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myparadisemyblog · 6 months

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Mi fascinación por tener sexo a cambio de dinero es vieja , mucho. Primero se estableció en mi mente como una fantasía medio abstracta que después de conocer por redes sociales a Valerie , una prostituta de Barcelona, se reafirmó, por alguna extraña razón en mi mente lo empecé a ver como un privilegio. Si hay alguien dispuesto a pagar significa que el producto promete valer la pena, ¿no?, pero no, el producto no soy yo, es mi tiempo y atención.

Toda esta fantasía fue reafirmada cuando empecé a tener sexo por aprobación , por no sentirme sola; los que me rodeaban empezaron a aprovechar esto lo cual me hacía sentir cada vez más utilizada y poco después me di cuenta que el dinero saneaba eso, además de ser una herramienta que ponía las cosas claras en mis interacciones con los hombres.

Sorprendente , ¿no? Así ambos teníamos un trato cordial con el otro , yo no experimentaba transferencia de emociones hacia el hombre en cuestión y extrañamente recibía un mejor trato que cuando salía a una date “normal” . Así es, nada nuevo, pero puedo confirmar que la gente por lo general valora más aquello por lo que paga.

Recientemente leí un libro feminista en donde se compara la prostitución con el matrimonio como la misma cosa, solo que una es remunerada y la otra no ,una es en sí misma el modelo que constituye la base de la sociedad y la otra es terriblemente mal vista . ¿Por qué? Porque en la prostitución existe la posibilidad de que la mujer tome el control de su propia vida, haga lo que le dé la gana con su cuerpo y su dinero ganado por si misma.

Recuerdo la primera vez que alguien me pagó por acostarme con él, si, tuve miedo y sí, me puse en riesgo una vez más, el punto es que ya me había puesto en riesgo numerosas veces antes y por nada a cambio. Y adivina ¿qué? No pasó nada malo, al contrario, el tipo en cuestión me hizo sentir valiosa y no fue solamente porque me pagara.

Por otro lado, cuando renuncias o te resignas de algún modo a no sentirte amada o bien porque no sabes recibir amor sano o porque solo te obsesionas por querer que te quieran quienes no tienen la intención de hacerlo; llenar tu cuenta de banco se convierte en un premio de consolación, así es para las mujeres, lamento tanto reconocerlo, para las mujeres el premio supremo en la vida es encontrar el amor, sé que para los hombres todo funciona diferente, y no , no es nuestra culpa que así sea , así nos enseñaron.

En fin, aún existen hombres dispuestos a pagar por pasar tiempo conmigo, si, lo dije bien, no me quieren pagar solo por coger y ya. Los que quisieron cogerme y ya fueron otros tipos que me crucé por la vida y que no creían que ni un café me merecía, me cogieron en sitios lamentables como un puto baño y después se olvidaron de las mínimas atenciones que habían tenido hacía mí. Pasar tiempo conmigo implica hablar, conocernos, interesarnos el uno por el otro, escuchar mutuamente, reír si descubrimos que tenemos un humor compatible y si, la intimidad sexual.

La última cita pagada que tuve fue con M, hace mucho que no lo hacía y eso es porque no es algo que haga con regularidad, no me dedico a esto, lo hago esporádicamente por una combinación de motivos: de repente ansiedad por la velocidad con la que desciende la cifra en mi cuenta de banco , en ocasiones por aburrimiento o por necesidad de validación , es como un pequeño mantenimiento a mi autoestima.

Hice match con M en tinder, si quieres un tip resulta más fácil concretar este tipo de citas en tinder , la gente es mucho más directa, pervertida y abierta y las reglas de la app más flojas; en bumble hay más gente que parece que aún se cree eso de buscar el amor en apps de ligue o bien, que buscan coger pero gratis.

En fin M es economista, ni siquiera recuerdo que ponía en su presentación y la verdad es que tampoco sé cómo llegamos al acuerdo de que cada que nos viéramos hiciéramos lo que hiciéramos él me daría determinada cantidad. Solo recuerdo que él me lo propuso. Tardamos en vernos debido a la imposibilidad de coordinar nuestros tiempos. Mientras conversábamos de vez en cuando por WhatsApp

Voy a ser sincera y es que un día me puso nerviosa ver como mis ahorros descendían y yo no tenía ingresos en ese momento, tampoco es que no tuviera para cubrir mis necesidades pero aun así no me gusta quedarme sin nada, no es algo a lo que este acostumbrada. Además ya tenía todo mi tiempo libre para disponer de él como quisiera.

Con la posibilidad en mente de que me mandara muy lejos , pues yo ya lo había dejado en visto antes decidí escribirle mientras hacía el súper con mi madre.

“Me perdonas?” Seguido de caritas tristes/tiernas

Respondió casi de inmediato.

“ ¿Por qué?, ¿Cómo estás?”

“Por no responderte”

“No te preocupes. ¿Ya vamos a poder vernos?”

“Justo para eso te escribía, ya tengo más tiempo libre”

Y así logramos concretar la cita dos días después. Solo me indicó que quería que llevara vestido y que fuera depilada. Condiciones sencillas que acepté sin ningún problema. Le pregunté si quería que desayunáramos algo antes o íbamos directo, me respondió que desayunáramos antes que no era tan frío. De cualquier modo yo no hubiera pensado eso.

Quedamos en un centro comercial. Llevé un vestido blanco ceñido a mi figura y corto , por debajo un conjunto de lencería que me hacía cuerpo de ángel de VS según mi ex. Llegué unos 20 minutos después de la hora acordada y le llamé para encontrarnos.

Fuimos a un restaurante de desayunos en donde me pedí unos huevos pochados y un café, él una crepa con carnes frías varias.

El coqueteo se desarrolló excelente, me gusta hacer sentir especiales a los hombres con los que comparto mi tiempo, me gusta hacerles saber que tienen toda mi atención, que si estoy con ellos el mundo alrededor se desaparece, ese es mi superpoder, no cuando abro las piernas.

Mientras traen el desayuno conversamos, me pregunta a cerca de mí , lo que hago, lo que estudie y por qué y yo le hago las mismas preguntas a él , también el tópico básico de cada que salgo con alguien de una app: si lleva mucho en la app y si ha salido con otras personas a lo cual me responde que no , nunca se ha concretado ninguna cita con nadie.

-Por qué me volviste a escribir y quisiste salir conmigo?- me pregunta

Hmmm… sonrió. – Porque en este momento tengo más tiempo libre; cuando estoy centrada en el trabajo o proyectos personales no suelo salir con nadie, priorizo lo demás antes que conocer personas. -

Asiente coincidimos en el punto de que lo mejor es priorizar proyectos que nos llevan al desarrollo personal, las personas van y vienen. Tenemos varios puntos en común.

Él dice que no ha salido con nadie porque es desconfiado y se fija mucho en los detalles. Eso ya podía suponerlo, no deja de mirarme, se fija en cada uno de mis gestos ademanes. Me presta mucha atención y eso me gusta.

-¿Qué haces cuando no estas trabajando? – me pregunta

-Gym, leer o salir con amigos, aunque no tengo tantos-

-Por qué? -

-Me cuesta contarle mis cosas a quien sea-

-Me da la impresión de que eres muy selectiva-

Asiento y sonrío.

En resumen, él es un tipo inteligente, educado al que le gusta trabajar mucho, es caballeroso también; y bueno, parece que tiene más vida social a sus 37 que yo a mis 28. Físicamente es delgadísimo, un poco más alto que yo , rasgos afilados y ojos pequeños que se agrandan un poco por las gafas rectangulares.

Al terminar pide la cuenta y se pone un poco serio.

-Antes de irnos quiero hacerte una pregunta , aunque creo que ya sé la respuesta- me dice

Su seriedad me pone ligeramente nerviosa. Asiento invitándole a hablar.

-¿Estas segura de que quieres hacer lo que vamos a hacer?... No tienes que hacerlo si no estás cómoda.

-¿Parece que no estoy cómoda o que no quiero?-

-No, definitivamente no, pero prefiero que tú me lo digas-

Su pregunta me parece extraña. <<Le importa lo que yo sienta o quiera?>>. Al parecer sí. Pero esto no es nada inusual para mí, me siento completamente dispuesta, quizá hasta mojada.

Suspiro. – Si, estoy muy segura. - le digo mirándolo.

-Eso pensé.-

Caminamos hacia el estacionamiento , me abre la puerta y en cuanto entra me pregunta la música que me gusta y me entrega su celular para que yo ponga lo que quiera.

Mientras conduce hacia un hotel hablamos sobre conciertos.

Al llegar y entrar a la habitación, después de ponernos cómodos me siento en el tocador y lo invito con mis brazos a acercarse, cuando está cerca le rodeo la cintura con mis piernas y lo aprieto hacía mí. Él me empieza recorrer el torso con sus manos mientras nos besamos. Huele bien y su aliento me resulta agradable. Una de sus manos se mete entre mis piernas, acaricia mis muslos y llega hasta el puente de la tanga , la corre hacia un lado , yo me empujo más hacia sus dedos hasta que los mete entre mis labios, los desliza con facilidad hasta que ocupan mi vagina. Me hace gemir y hace que quiera más, me froto contra sus dedos y presiono aún más adentro. Empiezo a desabotonarle la camisa. Me bajo del tocador y me pongo de espaldas a él , levanto los brazos para que me saque el vestido, y lo hace.

-Ese vestido esconde lo mejor de ti- Me dice mientras abraza mi cuerpo en lencería, siente mi piel, pone sus manos en mi cintura y la aprieta, después las sube hasta el broche del bra para soltarlo, a penas lo suelta pego mis tetas a su pecho y se las restriego, mis pezones se endurecen por efecto de la fricción y la excitación. Me separo de él, me inclino sobre la cama invitándole a penetrarme, mientras me froto los labios comprobando que están lubricados.

Después de desnudarse siento su verga dando golpecitos a mis nalgas, separo más las piernas y se hunde en mi vagina; su miembro es afilado, delgado y largo, esta extremadamente firme y tiene una curvatura hacía la derecha muy marcada. Aprieto los músculos de la pelvis para que todo se sienta mucho más ajustado y me dedico a gemir mientras me embiste. Asombrosamente mi deseo empieza a ir hacia arriba, empiezo a buscar sentirme más cerca de su cuerpo, froto mi piel contra la suya, busco que nuestros labios se unan y cuando lo hacen le lamo los labios antes de recibir sus labios con la boca entreabierta.

Cambiamos de posiciones hasta que encontramos la posición perfecta: cuchareándonos mientras me está penetrando , de este modo su curvatura pega contra mi punto G. Además esa posición deja libre sus dos manos, con una me jala por la cintura para metérmela más profundo, y con a otra aprieta mis pechos, incrementando mi humedad. Después de un rato ha sido tanto el ajetreo que estamos sudando, entonces paramos para descansar, mientras me acaricia, me toca los pezones, yo dirijo sus manos para que toque todo el torso, no quiero que deje de tocarme ni dejar de sentir su piel, aún estoy muy excitada , además su piel es suave y desprende un olor exquisito que seguro ya se me ha quedado pegado. Mientras me estoy masturbando , tomo una de sus manos y la llevo hacia mi vulva.

-Méteme los dedos- le pido gimiendo

Se ríe y aparta su mano de mi pubis.

-Por qué quieres que te meta los dedos?-

-Porque siento rico. Por favor, méteme los dedos-

-No te quiero meter los dedos- me dice mientras se acomoda y sin previo aviso me mete su verga hasta el fondo.

-Vale…- le digo complacida en un suspiro. –Es que creí que aún no estabas listo para continuar, pero así está mejor-

Me sujeto de las sabanas para empujarme contra su cuerpo, solo busco sentirlo más adentro.

-Dónde quieres que termine? -

-Sobre mis nalgas- le respondo

-No quieres sentirme adentro? -

Asiento con la cabeza y entonces se viene adentro de mí. Siento como su cuerpo se tensa y yo tenso el mis voluntariamente para cerrarme más alrededor de su pene. Gime. Y su cuerpo se relaja junto a mi piel.

Tras salir del éxtasis conversamos un rato más, nos vestimos, me cuenta que por la tarde tiene una comida de trabajo y bajamos hasta su auto para salir de ahí. Y en el auto me pregunta donde quiero que me deje, le pido que me deje en una plaza comercial, lo que siempre hago por seguridad.

Antes de arrancar me paga , le agradezco y quedamos en volver a vernos.

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starrygender · 11 months

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Hello, recent moot here !!

I saw that y’all have requests currently open?

Would I be able to request masc/neutral lovergender/Lovecore gender pronouns?

Preferably non-nounself one’s since I can’t find non-nounself ones—and for some odd reason I can never feel affirmed by nounself pronouns :u

Thank you in advance, and no worries if you’re not able to find/coin any !! /gen

- 🧸 / 💌

oh hi! yes, requests are almost always open! ^^ now, finding neopronouns with a theme that arent nounself can be hard, but my thinking is that perhaps we take related nouns and then modify them into their own little things. they hold the essence, but are not the words anymore. i will also be using words or sounds that i associate with lovecore that may not really be lovecore, if theyre anything in the first place, ha! maybe using different endings instead of "self" might be helpful. "sen" or "som"... something like that! i could make a list of endings in a different post, even. list is below the cut. :]

lo/lov/lovs/lovs/lov(sen/som/gem/self/etc)

loi/lim/loivs/loivs/lim(sen/som/gen/self/etc)

a/am/amo/amo/amora(sen/som/gem/self/etc)

amo/ami/amir/amour/amoura(sen/som/gen/self/etc)

cri/cris/crim/crims/crim(sen/som/gem/self/etc) (sounds like crimson!!)

val/valer/valeri/valerica/valerica(sen/som/gem/self/etc))

ca/cae/caes/caes/cae(sen/som/gem/self/etc)

ha/han/hans/hans/han(sen/som/gem/self/etc) (sounds like handsome!!)

be/ber/beri/beris/beri(sen/som/gem/self/etc)

be/bem/beri/beri/bem(sen/som/gen/self/etc)

che/cher/cheri/cheri(sen/som/gen/self/etc) chei/chem/chers/chers/cheri(sen/som/gen/self/etc)

kay/kam/kays/kays/kay(sen/som/gem/self/etc)

cae/caem/caek/caeks/caek(sen/som/gem/self/etc)

da/daw/daws/daws/daw(sen/som/gem/self/etc)

ru/ruti/rutis/rutis/ruti(sen/som/gem/self/etc)

ru/rub/rubi/rubis/rubi(sen/som/gem/self/etc)

sh/shy/shyn/shyne/shyne(sen/som/gen/self/etc)

do/dou/doun/douna/douna(sen/som/gen/self/etc)

hea/heam/hear/heart/hea(sen/som/gen/self/etc)

ho/hon/hun/hons/huns/hon(sen/som/gen/self/etc)

hoi/hom/hons/hons/hon(sen/som/gen/self/etc) hoi/hum/hums/hums/hum(sen/som/gen/self/etc)

bun/bon/buns/bons/bun(sen/som/gen/self/etc)

ke/kes/ker/kers/ker(sen/som/gen/self/etc)

li/lil/lils/lilas/lilek(sen/som/gen/self/etc)

aaaand thats all i can come up with at the moment! i hope you like them :]

#not genda #pronouns #neos #neopronouns #lovecore #lovegender #lovecore gender #lovecore neopronouns #mogai #liom

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books-of-the-great-leviathan · 1 year

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Chapter 26- Ziva

***

She drew the skiff onto the beach and left it at tidemark. The sandbar spread before her, a stretch of blinding white sand and hissing surf. Bellana's Arm was blue as Buyani porcelain, an expanse of choppy waves and whitecaps, the sky cloudless. Lapide was visible in the distance, hazy green and blinding white, sea-stacks rising from the waves. This sand was neutral and sacred to no one. Ritual ground.

She remembered her last ritual, the driving rain, the standing stones, the prisoner's blood turning the pool of rainwater red.

You don't have to do this, Lapin, Isabella Valere had urged at Valeris's docks. Ziva had snorted and shouldered her aside. Valere stayed behind, her gaze hard on Ziva's back, but Ziva had put her from her mind as she boarded the ship, as Valeris fell away in their wake, as Ziva retreated belowdecks to ready herself and her weapons. She might be a queen, might be a descendant of witches and warlords alike, but she didn't understand a damn thing about this.

If Ziva was to die today, this was a fair place to do it.

Past the far end of the sandbar loomed the sleek Lapidaean warship that had brought her here, silhouetted black against the vivid blue water. Closer, no more than twenty yards off, a single rowboat cut toward shore.

Ziva drew a breath and reached for the sword sheathed at her hip, for her plain knife. Her fingers curled around its hilt. Sweat slicked her palms. Her pulse hammered inside her.

The dinghy reached the surf, and a single lean silhouette vaulted over the side, into the shallows. He approached, ragged mantle fluttering behind him as he climbed onto the sand. He stood, watching her, and Ziva felt his gaze like a physical weight.

Her throat tightened. She forced herself to stand her ground, to not turn and run.

Hot wind skated across the sandbar as she and Severin Azare faced one another. Ziva's hand shook on her sword hilt.

"Lapin," Azare called at last.

"Captain."

"You know as well as I do how this works." He hadn't reached for his weapons yet, hadn't moved from the surf's edge. "We can fight, or you can stand down. It's your choice to make."

"I have no choice. You called bata razir. It's this or-"

"-Dishonor? Disgrace?"

"I'm not the only honorless one here," Ziva snarled.

"Then we're on equal ground with the gods, Lapin." He lowered his head. "There's no need for this. You can still walk away."

"About to forgive me, sir?" Ziva said, cutting him off. Her heart pulsed harder; her hands shook. Traitor hands, traitor heart. "I'd rather get to fighting."

"I'm not going to give you another chance."

"I don't want another chance." Ziva flung off her long coat, casting it aside. "I'm ready. I've always been ready."

He let out his breath. "Then you'd best be quick."

Ziva drew steel. Her blade sprang into the sunlight, a flash of blinding silver, and she lunged. Sand hissed under her feet; Azare didn't move as she sprinted for him, sword raised to strike.

Azare twisted aside. Ziva slashed, spinning with him, into the surf. It sucked at her ankles, a spray of warm seawater soaking her to mid-calf. Azare's blow came down hard; blades rang, echoing long across the water. He wasn't holding back. Another strike, and Ziva danced back, out of the water and whirling past his third blow.

He advanced. Ziva's heart gave a pang. His stare was black, blank as a shark's seeking blood. He didn't strike again.

"Scared, Azare?" Ziva cried. "Missed the taste of my knife?"

"Enough." His strike came, steel weeping its song as it parted the air. Ziva jerked aside; the sword got her anyway, a glancing gash across her cheekbone. Blood spattered the white sand. The pain shocked through her, enough to get her out of the way of the next blow, and the next. She barely deflected the last, and felt the warping clang as much as heard it, Azare's blade screeching off hers and echoing across the water. The sound bit into her back teeth.

Saints, Ziva thought. He means to kill me.

Mad to think otherwise. That's what they'd come here to do. One of them wouldn't leave this sandbar alive. It shook her anyway, like a kick to the guts. He'd survived deep magic and trials and his own death, and still he'd come back to her.

Tears twisted a knot in her throat. Her anguish became anger, transmuting to familiar black rage. This was who she was. This was who she'd always been.

She pressed her attack with a scream. Their blades didn't dance anymore, didn't flicker and dart so much as heave and grind. Azare rained his attack down on her, hammer blows so strong Ziva was surprised her sword didn't snap. She kept him off, kept him back, smacked away his swordpoint, graceless and inelegant.

An opening appeared: a clean strike to his back. Ziva drew her plain knife and brought it down, point aimed for a kidney.

Azare grabbed her arm and twisted it out of the way, deflecting her strike. Her knifepoint trembled, bright as a star.

"Again?" Azare said. "Really?"

She dropped her knife and smashed her elbow hard into his sternum. Azare stumbled back, skidding through the loose sand. Seabirds swirled over the sun. Ziva felt sweat slick the back of her neck. It burned in her eyes, and she blinked it away.

Azare stood, hand pressed to his sternum, sword up. He didn't attack.

"You done?" Ziva goaded. "Want to die again, Severin, die right this time?" She swished her sword through the air, advancing. "Should have fought like this a long time ago. Maybe I should have done the job years back, just to catch the look on Margaux's face."

He flinched. She grinned. "Oh, yeah, I'd like to see that. I'd like to hear her scream when she saw her lover stuck like a sow. Treasonous bitch. She got what she deserved. I only regret she's dead so I can't put her down myself."

"That's enough."

Tears slid down her face, salt stinging her lips. "Tell me, did you see her face when you kissed me? You did, didn't you? She might be dead, but you'll never be free of her, never."

"Ziva," Azare said, his voice tight.

"What?" Ziva's voice shook, but she pressed on. "Too painful? Maybe you should have thought of that while you were screwing her like she was your whore-"

Azare rushed her. This time, the onslaught was ferocious. Each clang drove spikes through Ziva's head, vibrating in her skull. She screamed, lashing out, all her training forgotten. She was back in Ibaris, using sticks and knives, not spellforged steel. She was standing by the well, she was standing by the courtyard, black blood spattering her mother's paintings. She was standing in the dust and the flies, and she was buried there too.

A raw scream burst from her, scraping over her throat. She tasted blood. Azare didn't stop. Ziva could barely deflect his strikes. One overbalanced her and she went down, Azare's knee in her guts. She crashed to her back in the sand. It billowed around them.

"Come on, Azare!" Ziva roared. "Come on! Finish the damn job. Kill me. Kill me!"

The next blow struck her sword and tore it from her grip. It spun away, embedding itself deep into the sand. Ziva's eyes sprang wide. The sun struck Azare's sword and turned it white. His black eyes were alight with killing cold as he drew the sword back, point angled to impale itself in Ziva's heart.

The blade fell.

Ziva closed her eyes.

No pain ever came. Her heartbeat pulsed on, overloud in her ears. She felt sweat on her palms, down the back of her neck, sticking her shirt to her body. Her cheek ached. Above, seabirds called and circled. The sand was fine and powdery in her hair.

She opened her eyes. Azare stood over her, his sword stuck point-first into the sand at her shoulder. His hand was outstretched, as if to help her up.

"No," Ziva murmured.

"Get up, Lapin."

"Hells with you, Azare."

He didn't lower his hand. "Shall I leave you here, then, to the mercy of the gulls?"

"Finish it."

"No."

Ziva pounded her fist into the sand. "Damn you, Severin, finish it now."

"Enough, Ziva," Azare said quietly. "Get up."

She paused, then grabbed his hand. He hauled her to her feet. Ziva staggered a little; her head swam, aching. He steadied her, still gripping her wrist.

"That's it," he murmured.

She wrenched from his grip and curled away from him, dropping to her knees in the sand. "Coward," she spat. "You didn't come here for this. You came back for Alois. Estara's savior." Her voice was bitter, mocking. "A bastard, a broken child-"

"He's not Estara's savior, Lapin," Azare said.

Ziva blinked and looked up. "You still have hope for Estara?"

"There has to be hope for Estara."

"Does there?" Ziva asked. "It's poisoned so many for so long. Not just in this war. Famines, and plagues. Centuries of dust. A broken nation training its people to hate as hard as it has, to be as brutal as it has been."

She dropped her head. "Sometimes I think it's broken me."

"You aren't broken, Lapin."

"Aren't I? I was so sure," she said, driving her fist into the sand. "Of my love, of my loyalty. For Estara, for Estara, always for Estara. But there was a Lapidaean, one of the Sparrows. He came for Isabella Valere. I helped him. I fought with him, bled with him. And I watched him die."

She pressed her hand to her face. "For his queen, for his country, for Saints-know-all. I watched dead men drive their knives into him, and for what? For Lapide, for Estara, does it matter? He's dead, and I'm left watching everything I loved tear itself apart."

Her eyes were hot with tears. "I'm left watching children burn in their cities. I'm always left with the dead."

"You're alive. You're here. You still have a chance."

"A chance." Ziva closed her eyes. "Did we ever have a chance to be different, Severin?"

She heard him approach, felt him kneel to her level. She opened her eyes to him. His gaze was on her, steady and dark.

"We're the both of us damned, Lapin," he said. "We've done the irredeemable. To the world, to those who trusted us..."

"Then why?"

"You can change," Azare said. He touched the wound on her cheek. "So can others. We'll save what we can, no matter what's come before. You're Estara's hope, Ziva. And mine, too."

"Damn you, Azare," Ziva whispered.

He pulled away, turning his back on her. He began toward the dinghy, yanking his sword from the sand.

Ziva waited until he was a few steps off, then took up her knife. She held it, watching the flash of sunlight off its blade. For a moment she contemplated flinging it into the sea, watching it flash for the last time before it sank.

The urge rose, then died. Ziva sheathed her knife again.

The wind over the sandbar changed- hot and dry, then at once icy, a blast like winter. Ziva looked up, frowning, but the sea looked the same, the sky clear as ever.

Azare stood in the surf, rigid, staring out to sea. Ziva followed his gaze.

At the horizon, lightning flickered.

Her heart hammered- the Leviathan- but this was wrong. She tasted something bitter on the back of her tongue, felt her pulse quicken as if in dread. Not just lightning, but clouds- a swell of dark clouds massing at the far edge of the sea. The surf hissed up the beach, the once-calm ocean rising in whitecaps.

"Azare," Ziva said, climbing to her feet. "What is that?"

He whirled back toward the dinghy. She caught a glimpse of his face as he brushed past her and felt a spike of cold lance her through.

"Is that a storm?" she said.

"No." He stopped and faced her, his eyes bright with raw, lucid terror. The look stung; it stopped her short. Saints, she'd never seen that look before, never in all their years together. "Get back to the ship. Get back to the ship now."

She steeled herself, straightened her spine. His fear couldn't mean the end of her. She was ever his counterpart. One of them had to be strong. "What's happening?"

"You've seen how many people are in Valeris, Lapin?"

She blinked. "Thousands."

"Yes. Thousands. And if that storm is what I think it is, come nightfall there will be none." He looked out again, another blast of ice wind ruffling his hair. "If that storm comes, everyone in Valeris is going to die."

#tales of the great leviathan #grave of the great leviathan #fantasy fiction #original fiction #serial novel #chapter 26

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dylbianews · 6 months

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“I përkëdheluri i produksionit”/ ish banori i BB nuk e sheh Luizin si fitues/ “S’e pranoj dot që ishte aq i adhuruar”

Një nga ish banorët i cili ende vazhdon të bëhet disa herë pjesë e intervistave televizive, është ai i “Big Brother 7”, Valer Kolnikaj. Valeri ka qenë i ftuar së fundmi në një intervistë për “Natën me Aulonën”, ku u pyet për mendimin e tij rreth versionit VIP të formatit. Mirëpo, ai habiti kur u shpreh ndër të tjera se Luizi nuk e meritonte të shpallej fitues. Sipas tij, Luizi ishte i…

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lamilanomagazine · 6 months

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Bari: parte oggi il progetto “Scuola Popolare ImparoAimPARARE”, la scuola di formazione per formatori.

Bari: parte oggi il progetto “Scuola Popolare ImparoAimPARARE”, la scuola di formazione per formatori. Parte oggi il progetto “Scuola Popolare ImparoAimPARARE”, la scuola di formazione per formatori, giunta al settimo anno di attività, ideata dalla Cooperativa sociale “I Bambini di Truffaut” con l’Istituto comprensivo Grimaldi-Lombardi e finanziata dall’assessorato alle Politiche educative e giovanili del Comune di Bari, che mette il cinema al centro di un percorso educativo e aggregativo rivolto soprattutto agli educatori (genitori, insegnanti, catechisti, ecc.) con l’obiettivo di renderli propagatori di un modo di educare, spendibile nelle scuole, nelle famiglie, nelle parrocchie, sul territorio. La “Scuola Popolare ImparoAimPARARE” prevede cinque momenti di approfondimento sul cinema sociale, nell’Istituto Grimaldi-Lombardi e in altri luoghi del Municipio 3 di Bari, con proiezioni di film che affrontano temi forti dell’educazione (famiglia, diversità, scelte, giustizia, social network, donne, genitori e figli e tanto altro), introdotte da educatori e professionisti del cinema e della didattica. Incontri gratuiti e aperti, in primis, agli studenti, ma anche (negli incontri pomeridiani) agli adulti che vorranno sperimentare un nuovo modo per confrontarsi sui temi che riguardano il futuro e le giovani generazioni. Il cinema è, infatti - ed è questo il senso dell’esperienza avviata ormai da dodici anni de “I Bambini di Truffaut” - un mezzo per costruire una comunità, un potente veicolo di aggregazione ed educazione che può contribuire alla crescita sana dei ragazzi in un contesto libero e democratico. Il primo dei cinque incontri incentrati sul cinema sociale si terrà oggi, martedì 24 ottobre alle 16 nell’auditorium dell’IC Grimaldi-Lombardi e sarà intitolato “Dei loro silenzi e delle nostre (troppe) parole”: al centro il film Dear Frankie di Shona Auerbach, dramma del 1994 con Emily Mortimer e Gerard Butler su una giovane mamma che per nascondere una triste verità sul padre, coltiva col figlio sordo una pericolosa menzogna per proteggerlo. Si prosegue con il secondo appuntamento intitolato “I modelli quando hanno un peso”, martedì 31 ottobre alle 10.30 nell’auditorium dell’Istituto Comprensivo "Falcone e Borsellino", con Dolcissime di Francesco Ghiaccio, tenera storia di bullismo e riscatto attraverso lo sport ambientata in una scuola italiana dei nostri giorni. Si torna nell’auditorium del “Grimaldi-Lombardi”, mercoledì 8 novembre alle 11, con “Gli altri, noi, il mondo”: protagonista un film molto amato dagli adolescenti di tutto il mondo, Noi siamo infinito di Stephen Chbosky, tratto dal romanzo epistolare Ragazzo da parete, scritto dallo stesso autore. Una pietra miliare del cinema indipendente americano degli anni Duemila, Little miss sunshine, diretto da Jonathan Dayton e Valerie Faris sarà al centro dell’incontro intitolato “Ognuno ha la famiglia che si merita”, nell’auditorium della Casa delle Culture, mercoledì 15 novembre alle 16. Il ciclo di proiezioni si concluderà mercoledì 29 novembre alle 11 nell’auditorium del IC Grimaldi-Lombardi con “Educarsi allo sbaglio”: appuntamento incentrato su Nevia di Nunzia De Stefano, storia di una adolescente della periferia di Napoli che prova a farsi rispettare in un mondo dove nascere donna non offre nessuna opportunità. Questa sinergia tra IC Lombardi, Cooperativa e Comune di Bari è il primo passo di una collaborazione più intensa che prenderà corpo nella gestione per 36 mesi da parte dell’Ats Cooperativa Sociale I Bambini di Truffaut e Fondazione Giovanni Paolo II Onlus (a valere sul progetto “Rete delle Biblioteche”) della Biblioteca Lombardi, situata all’interno dell’omonima scuola del quartiere San Paolo, con l’attivazione di un servizio stabile di consultazione, prestito di libri e riviste, animazione alla lettura, laboratori, eventi e manifestazioni culturali aperti al territorio e alla cittadinanza con un’attenzione particolare ai minori, alle famiglie e alle fasce deboli della popolazione. Info su ibambiniditruffaut.com.... #notizie #news #breakingnews #cronaca #politica #eventi #sport #moda Read the full article

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wonderg78-blog · 1 year

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the-brandboy · 2 years

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Valerie Nicknames: 525+ Cool and Catchy Names

With lots of variants in European vernaculars, Valerie is a beautiful and tender name which also places it in juxtaposition to its meaning — which is to be strong. It has its origins in the Latin word valere, which means healthy. It also syncs with the word valor. Valerie’s core qualities include power and courage, which the 3rd-century martyr St. Valerie only serves to accentuate. She…

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beforevenice · 3 years

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You see, it's not every day that you meet someone for whom you can feel your heart beat...

// Valérie Valère

#venice #venezia #heart #sunset #evening photography #valerie valere #photography #ph #reflections #quote #q #venice italy #italia #evening

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x-heesy · 3 years

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𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎 𝚊𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚐 | 𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚖

🐳 𝙰 𝚍𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚖

🦩 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚢 @intl_rescue

🤩 𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 @superfineartfair

E-Fair foundation.app/@iamvalerism/bag-of-tricks-empathy-2-0-88406

#Auckland, #NewZealand

#femaleart #femaleartists #iamvalerism #valerieauersperg #valerism #regram #madeinnewzealand #thankyouwell

#surreal #surrealart #surrealism #surrealismartcommunity #popsurrealism #popsurrealist #popsurreal #surrealist #surrealista #surrealistic #lowbrowart #weirdart #lowbrowartist #surrealisme #surreal_art #surrealismo #surrealpainting

Soundtrack: Fables & Fairytales - (Deniz Kurtel remix) by Na, Rosina #thankslordfortechno

𝙼𝚏 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚜 🆎𝚘𝚟𝚎

#iamvalerism #valerism #valerie auersperg #female art #female artists #popsurrealism #surrealism #new contemporary art #newcontemporary #x-heesy #music #spotify #now playing #fucking favorite #music and art #contemporaryart #9/2021 #fables #fairytale

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oh4big · 2 years

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Send the fuck to the townspeople who will dissuade you from the path you have chosen. Become a trailblazer and do something they couldn't even think of. After all, serious influence is coming, your influence - don't waste your time. act

Valery Glushchenko (VALERA MOLODOY - YouTube) is an Internet friend/brother/father for 40 thousand people.

Valer, come back alive and cheerful, don't change your Vision and we won't change Yours...

your humble spectator - "Timofey Shevchuk"

#Style #Hope #Faith #I don't give up #no war #Japan #people #action #art #cyatates #quotes

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books-of-the-great-leviathan · 2 years

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Chapter 30- Isabella

***

Isabella's step echoed off the high ceiling as she slipped through the doors. She let them close behind her, trapping her in the dark.

Her mother's offices had stood untouched since her death, doors sealed, dust undisturbed. It had begun to rime her desk, the carved mantel above the fireplace, the twin lynx statues standing guard, as ever. The drapes were drawn across the windows, obscuring Isabella's view of Valeris below. Low lamplight cast a fey glimmer over paneled walls and the eyes of the mounted animal heads, the saber teeth of Buyani leopards, the scrimshawed ooshka tusks and elk heads.

Her exhale stirred the dust. Fear breached the dread simmering inside her, a burst of it strong and bitter. It shook her, held her rigid. Turn back, she urged. She'd armed herself; she had a head start on the Falcii; she could escape. Run and save yourself. This isn't the Lapide you want to know. This isn't the country you believe in. This isn't your nation.

She paced into the office. It smelled of her mother's perfume. The scent lingered strongest around the desk, papers still spread over its surface. Her pen set in its enameled case, the quartz figurine of a mistfox carved by Isabella's father, the teacup of Buyani porcelain. Isabella trailed her fingers over her mother's things, as if something more than a scent might linger. As if answers might come through these precious, useless things, charms against fading memory.

Isabella plucked up papers, scanned them, set them down. She stood at the desk, the palm of her good arm braced on its edge. Whatever secrets her mother held weren't here. This was the sanctuary of a queen, not of Sofia Valere.

She reached in her pocket.

Smooth orktooth brushed her fingers.

Where had they played? Two little girls in sapsilk shifts, one taller, the other never fast enough to keep up. Where had they ranged, like she and Luca, finding all the secret corners of the Palace they would never be allowed in, had their parents known? High on the roof, a garden of wind and spires spattered with salt, hunting for birds' eggs and feathers caught between statues' fingers. The gardens, or the library. The muggy sprawl of Valeris itself, carnival masks pulled low over faces to hide the identity of two princesses, hand in hand so they wouldn't lose one another in the market crowds. Or had they gone down, not up, looking like Luca had once become obsessed with looking, plunging deep into the network of tunnels beneath the Palace?

Isabella lifted her head. A breeze tickled the back of her neck. A pulse traveled down her numb arm, and she clenched its hand.

She turned as she felt another lick of wind. She approached and touched the wall, the seam between two panels, the smooth, cold wood.

Too cold. It was icier than its neighbor, and the seam wasn't a seam, but a gap, no wider than a hair.

Isabella drew her stiletto and fit it into the gap, then slid down. The blade met a resistance. With a click, the panel swung outward on hidden brass wheels. Frigid air washed over Isabella, drowning the summer heat of the office, pricking gooseflesh down her good arm. She stepped back, spine straight, stiletto clenched in her off hand.

A passageway beyond led into shadow. Eider moth nests danced in the draught, and dust lay thickly across the floor, the stones of the walls, the rusted sconces where orklight must have once burned. Now, their glass globes were discolored and spotted with age.

Isabella fished an alchemic command from her pocket and crushed the seal. It was one of Luca's, grayamber trapping sunlight in the small pebble, another like the one she'd found slipped into her pocket. Who had given them to her?

Secrets, schemes, enough to drive her mad.

The symbol of an eye flashed between her palms. Sunlight poured from her hand, illuminating the coil of steps leading down into the dark. The air breathed across her. Nothing else had breathed here for a long time.

She stepped through, wedging the door open on a table behind her. She didn't want to be trapped in this place. The passageway was narrow, brushing her shoulders on either side; dust showered from the walls, the ceiling, and soon she was powdered gray. The steps corkscrewed down and down; sunlight crept before her, her shadow keeping pace at her side. The light cut the steps into shards of darkness and white stone, eider moths fluttering through the beams.

In her hand the command felt warm, pulsing, like a small heart. Her own thudded in her throat.

Down. Further. Minutes slipped by; Isabella didn't know how many. Sound fell away, nothing left but her own breathing, her own footsteps, like descending into the darkness of some deep sea trench. She was underground now, the walls no longer stone blocks like the rest of the Palace but natural cavern rock, the passageway carved straight down into the ridge. The silence pulled at her, leading her on.

She became aware of shapes on the walls. Primitive things, these: paintings in relief, winged women- witches? The Triune?- and whales. She touched them, felt the cold, powdery pigment against her fingertips. The whales seemed to dive, crest, dive again, cycling through some endless movement. Or perhaps they were dying, not diving: sinking to the bottom of the ocean, far from the light of the surface.

The glowlands beneath the sea, she thought. Where all lost children go. A bitter taste crept into her throat. She heard echoes reflected to her from ahead.

A door.

It swam from the darkness: rusty steel studded with bolts. There was a lock, much corroded, but when Isabella touched it, it fell open.

The door swung wide at a push.

Beyond, Isabella smelled incense- death-incense, funerary incense. Dust too, and water weeping over stone. Echoes fanned away. She stepped through and sunlight spilled with her, illuminating the cavern ceiling arcing down to pillars in bas-relief, shaped like winged lynxes with hawks' feet, or foxes with too many eyes and bared teeth, ears and fangs and talons worn down by years.

A grave-vault. One of countless subterranean chambers built into the ridge by the original peoples of Valeris, who had lived on this land centuries before Valeria had come. They had buried their dead in stone and salt, shrouded in darkness, in water that never saw the sun.

Isabella passed slowly through the vault. Eider moths burst in flutters of silk-soft wings to vanish through hidden gaps in the walls. The vault was full of curiosities- glass cases filled with strange forest birds and insects the size of her head, glimmering beetle carapaces and preserved fishes and fossils of ancient flowers blossoming across slabs of red sandstone. Hunting-rifles chased in silver and pearl leaned in racks, and books were stacked in piles higher than Isabella was tall. There were gowns, too, the styles of decades before, sapsilk ballgowns with elaborate fan ruffs, court dresses stitched with feathers and gems and embroidery thick as armor, riding habits still hemmed in mud. Furs, and collars, and slips fluttering in the draught like ghosts.

Empty, hanging. Waiting.

Dust fell, thick as ash.

Through the dust, she met eyes.

Isabella jolted. She reached for her sword, but the shock faded as she realized the eyes were only paint: a portrait in a tarnished gilt frame, rendered in the lush oils of a master, fully life-size and hanging between two beast pillars on the far end of the vault.

It showed a young gray-eyed woman dressed in the ornate blue sapsilk of a princess of Lapide, waves of golden hair falling down her back.

Eider moths fluttered, fleeing beneath the frame. The young woman smiled, a sharp, clever grin. She was haloed by cedar boughs, a silver hawk perched on one gauntleted hand. Her face was a ghost, an echo, a mirror. Isabella recognized her, of course, recognized her as well as she recognized her own face. The woman in the painting held uncanny resemblance to her, such that they might have been sisters themselves.

The only difference was stark, and damning, and made sorrow twist deep inside her. Princess Alezia Valere, born to be queen, who had died before she could become what she'd been meant to be, had at her throat a sailor's charm. Half a circle of scrimshaw, carved from orktooth.

Footsteps stirred the dust behind her.

"Strange thing about statues," someone said. "They never get the details right."

Isabella pressed her eyes shut, let out her breath, then turned.

Enzo stood in the vault, his head lowered. He wore shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, so in the glow of her sunstone Isabella saw the veins of glimmering silver twining up his arms, shifting and writhing like eels. Isabella saw, too, the pistol leveled cleanly at her heart.

"Enzo," she whispered.

"I thought you'd left already."

"More fool I. Foolish enough to trust you."

"I'm sorry, Bell," he said. "Sorry about your mother. Sorry about what I did to you, too. But you deserve to know what she was. You deserve to know what gnaws Lapide from beneath."

"Alezia Valere," Isabella said. "She was-"

"She was my mother," Enzo said. He hadn't moved. The silver light pulsed up his arms, unfurling like smoke from his shoulders. Isabella heard whispers in the air, too faint to decipher. "And Sofia Valere killed her."

Isabella's mouth tasted of ashes. "Why?"

Enzo's mouth trembled. His face was set, but his eyes were bright.

"She was witchborn," he said. "A thread of ancient power bright inside her, true power. She could speak to the dead, could summon them to her sides like birds and listen to their whispers. Ghosts flocked to her and she gained the sympathy of the dead. Sympathy for all things. Sympathy for the king of Estara, Etain Belmont, whose dead were so many and had suffered through such terrible plagues. I think he loved her, too, in his way. As best as a man like that can love."

His voice was bitter as a snarl, and Isabella understood in a single sick lurch. Enzo Acier was son of Alezia Valere and Etain Belmont, King Daval's father. He not only had claim to Lapide's throne, but to Estara's.

He was the Sundered Empire made whole.

"Your mother had her talents, too," Enzo said. "She saw her sister's secret, listened outside the door as Alezia Valere bled on the birthing bed, hid in the shadows as her nurses hurried the child away. She knew her sister would always have a soft place inside her for Estara, was linked to it now, like a fish hooked on a long line. She knew her sister had been weak. And weakness always gives, before the end."

"She killed her for Lapide," Isabella said. Her body was numb. Forgive me, her mother begged. Forgive me. "She killed her for the crown."

"Poison, made to look like sickness. Easy enough," Enzo said. Isabella heard the tension in his voice, the quaver he couldn't hide. "I suppose she didn't have the heart to poison me, too. Maybe she lost me in the crowd of babies in the Palace nursery. Maybe Alezia's loyal nurse stole me from her too quickly. But she knew who I was, before the end. I made sure she did."

"She made her choice for all of Lapide," Isabella snarled. She straightened her spine, lowering her hands from her weapons. "She did what she had to do."

Rage, and hate- true hate, black and boiling- flashed through his eyes. He lunged toward her, closing the distance between them. "We all do, Bell-"

Isabella drew her stiletto. Steel flashed in sunlight; it was in her off hand and the grip felt awkward. She leveled the dagger at Enzo, stopping him short.

"What about your gifts, Enzo?" she said. "What inheritance did your mother leave you?"

"Power," Enzo said.

Silver light brightened, smoke thickening, spinning, interweaving, becoming a coiling mass of- faces, Isabella realized, and limbs, clutching fingers hooked like claws, long whipping hair moving as if underwater.

The mass churned around Enzo's shoulders like a shroud. The whispers sharpened: screams, ululating shrieks and cries and howls like wind through statues. Eyes glowed like stars.

Witchborn.

"The dead don't find me," Enzo called, through the howls. His hair danced around his face, his eyes alight with that fell silver glow. "I find them. I pull them to me. I command them, like I commanded my mother's ghost to tell me her truth."

"The dead man in the garden-"

"Ghosts occupy their old skins easily," Enzo said.

"Let them go," Isabella cried. The screams tore at her. "You're hurting them."

"The dead are past pain," Enzo said. "But they go on hurting the living. They can't forget. We can't forget. I don't want to hurt you, Isabella-"

"You've already hurt me," Isabella said. "You killed my mother. You betrayed Lapide. You cursed Cereza."

"I didn't curse her," Enzo snapped. "Daval-"

"You're his hound, on Estara's leash. Did Belmont promise you asylum? Gold? Some holding tucked away for you to rule, his bastard brother kept quiet? And all you had to pay was Lapide."

"I don't want Daval's asylum," Enzo said. "I want Daval dead."

"What?" Realization came, all at once, like a lightning strike. "No. Enzo. No." She stepped toward him. Ghosts churned past; a strand of trailing hair lashed across her cheek, leaving a slice of cold deeper than a winter sea. "Stop this. We can make this better. We can end the war. You can help me end it. Together, I know we can do that much. Before worse happens. Before our chance for peace is gone." She thought of Cereza, of spellfire. Of light, and the nothingness left behind. "Please."

"Estara and Lapide are two fighting animals tearing at each other. Ravenous. Rabid." He lifted a hand. "You don't soothe a rabid animal, coax it back to health. You kill it."

The howls strengthened, hands becoming claws, fusing together into a mass of silver and screams. Enzo sliced his arm down, and they lunged. Bitter wind blasted Isabella's hair back from her forehead. She threw herself aside, down, palms slapping the floor. Ghosts tore past her, ripping all the heat from her skin. She tasted blood, felt the spreading heat of it over her shoulder. Her bad shoulder. The pain was dull, throbbing.

She scrambled to her feet, the ghost mass spilling after her. Isabella sprang for the space between two pillars, twisting sideways to force her way through. The ghost mass broke into two behind her, clawing through, shrieks and pleas and reaching hands. Isabella spun, drawing her sword. In her maimed arm the weight seemed twice what it had before, her bicep already trembling. Black blood wicked down from the cut on its shoulder, slicking the sword's handle. Ghosts coalesced in a circle around her, barely humanoid now: silhouettes in smoke, crouching, snarling, hair whipping in phantom currents. Eyes winked, bright staring points. She smelled bitterness and storm winds, the bright sear of lightning.

Witchborn, she thought again.

"It's useless, Bell," Enzo called. A ghost reached out. Isabella slashed its hand away; it vanished in a curl of silvery smoke. "They'll never tire. They won't stop. You can't kill what's already dead."

"No," Isabella said. "But I can kill you." The ghosts parted, and Enzo stepped through their mass. Hands clutched at him, pulling at his arms, his hair; he didn't seem to notice. He drew his sword slowly, steel hissing against steel. Isabella's eyes flicked to it, to him, to the sword again. Her pulse hammered inside her. Her crystal arm trembled. It would give out three strikes in. She knew it. So did he.

Isabella lifted her sword and angled it toward him. "For Lapide."

"Really, Bell?" Enzo murmured.

She struck. Enzo's sword pealed off hers; the blow drove her spinning, crouching. Her arm shook badly now, blade a silver blur. She spat away a strand of hair and threw herself toward Enzo again. One strike, two- the third cracked across her face, his pommel snapping her head to the side. Just like the dead Falcii in the garden. He'd used his corpse like a puppet, had the ghost stab him in the neck to avert suspicion. He'd never stop. Like his ghosts, he'd never tire. He'd flay himself to the bone to see Lapide and Estara punished.

He'd see them all drowned before he'd finally let himself go.

Isabella whirled with a scream. Her elbow smashed into his neck, over his wound. Enzo's face blanched white; his eyes sprang wide as he staggered, Isabella panting and sweat-bathed. The anger flashed back, and then gave way. Respect. Love, even. All she'd seen for so many years. A friend, a confidante, a brother in arms. A queen and her soldier. Now he was a cousin, tied to her by blood as well as by duty.

"Not bad, Bell," he said. "But not enough."

A specter blossomed before her.

Its matter spun from mist, from silver light, like moonslight on rare nights when all three rose full at once. She looked like she had the night she'd died, the gown, the sorrowful eyes. Her face, folded in quiet mourning.

Queen Sofia Valere looked up at Isabella, and reached out her hand.

Isabella froze. "You trapped her." Her whisper sounded strangled. "Let her go. Enzo, let her go-"

Cold seized her arms. She looked down as silver twined round her wrists, her bicep, even her throat; it burned, bringing new tears to her eyes. The specter of her mother shattered. Without warning, the ghosts yanked her back, lifting her off her feet. She twisted, teeth clenched, but the cold was in her, now, winching her jaw tight and her muscles inert. All she could do was stare as Enzo straightened. Blood pulsed from beneath his bandages.

He didn't seem to feel the pain as he pressed the point of his sword in the triangle of soft flesh just under Isabella's sternum.

"Not enough," he said again. Isabella tensed. "Never enough."

"Stop!"

A shot rang through the vault. Ghosts howled, shattering apart like a flock of startled birds. Enzo stumbled back; the blade scraped off Isabella. The cold grip of the ghosts released, and she fell hard to her hands and knees. She tumbled away, behind a pillar. Her whole body shook now, adrenaline and terror brewing a heady mixture inside her. She hazarded a look through the swirling mass of ghosts, but didn't see Enzo.

"Princess-"

She whirled, lifting her dagger. Alois jerked back, hands raised. Behind him crouched Elias, the mad Estaran boy. He held a Falcii pistol, its muzzle still hot.

"Triune," she gasped. "You shot him."

"Sorry, no time," Alois said. "Come on." He seized her arm and yanked her to her feet. "What is this mess?"

"Enzo...Captain Acier...he's the traitor." Her vision swam. She thought she might fall again. The places on her skin where the ghosts had gripped her burned like she was on fire.

"We have to get to the door." Alois pulled her along.

"Stop them!"

Enzo's voice rang through the vault. The mass of ghosts re-formed, blocking their way to the door. Chained to their master, no escape, like them. Isabella saw the fear in Alois's eyes, felt his fast pulse through his grip on her arm. He'd followed her here and damned himself in the doing.

They'd be lost down here, turned to husks dry and papery as eider moth nests.

Moths.

She remembered. A flash like lightning, and she snapped straight. "Alois," she rasped. "There's another way."

"What?" The ghosts advanced, crawling, dragging, drifting. Silver light spread like tide toward them.

"Now!" She pulled him, and they spun, the three of them together. Books cascaded, gowns and dead birds shoved aside as they went for the back wall of the vault, where Isabella's dropped sunstone still spat sunlight. It glowed through the ghost haze like a beacon. Moths rushed with them, fleeing the dead, and she glimpsed them again wriggling under the edges of the painting's gilt frame. She felt it, now: cold air brushing her cheeks.

A breeze.

A draught.

She slammed the tip of her stiletto under the frame and wrenched, hard, using the dagger as a lever. Wood and paint cracked. Isabella wrenched again, and the painting listed, swinging away from the wall, trailing dust and ancient plaster. Behind it was another door, a match to the iron-studded one leading into the vault. This one was clean, free of rust, and free of locks, too. Alois pulled it open and darkness spilled forth, a gloom filled with the rush and thunder of water.

Elias snatched up the sunstone as they stumbled through, and Alois slammed the door shut behind them, trapping them again in the dark.

#togl #tales of the great leviathan #fantasy fiction #original fiction #serial novel #chapter 30

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