>>6169202“Nature’s blessings aside—” she grumbles, a faint dark sheen covering her alabaster cheeks, “I do wonder what makes you so special in her eyes. What makes Ansàrra tread upon broken ground…” she lets her words linger, peeking into the girl’s soul.
<span class="mu-i">A family, shattered.
A mission, given.
A meaning, gifted.</span>
Upon the last one, the Stilladìa takes in a long breath. An old habit, one of the few she still retains, even if her body hasn’t needed to breathe air in centuries.
“You know little. And yet— you treasure that little. You hold onto it.” The Stilladìa picks up one of her silver strands, puts it behind her ear, watching how her grey locks, a shade so out of place on her youthful features, catch the light of the sun. “You hold onto it so hard your hands bleed.” A chuckle. “I feel like you would be one to honour your word. A shame you have already given yourself to Ansàrra, a shame your soul is worth so little. I could have made you great.”
She leans back, with more doubts and questions than before.
The girl is worth little more than the blood in her veins.
Which makes her worry even more.
Why would Ansàrra coil her golden threads around her?
This Argia Candente was present when the Sisters last tried to incarnate. Now she has been gifted one of Carnaval’s feathers and she is here at <span class="mu-i">that</span> Temple.
Why?
Why retread old ground, give all these responsibilities to one so resembling the late Bragia Lacresta?
Just as a taunt?
The Stilladìa rubs her fingers together, frustrated. It’s not the first time that, no matter how hard she tries, she cannot peer through the veil cast by Ansàrra’s onyx hands. There is something amiss. A piece of the puzzle, which—
One of the stars floating between her horns pulsates an angry red.
“Oh, why now?” She hisses, holding out her hand to let the mote of light land in her pale palm, staining it vermillion. It keeps casting a needy crimson light. The Stilladìa sighs, closes her fist and the star goes back to keep company to the others.
Contract terms. If she were the first one to break them, how could she hope for others to uphold it?
“Consider me charmed, Argia Candente. May our next encounter be more fruitful,” she says, fading into the air, as she releases her grip onto reality and time flows back into motion.
[cont.]
