Black Morass White leaves of an oleander

ione regarded her with a cool, measured gaze—the faintest curl of satisfaction brushing the corners of her mouth. envy’s eagerness pleased her.

then go, her voice was smooth as silk, yet barbed with expectation. find me a vole. small, yes, but it will serve.

she stepped forward, brushing past—close enough that envy might feel the subtle heat of her breath, the weight of her presence.

precision is an art, but patience… that is mastery, a whisper, just for her.

ione drew back, eyes gleaming.

do not disappoint me.