>>6116785Now that she’s gone — and she knows she is gone, her senses have never betrayed her once since she has made her pact — she can finally unwind, and she relaxes her shoulders, drawing a sigh.
She takes a moment to study the face of her next mark. This is not going to be an easy job… but it’s a chance to further hone her abilities. The powerful additions to her soul, courtesy of her Patron. She grins at the beautiful new form she gave the drinking glass.
“I’m going to miss this…” she whispers to herself, running her dainty fingers over the shiny surface.
She’s been thinking about all this… for everything she has gained so far, the awareness she’s approaching her contract’s expiration date has been growing so far, like an oily patina over everything she can’t seem to ignore. Her Patron will let her live the rest of her days in peace, patiently waiting for the time to collect her soul, but there’s something inside Argia that’s been thinking about changing the terms of her contract.
She pushes her tongue against her lower lip. It’s a risky move. This is no ordinary partner, no mortal endorser. But Argia has learned much. Perhaps… perhaps.
She finishes her drink, allowing the liquor’s pleasant buzz to settle inside her. Someone has started playing a string instrument, their fingers plucking a soft melody. Whoever it is, they are good… and whatever happens, her future is going to be richer than she can even imagine.
Chuckling, she stands up. Time to check on that girl at the entrance. Let’s see how good she is at taking clothes off her back.
The salon is graveyard-silent.
Each one of its regulars fuzzy, greyed-out, as if she’s looking at them through a foggy window. Her heart skips a beat. She turns, scanning the outside, the corridors — everyone stands stone-still, caught mid-step, turned into a motionless statue. Even the light shudders and shivers, as if pinched in the steely pedipalps of a silvery spider, eight-legged and eight-eyed.
All-seeing, all-grasping.
“It’s a beautiful drawing,” a woman’s voice says from behind her. Argia jolts, turning to regard a girl who could be her age or even younger, a soft smile spread over her gorgeous features. She has not changed since the first time she appeared in Argia’s life, holding out a pale hand, tipped by black nails. Her long white hair flow as if following a hidden wind, or as if she were submerged in water. Her crimson eyes pierce Argia’s ice blue’s ones, and between her black, curved horns pulsates a constellation of minuscule stars, forming a throbbing flower of five petals. “Sit down, Argia,” the Stilladìa commands.
Gulping, Argia obeys. She used to be in control on that seat, just minutes ago, looking at the Asterite.
And now her Patron is here — why — no, she knows why.
To do the last thing you are supposed to in a place like Zena — have a conversation with an old friend.
[cont.]
