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Griffin thought she would never forget her purpose. If, to achieve it, other people were to die, it would not be pretty and not even fair, but she thought it necessary. Witches could no longer withstand being treated like dirt under someone else’s feet.
“Faragonda.” Valtor’s voice was deep, slow and languid as usual, but there was a hint of impatience to it. He’d rolled the name on his tongue once he’d spotted the sign of recognition in Griffin’s expression, and now seemed to do so almost out of spite. “How do you know this woman?”
“Cloud Tower.” Griffin was proud of the practicality of her tone. These were the moments where her conviction faltered the most. “She used to be a student there, before changing her mind and switching to Alfea.”
Valtor clicked his tongue and grinned. “Couldn’t stand what it takes to be a witch, eh?”
“Like I said, she won’t be a problem. Whether or not she’s working with the queen and king of Domino, it barely changes a thing for us.”
She didn’t believe it for one second. Faragonda was a resourceful one, albeit in different ways than Griffin was—but her lie went way beyond that.
Faragonda was not a mere acquaintance she’d briefly crossed paths with. Once, on their birth planet, she was a solid presence, one Griffin had assumed—taken for granted, even—would stick with her forever. And for it is a myth, that absence is an empty thing, the lingering presence of Faragonda was with her still, vivid in her mind like the lashing of a whip on her skin.
・
“Griffin?”
Griffin started awake from her sleep. Her instinct kicked in at once and she stretched her magic, and there it was, Valtor’s flam—
No.
She wasn’t in the Ancestral Witches’ secret liar. Here was darkness, too, but not quite the same. The darkness there was cold and black. Here in the Dominian palace library, it was a darkness mustered in half. There was always a fire nearby, rendering the walls a warm shade of yellow.
In front of her, under the same circle of light, was only Daphne. In one hand she held the book Griffin had asked her to get.
The girl’s grasp on the Dragon Flame was quite excellent, if not perfect. When she worried, it flickered as if reacting to something tangible, a substance that made it susceptible.
Under different circumstances, it would be Marion the one standing in front of her right now. She, the Guardian of the Dragon Flame still. To the Coven it was all the same—but to Griffin, something about going after a woman her age was so fundamentally different than going after a child.
She could picture Daphne trying to stifle her annoyance at being addressed as one, and this knowledge alone cemented Griffin’s fears—that she was starting to really get to know this girl, and fancied her company well enough. Yet at the same time, wanted to run away from her. Griffin had tried using Oritel as a ploy to keep herself at a secure distance, but not even that seemed to work on Daphne. Perceptive and stubborn as her father, she was. Quite good qualities, in a much less annoying person.
Griffin hoisted herself straight on the armchair and swept away one strand of hair.
“Forgive me for waking you,” Daphne said finally. “I didn’t know if you wanted to—but I thought this was urgent.”
It was, and the sooner they were done with it, the sooner they could resume a reasonable distance between each other. Griffin couldn’t stand such closeness, and because she couldn’t, she was neither here nor there, as if her body, quite indecisive like the mind, fought itself to no end.
This seemed to be her life now; a constant exercise in mourning. What loss does to you, when it’s self-inflicted and not coincidental. Many were the mistakes she’d made, and she must carry them all with her. Must not forget her purpose.
She looked at Daphne. She never said it out loud, and likely never would, but she sometimes saw a slice of herself in this girl, and hoped she would have the judgment to walk a better path.
“So,” Griffin said finally. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”