hers. But Amaya had made her choice.
And Elara had made hers.
The wind stirred, carrying with it the scent of pine and frost, a whisper against her skin. It was an old kind of cold, the kind that seeped deep into the marrow, settling into the spaces that warmth no longer occupied.
Her chest rose with a slow inhale.
Then, with a quiet certainty, she turned fully away from the cabin.
“Stand back,” she murmured, her voice barely carrying over the night air.
One of the guards beside her shifted slightly at her words, hesitant. “Lady Elara?”
“I’ll call for you when I’m ready.” Her tone remained even, leaving no room for question.
The guards exchanged glances, but after a pause, they obeyed. Their footsteps receded, the faint rustling of their cloaks fading into the distance.
Only when they were gone did Elara move again.
She took another step. Then another.
Then, finally, she let herself break.
The first tear was silent.
It slipped free, warm against the cold of her skin, and disappeared into the snow below.
Then another.
And another.
She closed her eyes.
Her breath hitched, and for a brief, aching moment, she almost brought her hands up to stifle the sound. To bury it, to swallow it whole.
But there was no one to hear her now.
A slow, uneven exhalation escaped, dispersing into the ether without purpose.
The snow beneath her boots was soft, pristine, barely touched except for the indentations where she stood. It reminded her of how easily things could be erased, how quickly footsteps could be covered by the next snowfall, how silence could consume anything if one let it.
Had Amaya already begun to forget the warmth between them?
The thought cut deep, twisting in her chest like a merciless serration.
Lifting her gaze to the infinite expanse before her, she beheld the night—a vast, indifferent canvas, speckled with stars that glimmered without concern. The moon, a silent observer of her despair, offered no solace, and Elara's shoulders slumped, her form curling inward as if to envelop the weight of her sorrow.
The wind picked up again, sweeping past her in a quiet caress, as if the world itself sought to bear some of the weight for her.
It was not enough.
But it would have to be.
“As you wish, Princess.”
She does not linger, nor does she reach for Amaya. If she hears the tremor in Amaya’s voice, she does not acknowledge it. Her steps are silent as she moves toward the door, every motion controlled.
But at the threshold, she hesitates.
The weight of a decade unfurls within her, pressing into the marrow of her bones, settling like dust in a chamber left untouched, forgotten.
It clings to her skin, to her breath, to the space between them.
Still…she does not turn. She merely bows her head once more, murmuring, “
Rest well.” And then, she is gone.
Elara had walked far enough that the cabin was no longer within reach. Only a distant ember remained, a sliver of firelight trembling through the skeletal branches, too feeble to offer warmth. The snow crunched beneath her steps, but even that fragile sound was swallowed by the vast, unmoving hush of the night. The world stretched wide and empty, a canvas of silence that neither beckoned nor forbade.
She had not thought about where she was going, only that she needed to leave. That she needed space. That she needed—
The thought fractured before it could fully take shape, splintering beneath the unspoken truth that lurked in its wake.
She came to a stop.
The air around her was still, cold and unmoving, as if the world itself had frozen in place, waiting for her to acknowledge what she had done.
What she had lost.
Her hands trembled before she could stop them. Slowly, carefully, she curled them into fists at her sides, feeling the fabric of her gloves strain against her grip. She had spent years mastering restraint, tempering emotion into something refined, something quiet. But now, beneath the vast expanse of the winter sky, there was no audience. No role to uphold.
Just her.
And the hollow ache that had taken root in her chest.
A breath slipped from her lips, pale and weightless against the night.
She turned her gaze over her shoulder, the distant glow of the cabin a steadfast reminder of what she had just relinquished.
Had Amaya moved? Was she still sitting where Elara had left her?
She had not looked back as she left.
She had wanted to. She had wanted to so badly that it had taken every ounce of discipline to keep walking, to ignore the pull of something that had once been hers. But Amaya had made her choice.
And Elara had made hers.
The wind stirred, carrying with it the scent of pine and frost, a whisper against her skin. It was an old kind of cold, the kind that seeped deep into the marrow, settling into the spaces that warmth no longer occupied.
Her chest rose with a slow inhale.
Then, with a quiet certainty, she turned fully away from the cabin.
“Stand back,” she murmured, her voice barely carrying over the night air.
One of the guards beside her shifted slightly at her words, hesitant. “Lady Elara?”
“I’ll call for you when I’m ready.” Her tone remained even, leaving no room for question.
The guards exchanged glances, but after a pause, they obeyed. Their footsteps receded, the faint rustling of their cloaks fading into the distance.
Only when they were gone did Elara move again.
She took another step. Then another.
Then, finally, she let herself break.
The first tear was silent.
It slipped free, warm against the cold of her skin, and disappeared into the snow below.
Then another.
And another.
She closed her eyes.
Her breath hitched, and for a brief, aching moment, she almost brought her hands up to stifle the sound. To bury it, to swallow it whole.
But there was no one to hear her now.
A slow, uneven exhalation escaped, dispersing into the ether without purpose.
The snow beneath her boots was soft, pristine, barely touched except for the indentations where she stood. It reminded her of how easily things could be erased, how quickly footsteps could be covered by the next snowfall, how silence could consume anything if one let it.
Had Amaya already begun to forget the warmth between them?
The thought cut deep, twisting in her chest like a merciless serration.
Lifting her gaze to the infinite expanse before her, she beheld the night—a vast, indifferent canvas, speckled with stars that glimmered without concern. The moon, a silent observer of her despair, offered no solace, and Elara's shoulders slumped, her form curling inward as if to envelop the weight of her sorrow.
The wind picked up again, sweeping past her in a quiet caress, as if the world itself sought to bear some of the weight for her.
It was not enough.
But it would have to be.
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