@striigon // continued.
Her mother had called her foolish for this. She had known. Long before Mirela herself could work up the courage to bring up the subject, her mother had known exactly what he was, the sign of the cross warding it off even as she whispered it. Strigon. A woman born with suspicion deep in her bones — she had learned these stories on her own mother’s knee, and there had been no convincing her otherwise. But that had not been the moment she cut her daughter out of her life, neat as the bruise in the flesh of an apple. No — that had been in the damning silence that told her mother she already knew. And that she had chosen him regardless.
Perhaps she was foolish for this. She had invited Death through her door; did she truly expect to remain unscathed? Something is wrong with him this evening. Something has chilled the air in the room, drawing goosebumps over her skin. Dare she ask? Would he tell her, even if she did? He extends a hand between them, and the choice is made infinitely more simple. Either she wants him — or she doesn’t. But wanting him would always come with a risk.
She takes the step needed to reach him. Places warm fingers within his grasp, cold. ❛ Mat — what is it? ❜