Ayitha lays her palm on the swollen bud. After months of dormancy, the Koshastki shudders. Muscular tendrils caress the panes of the Florescence Tower, glass spires twinkling copper-gold in the late sunset. The castle’s revelries thrum at the edge of her hearing. It’s time.
Her breath rains infinitesimal droplets of nectar onto the bud. Lambent fault-lines awaken all along its length until, crimping and curling, the Koshastki erupts outwards into a trumpet of gleaming red petals. Her tiny lover stirs, dusted in fine pollen. Ayitha glows. How she missed her.
“Happy Spring, Beloved. Your people are waiting.”
