Velvet Moss & Brine

The moss clings to everything here, a damp, persistent embrace. It’s comfortable, in its way – like the memory of a particularly good bruise. My steed, Bartholomew, doesn't offer much in the way of conversation beyond a low rumble and a slightly judgmental gaze at passersby. Most people find him unsettling.

He smells faintly of petrichor and something… sweeter. Something almost feral. Not unpleasant, exactly. Just demanding.

Tonight’s errand involved retrieving a single bluebell from Widow Thorne's garden – an act of quiet defiance, really. She believes in order, in the predictable scent of lavender and dust motes. Bartholomew and I prefer chaos, the delicious tension of a slightly crooked path.

The rain started as we left, slicking the cobblestones with an oily sheen. It didn’t bother him; he just kept going, his tiny horn pushing through the puddles like a miniature, disgruntled glacier.

There' I saw him – not Thorne, but Silas. He always seems to be lurking at the edges of this city’s gloom, a charcoal sketch against a grey sky. His eyes held that familiar hunger – not for charity, not even for approval. Something darker.

He didn’t smile. Just watched us pass, a single droplet clinging to his eyelashes. It was an invitation, unspoken and exquisitely sharp.

The warmth of Bartholomew's scales against my legs, the scent of damp earth…it felt like a slow burn. A delicious awareness that beneath this carefully constructed facade of detachment, there’s always room for another kind of bloom - one that isn’t quite so pretty, but certainly more satisfying.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach