Aristele had watched his sister fall. Crimson spurting from her lips as Jenoix took her, ushered her away. He moved swiftly as if she weighed as much as spun cotton. The billowing robes around him pooling like a sea of colors and hues, that matched his vivacity with such loveliness that it made the scene feel false.
Perhaps, she was alright.
Aristele was desperate to believe it so, as guilt wrapped a noose around his neck. His words had hurt her. He had seen the way that her expression had fallen when he shook her off, his anger felt so puerile. It felt as though it was a useless mechanism for him to exert his frustration. It was unfair of him to do so. He used Lumielle as a punching bag for his ire for she was the only one who could take it.
He had been mad. Scorchingly angry that he had burned her.
This couldn't be the last of it. He couldn't lose her.
