The Weight of New Bonds

[Nora Saint-Clair]

She stepped off the tram with a coffee in one hand, the other jammed into the pocket of her long coat. Dark charcoal, cut sharp at the collar, it was formal without being stiff. Beneath it, black jeans and boots with just enough heel to give her presence without flash. Her henley was deep rust, soft and collarless, buttons flicked open at the collar. Her hair was down on purpose falling in thick tresses, not too neat, not too wild. Her makeup was clean, matte, but her eyes were ringed in eyeliner, sharp enough to be taken seriously. 

The closer she came to the Sanctuary of the Ascendant Flame, the more that coffee cup felt like a lifeline. Her fingers were warm from it, steady, even though her heart stirred with something quieter than fear but deeper than nerves.

She passed the stone sculptures outside with barely a glance. She remembered the first time she’d come here almost a year ago now, under a different sky and under someone else’s orders. That visit had been secret, cautious, and very brief.

Inside, the Sanctuary smelled faintly of incense and cold stone. The air was still, the kind of stillness that made her feel like someone was always watching her. Morning sunlight poured through stained glass windows, casting fractured reds and ambers onto the tiled floor. She wasn't sure how to go about doing this, so she stepped forward mustering as much confidence as she could, and approached the first person she saw.

“I’d like to join,” she said simply, voice firm.

There. Said.