A crimson-red wall stretched endlessly in the backdrop, craggy with age and stories that refused to fade. The woman leaned against it, the texture of the ancient brick catching the soft glow of the twin moons above. She stood still, yet there was a restless energy about her—the way her fingers traced the strap of her deep blue denim overalls, the subtle tap of her boots against the cobblestones. Her dark hair seemed almost alive, cascading like a midnight waterfall and catching the occasional silver gleam from the light. And her eyes—striking, icy blue—held the depth of the unknown, the intensity of a burning question left unanswered.
Isolde was her name, though she rarely shared it. Names, after all, carried dangers in this city of whispers. They gave people levers with which to twist futures. Today, however, she had no time for caution. She tightened the pocket clasp of her overalls, her fingers brushing against the butterfly tattoo etched on its corner. It wasn’t a simple decoration. It was a cipher, a key to something far bigger than anyone could imagine. And tonight, the air hummed with its power.
A voice cut through the stillness, overlaying the soft murmur of distant water from the canal.
“You’re late,” the man growled, stepping out from the shadows. His cloak swirled around his wiry frame like a charred wing. His eyes, dark and invasive, scanned her face but lingered just a moment too long on the tattoo.
“Or perhaps,” Isolde said, her lips curving into a faint smirk, “you’re far too early to keep up with me.” Her voice carried a light air of amusement, but her right hand slid discreetly into her side pocket, fingers brushing the handle of the pulse blade she always kept hidden there.
The man didn’t seem amused. “Don’t play coy. They’ll come for you soon, especially if they realize what you have.” He gestured toward the tattoo. “Give me the location now, and I’ll make sure you disappear from their radars. Permanently.”
“Tempting,” she said, stepping forward into the soft glow of the overhead street lamps. The white top beneath her overalls glowed faintly, as if soaking in the light, creating a halo-like effect around her frame. It was a striking image, even against the shocking red of the wall behind her. Her physique, slender but strong, exuded both grace and power—qualities that had carried her through a lifetime of betrayal and ambition. “But that’s not how we’re doing this.”
She reached into her front pocket and pulled out a small, cylindrical device. It was smooth and black, polished to a shine. The man’s confident composure cracked, and he took a cautious step back.
“Is that…?”
“The key to the Aether Vault?” she murmured, rolling it between her fingers. “Why yes, I believe it is.” Her tone was syrupy sweet, but her eyes burned cold enough to freeze stars.
The man made a grab for it, but Isolde was quicker. Her pulse blade sang through the air in an arc of silvery light, stopping an inch from his throat. He froze, his breathing shallow as her blue eyes bored into him like twin lasers.
“I could let you take it,” she said softly, her voice almost tender, “but then I’d be throwing the entire city to the wolves, wouldn’t I? Tell me, what’s your price for betrayal these days, Gaerin? A vault of starlight coins or just the screams of the innocent?”
His jaw tightened, but he dared not move. “This isn’t just about you anymore, Isolde. They’re watching. They’re everywhere.”
“Oh, I know,” she said, stepping back and lowering the blade. “Which is exactly why I’m going to fix this before they do. Because unlike you, I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.”
Without another word, she turned and melted into the twisting maze of cobblestone alleys, her overalls catching the faint shimmer of refracted moonlight. The butterfly tattoo on her overalls seemed to uncoil and flicker for an instant, as though alive, before settling back into stillness. Somewhere behind her, Gaerin cursed under his breath before vanishing into the shadows he had come from.
As Isolde sprinted toward the edge of the city, the weight of what she carried pressed heavy against her. She wasn’t sure if she’d survive the night, or if the Aether Vault’s secret would consume her like it had consumed so many before her. But she was Isolde—fearless, sharp as her pulse blade, and stubborn to a fault. If she was going to burn, she’d go down in an explosion heard across galaxies.
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Modern Bohemian Style: Deep Blue Denim Overalls, White Minimalist Top, and Butterfly Tattoo Aesthetic
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