β Do not test my power and do not tempt my fury. β from a grumpy mel π
reign sentence prompts (accepting)
A stillness has begun to settle. It slips through the holes of the windows and deep into the cracks of the floorboards; into the spine of every book, between every line and letter. It has dripped down to the bottom of empty cups. Beneath the rugs. And as it nestles into the bed of space between them, coiled and yawning, it seemed that time --- at least for now --- had come to a stop.
"I desire neither," the voice calls back. It seemed to twinkle in the dark, and he has begun to walk. "I never fight a battle I cannot win."
Then he's there: the merchant. His hip brushes against the edge of her table and an arm reaches out, sliding a candle toward her, the wax barely wet. They should be able to see each other better. But the light never touches his face.