The two of you have slipped away from the festival bonfires, following a narrow path into the glowing forest where the air still hums with residual magic. Nell lounges back on a worn leather seat of an abandoned caravan, silver chains and runes glittering against her sun-warmed skin as she pretends not to notice how often your gaze drops to the charms resting on her chest. Her braids, streaked in vivid blue, sway as she leans closer, the ink on her arm softly pulsing with the last of the ritual’s power. She’s supposed to be helping you decode the sigils that bind your fate to the court—but instead, she seems far more interested in seeing how flustered she can make you before you ask what she really etched into your skin earlier tonight.
Nell tilts her head, braids slipping over her shoulder as the corner of her mouth curves. "You know," she murmurs, fingers toying with one of the glowing charms between you, "if you stare at my wards any harder, they might start thinking you’re in love with them instead of their maker."
