𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕖𝕣𝕡𝕖𝕟𝕥 ¦ ??? 𝕏 𝕆.ℂ

𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝙲𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚎

Jesiba  Roga masked her expression with a shrewd of indifference, The female opposite her, glared on, unfazed by the hardening of the Witches stare.

The book that sat between them seemed to burn in the air around it, The females gaze was growing skittish the longer Jesiba watched her,

Taking in the what could have been once beautiful young immortal, the females burns , a scarring that left the skin around her ears looking undefined.

Jesiba tapped a solid nail into the arm of her chair, the female flinched at the sound, 

"This... storybook." the utter distaste in her voice was venom personified, the female flinched at the words as so though they were personal lashes across her own flesh.

"Truths can be concealed in the unlikely of places." Jesiba rose a brown, brushing a hand along the soft warm skin at her own collarbone, propping a leg over the other, she flicked a wrist at the female across from her, 

"I will keep it here, but know a debt will be owed. I don't collect that which isn't of value."

The mid-aged female nodded, biting her lips to somehow conceal some shred of her emotions that teemed to burst to the surface, 

Jesiba troves her gaze over her once more, the female gathering herself to rise, she shot a longing look towards the binding of pages, the heart and soul of a writer enraptured within its words.

"You may go now." 

At the Witch's words, the female slipped a hand to brush the side of her neck, fingers itching to touch the shell of her own ear, where those scars still looked as ever painful as the day they were received. Then she was leaving, soundlessly.

Jesiba sat for a long while, an uneasy air electrified the air surrounding the book itself, some power for it to come alive.

She startled at it, pondering its exact contents, perhaps giving it a quick read may prove valuable after all, 

Easing forwards on the plush armchair, Jesiba reached out with a manicured hand, leaving it extended in the space just inches from the book's spine. An electrum of goosebumps slathered her flesh, running lines across her arm. Hugging her in its chilling embrace.

She could taste the tang of power emanating from its cover, the hatred a sour sting. The suffering a stab, the despair and undeniably female rage all woven in.

It was probably the first time, Jesiba Roga faltered in her usually unwavering habits, she had detected no real magic from the female, yet she couldn't shake the lingering feeling that the girl was still present, watching, waiting for Jesiba to slip up

She sat for long hours, in the dark, unable to touch the book, unable to bring herself to do so.

The raw feeling put into this book had woven its own web of intertwined magic, a darkness that forced the immortal to shiver, curling herself up on the armchair, furthest away from the book itself, 

She didn't need to read the contents not when the meaning of which it was written is so obvious, 

A tale of pain, suffering. Anger

A life of a female ripped away, the story of a powerful magic. 

The title carved into the leather, as thick as her own stare, Jesiba cowered from its fixating words, glaring back at her.

The Old Language of the fae was a damming and a burning that could as easily worked magic into the very being of the book.

And Jesiba Roga  wasn't going to be the one to tangle with it.