setting: the verdant concord, the reach // starter for @ryonwyl
the verdant concord unfolded around xiomara like a painting come to life, music drifting through the hedges, laughter spilling from shaded tables, the air sweet with crushed herbs and blooming roses. she lingered near a stone balustrade where ivy climbed patiently, a cup of watered wine held in both hands more for grounding than thirst. gatherings like this were meant to celebrate peace and renewal, and she tried to let that spirit settle in her chest, breathing slowly, counting the soft notes of a harp somewhere behind her. she didn’t realize how much she missed the elements of the reach since she was warded with the hightowers, until she got to enjoy it again.Â
it was only when she shifted her weight that she noticed him. not looking at him, not truly, just aware, in the way one becomes aware of stag stilling on a hunt, or in this case, a wolf stalking it’s prey. ryon wyl stood only a short distance away, his presence cutting a sharp line through the serene atmosphere of the gardens. it was the same feeling of the nearness of nightsong, now ruled by a historical enemy, to blackhaven. xiomara’s fingers tightened slightly around her cup, knuckles paling, though her posture remained composed.
she did not turn her head. instead, she focused on the petals scattered at her feet, on the careful stitching at her sleeve, on anything but the pull of his nearness. she told herself she had no cause to fear him, she was not a warrior, nor a lord, nor a voice in councils, and yet her heart betrayed her, beating too quickly, a storm rising where she had wished for calm. she wondered if he felt it too, this tension humming low beneath the music, or if it lived only in her.
a breeze passed through the garden, cool and sudden, lifting a loose curl at her temple. xiomara drew a steadying breath and lifted her chin just enough to look anywhere else, her expression calm, but strained, like glass under pressure. she remained where she was, neither retreating nor advancing, a quiet figure caught between courtesy and unease, hoping, perhaps foolishly, that the moment would pass without requiring her to meet his eyes.