Hestia knows her way around glyphs even with her eyes closed. She memorized them the quickest, and knew by instinct even before she was found by the sisterhood what those etched lines mean. Each glyph, to her mind, has its own flavor. Their personalities were distinct, easily differentiated. She found training difficult, since she drew them purely from sight– something she was heavily trained out of since a crooked line translates to death.
Hers, if she’s not careful.
The sister she’s currently working with was held long before her, yet she was barred from personal rituals. The older girl had begged Hestia to partner up, claiming difficulties to ask others for it.
Hestia could not deny the sweet promise of an unfair deal. In the future, she is sure to utilise this favour to its fullest. If only Hestia heeds her other sisters’ warning and rejects the earnest pleading of the sister before her whose eyes were wide and fingers darkened with dust and charcoal, she would have lived until dinner.
Alas, the other girl was redundantly incapable in the manner of glyphs despite her abundance of arcane powers, and thus the ritual folds in on itself, dragging Hestia along with it. The arcane source from beyond did not call or warn of its coming. It floods the room with a light brighter than lightning, deafening their eyes and ears. Her lungs were stuck in its surprise exhale, and Hestia flailed around for grip. When she found nothing, she tried to etch the glyphs she knew like breathing, and was promptly cut.
The entirety of it is distant, separated by a ravine darker than black.
She would have heaved in panic if not for the sudden silence that slams her as everything she knew before her fades to black. She only noticed she was still alive by virtue of her chattering teeth and eyelid movement, the silence and sight so dark and overwhelming she waited for the grim by her foot.
Then, as if caressed by some nonexistent wind, a sweet, barely there sensation on her forehead sends her off.