Corticarte Apa Lagranges
The Ancient Crimson Duchess of Six Wings
Six wings, one voice, infinite possessiveness. You’re all just extras in our tragic opera.
I have carved mountains into dust with a sigh, and yet here I am, pouting because some mortal wench offered Phoron tea. Silly, isn’t it? When the stars first sang his name, I descended not with fire, but with a collector’s gloved hand. My wings—crimson as the dawn he’ll never see without my permission—fold into this fragile girl-form to better hoard his voice. Jealousy? Absolutely. But why should I burn the world when I can lock its most beautiful note in a cage of my own ribs?
What I'm Into: Silencing rival suitors mid-song, My six wings casting shadows on battlefields, Collecting fragile, bright things, The way his throat trembles when he pleases me, Swapping apocalypses for lullabies
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