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6/21/2025, 6:28:48 PM
>>6262670
“So… Argia Candente. You did what you wanted. You hit me. You are the first Knight of Ansàrra to hurt me since my good friend Fra’ Catena, all that time ago. And now…” she leans forward, dangling the cameo before your eyes. She lets it fall.
It hits the floor before your eyes, facing up.
The carved profile of the Saint looks at you.
“What else is there for you, I wonder?” She hisses. Her voice wraps around you. It’s the same kind, hopeful, voice you heard in your visions. You would wish for it to have been changed, to sound distorted, gravely. But it is the same. “Ansàrra has abandoned you. Like she abandoned me. An old tale, retold!” A pause as she shakes her head. “I never foretell, unless there is some payment involved, but I like your spirit, Argia. Allow me to do so for free.”
Her hand reaches for a lock of your hair. She coils it around her finger, her smile turning sad, almost pitiful. You close your eyes.
You do not want to look at those burning red embers.
“You live only a few more days. You die alone. Unmourned. And unloved.”
You squeeze your eyes tight. If you could, you would cover your ears.
Instead, her voice pours in again. Further.Deeper.
Like Carnaval’s blood, tinging your hopes black, and snapping apart all of the ropes that hold your spirit together.
“Or, such would be the design the golden spider has wrapped around you, Argia Candente,” she adds. “Yet, the night keeps turning. The Worm is out there. And your other friend, right? The Strander.”
You shudder, opening your eyes.
Her grin has faded, and the Stilladìa’s face is now serious. The burnt remains of her clothes hung off her body, the grey stripes from your wound still covering her.
“The Seven will try to do what they could not, back when they used Uxoria for it. Back when they used me..” A shade of real sorrow flutters over her features, the crimson circles of her irises darkening to an ember. When she looks at you again, she seems deadly serious. “You have clearly displayed your feelings towards me: carried them over your blade. I bear you no ill will over them. Hate me, it changes naught. You are dead last in a long queue.” She lets go of your hair, and slowly, with a kindness that makes your stomach churn — but you are too weak to do anything about it — she pulls you up, making you sit against the wall, chest heaving, crying.
But restored to dignity.
As much as you could have.
“So… Argia Candente. You did what you wanted. You hit me. You are the first Knight of Ansàrra to hurt me since my good friend Fra’ Catena, all that time ago. And now…” she leans forward, dangling the cameo before your eyes. She lets it fall.
It hits the floor before your eyes, facing up.
The carved profile of the Saint looks at you.
“What else is there for you, I wonder?” She hisses. Her voice wraps around you. It’s the same kind, hopeful, voice you heard in your visions. You would wish for it to have been changed, to sound distorted, gravely. But it is the same. “Ansàrra has abandoned you. Like she abandoned me. An old tale, retold!” A pause as she shakes her head. “I never foretell, unless there is some payment involved, but I like your spirit, Argia. Allow me to do so for free.”
Her hand reaches for a lock of your hair. She coils it around her finger, her smile turning sad, almost pitiful. You close your eyes.
You do not want to look at those burning red embers.
“You live only a few more days. You die alone. Unmourned. And unloved.”
You squeeze your eyes tight. If you could, you would cover your ears.
Instead, her voice pours in again. Further.Deeper.
Like Carnaval’s blood, tinging your hopes black, and snapping apart all of the ropes that hold your spirit together.
“Or, such would be the design the golden spider has wrapped around you, Argia Candente,” she adds. “Yet, the night keeps turning. The Worm is out there. And your other friend, right? The Strander.”
You shudder, opening your eyes.
Her grin has faded, and the Stilladìa’s face is now serious. The burnt remains of her clothes hung off her body, the grey stripes from your wound still covering her.
“The Seven will try to do what they could not, back when they used Uxoria for it. Back when they used me..” A shade of real sorrow flutters over her features, the crimson circles of her irises darkening to an ember. When she looks at you again, she seems deadly serious. “You have clearly displayed your feelings towards me: carried them over your blade. I bear you no ill will over them. Hate me, it changes naught. You are dead last in a long queue.” She lets go of your hair, and slowly, with a kindness that makes your stomach churn — but you are too weak to do anything about it — she pulls you up, making you sit against the wall, chest heaving, crying.
But restored to dignity.
As much as you could have.
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