Emilia Didn’t Move. Not When Sayuri Leaned In, Not When That Familiar, Too-sure
emilia didn’t move. not when sayuri leaned in, not when that familiar, too-sure smirk tugged at her mouth, all sharp edges and thinly veiled provocation. it was the kind of smile people wore when they thought they’d won something. when they believed proximity could be mistaken for power. she’d seen it before — in nobles who mistook charm for cunning, in demons who thought a well-dressed threat could outmatch centuries of silence. she’d learned to wait. to let the theatrics run their course. sayuri’s voice lilted with practiced confidence, each word polished to provoke, laced with just enough mockery to test her reaction. the jab about the crystal ball was a tired one — she didn’t let it land. she rarely did. mockery was a poor currency to trade in when your opponent had learned to live without the need for validation. ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵃⁿᵗᵉᵈ ᵗʰᶦˢ, emilia thought. ʸᵒᵘ ᵇᵘᶦˡᵗ ᵗʰᶦˢ ᵐᵒᵐᵉⁿᵗ ᵖᶦᵉᶜᵉ ᵇʸ ᵖᶦᵉᶜᵉ. ᵃⁿᵈ ⁿᵒʷ ʸᵒᵘ'ʳᵉ ʷᵃᶦᵗᶦⁿᵍ ᵗᵒ ˢᵉᵉ ʰᵒʷ ᶦ’ˡˡ ᵖˡᵃʸ ᶦᵗ. she let a beat of silence pass before answering — long enough to be deliberate. then, with the faintest curl of irony at the edge of her voice ❝ you must be fun at parties. ❞ she shifted, not out of discomfort but control, creating distance with the kind of easy grace that said: i decide how close you stand. her gaze swept over sayuri again, not in challenge, but in quiet recalibration. the arrogance wasn’t surprising — what interested her was what wasn’t being said. the hints tucked beneath the performance. the weight behind the word business. sayuri wasn’t bluffing. that much was clear. but she also wasn’t being entirely honest — which made her interesting. ❝ i don’t need ᶠᵒʳᵉˢᶦᵍʰᵗ to recognize someone who likes the sound of their own schemes, ❞ emilia said, tone mild. ❝ or someone who confuses being clever with being in control. ❞ and yet — she didn’t walk away. because as much as sayuri was a disruption, a complication … she was also a window. and emilia had learned to pay attention when the world handed her one. ❝ fine. business. talk. ❞ she turned her back fully now, unbothered. ❝ just don’t waste my time pretending you’re doing me a favor. ❞ let sayuri think she had the upper hand for now. emilia wasn’t in the business of showing her cards until it mattered.
@ncantari, continued from here !
A smirk, subtle in both amusement and triumph, tugged at Sayuri’s lips at the witch’s blunt, yet truthful accusation. She reveled in both pride and immense satisfaction at the fact that her plan had worked, and at the vague acknowledgement of her wit. Of course she had planned this — known for her meticulous nature and aversion to chance, there was no way the ghoula would leave anything to fate, least of all let herself end up in such a compromising position if it weren’t for a larger scheme at play, a woven intrigue. Sayuri nodded, a gesture betraying her overflowing delight, her expression radiating the brimming confidence born of arrogance — of the firm belief that she held the upper hand.
❛ That’s where you are correct, ❜ she chimed, her voice laced with playful mockery. ❛ Didn’t see that one coming in that little crystal ball of yours, did you? Tsk. You know, I thought witches were supposed to have foresight — or is that just a marketing gimmick? ❜ Borrowing from the tired clichés and overused prejudices often hurled at witches, each of her words was designed to subtly undermine her opponent, to paint her as predictable and limited. Truth was, Sayuri had never bothered to delve beyond surface-level understandings of witchcraft, unwilling to concern herself with something that didn’t seem to directly affect her.
Leaning in, eyes gleaming with a predatory light, she closed the distance between them, invading Emilia’s personal space. ❛ But don’t look so sour. I wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble if I didn’t think you had something worthwhile to offer. So, how about we skip the dramatics and talk? Seems like the perfect opportunity to discuss business, don’t you think? ❜ For Sayuri, the word ‘business’ carried a weight of unspoken implications. It usually meant that she wanted something, as simple as that — and her negotiation methods were rarely fair.
More Posts from Ncantari and Others
“I was born of song and story, of spell or speech with power of oracle.”
— Kathleen Raine, from The Collected Poems of K. R.; “The Wilderness,” (via alcrepuscolo)
she didn’t smile. not at his question, not at the way his words lilted so easily between implication and charm. the air between them had cooled by degrees, not with malice, but with something quieter — older. like caution pressed into silence. ˢᵒ ʷʰᶦᶜʰ ᶦˢ ᶦᵗˀ ᴬ ᶠᵒʳᵗᵘⁿᵃᵗᵉ ᵃᶜᶜᶦᵈᵉⁿᵗˀ ᴼʳ ᵖʳᵉᶜᶦˢᵉˡʸ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐᵉᵉᵗᶦⁿᵍ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵉʳᵉ ᵐᵉᵃⁿᵗ ᵗᵒ ʰᵃᵛᵉˀ she heard it for what it was — not curiosity, not truly. it was a shift of the board. an invitation to let him steer the narrative, to hand him the reins under the illusion of shared conversation. her gaze stayed fixed on him, ˢᵗᵉᵃᵈʸ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵘⁿʳᵉᵃᵈᵃᵇˡᵉ. that, too, was a kind of answer. ❝ you’re very good at answering questions with more questions, ❞ she said at last, her voice calm, precise. ❝ though i suppose that’s the game, isn’t it? ❞ she didn’t wait for his reply — she didn’t need to. it was already written in the curl of his mouth, the ease of his posture, the too-smooth cadence of someone used to slipping through locked doors with words alone. ❝ i’ve seen people lie with less grace, ❞ she continued, her tone still unbothered, still measured. ❝ but rarely with so much ᴄᴏɴғɪᴅᴇɴᴄᴇ in being believed. ❞ she stepped forward then, slowly, allowing her presence to fill the space between them, not to intimidate — that would have been too obvious — but to remind him that she was not just listening. she was reading. every line, every pause, every carefully chosen word. a small silence passed between them, deliberate, weighted. then, her voice — quieter now, but edged with something steel-spined and certain ❝ i don’t trust men who smile while they’re being watched. ❞ she let that linger in the air like the last note of a spell, her expression unchanged, unblinking, as though she were waiting — not for an answer, but for something more revealing. a misstep. a crack in the veneer. a shadow, even slight, that might betray what he really wanted. because people like him never asked questions like that without a purpose. they didn’t speak in riddles unless they had something to hide — or something to gain. so she watched. and waited. because if this was a game, she intended to know all the rules before she moved her first piece.
" would you believe me if i said wrong place, wrong time ? "
the sorceress studied him carefully, her gaze sweeping over the pristine cut of his coat, the polished cufflinks, the effortless poise of someone who had never wanted for anything. his words were smooth, his demeanor composed — but there was something just a little too measured about it.
she let out a slow breath, eyebrows lifted as she regarded him with quiet scrutiny ❝ would you believe me if I said I didn't believe in coincidences? ❞
her voice was steady, laced with the unmistakable lilt of her sicilian accent and edged with quiet sᴜsᴘɪᴄɪᴏɴ — and yet ᴄᴜʀɪᴏsɪᴛʏ flickered beneath it. men like him didn’t end up in the wrong place at the wrong time — unless they meant to be there.
The Times, Shreveport, Louisiana, November 30, 1913
there was a long beat of silence before emilia spoke ... long enough for the hush of the room to grow thick, broken only by the soft drag of linen over skin as she gently wiped the ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ from emory’s hands with a damp cloth. her touch was careful, practiced, almost reverent. as if tending to something fragile, not just flesh, but what still lived beneath it. ❝ i’ve asked myself the same thing before, ❞ she murmured, not quite looking up. her voice was low, warm in a way that didn’t try to comfort — but offered a kind of quiet understanding. ❝ what makes a stranger stop for someone like me. offer kindness when i expected none. ❞ the cloth, stained pink now, moved in slow circles along emory’s knuckles. her hands weren’t trembling, but there was tension in the way she held them — tension emilia didn’t force away, only worked around. ❝ maybe i see something in you. ❞ her eyes lifted then — dark and steady, but not searching. just seeing. ❝ maybe i don’t need a reason. ❞ she folded the cloth once more, exposing a clean side, her movements unhurried. ❝ or maybe i just know what it’s like to be afraid and have ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ reach back. ❞ her accent curled through the words like smoke — rich and unshaken. she tilted her head slightly, a subtle furrow in her brow that made her expression seem almost tender, though her gaze was sharp beneath it. ❝ i won’t ask for trust. i won’t even expect it. but questioning kindness doesn’t mean you don’t need it. ❞ and then, quieter — like a truth wrapped in silk, just for her : ❝ sometimes the right people show up when we’re most afraid to be seen. ❞
continued from here (@ncantari).
her brows furrowed as she observed the stranger, confused and curious at once. the woman's demeanour appeared to change with every passing minute ﹕ while she seemed guarded at first, she now looked soft and welcoming – almost motherly. it had a soothing effect on emory, disarming her and most of her defenses right with it. her shoulders relaxed, folding her hands to keep them from trembling and taking a calming breath. for the first time in the past hour she felt somewhat safe, but still she wouldn't let her guard down completely. she couldn't. ❛ why would you want to help me? ❜, she asked, wary of the stranger's motives.
“Both the bitter and the sweet, both a honey-tongued blessing and a curse.”
— Miklós Radnóti, from All That Still Matters At All: Poems; “A Gentle Breeze,”
An absolutely stunning axe, probably used for hunting, Sicily, Italy, ca. 16th century, housed at the Waddesdon Manor Art Collection.
❛ it looks worse than it feels. ❜
emilia’s gaze flicked to the figure standing before her, taking in the blood staining her sleeve and the fresh cut along her jaw. strangers though they were, there was something familiar in the way she held herself — shoulders squared, chin lifted, as if daring the world to see her pain.
❝ it looks worse than it feels. ❞
the girl’s voice was even — almost dismissive — but emilia didn’t miss the way her fingers trembled slightly at her side. the witch narrowed her eyes, hesitating for a moment before stepping closer. ❝ maybe. but you’re still bleeding. ᴸᴱᵀ ᴹᴱ ᴴᴱᴸᴾ. ❞
Collection 02 Campaign
shot by Katherine Goguen
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