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Live. Burn. And never, ever, let them dim your fucking light.
But I must’ve done something. Said something. Or maybe I’d accidentally leaked some of myself out into the open, the things I hid, the parts I knew would be rejected.
In the fizzy electrolyte water, I’d planted a drop of my blood. As soon as Little Flame had taken a sip, she’d been marked. My essence was planted inside her, forever. No longer would I need to track her by scent.
And yet, my darkness called to hers, and even more disastrous, so too did the humanity that I secretly mourned every year or two in early autumn.