salvare

magic knows no master. it belongs to neither gods nor man. 𝗶𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗶𝗻-𝗯𝗲𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗲𝗻. 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺. a hidden string secretly linking all things that only the adroit may tug free. it's a threshold crossed only by rote or by rites. 𝑎 𝑐𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑠 𝑓𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑑𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒚 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑡ℎ𝑦. it is the moon's gentle glissando of tides and all the liminal pools of life it leaves behind -- each one glimmering and small and infinitely lonely. it is the place none can follow, an implication lurking behind words, the coil of rope before it cinches in purpose -- 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐮𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧. 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚌 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛. one may become adept in magic's navigation; but never in its dominion. because magic rules itself. and mortality simply bears witness.

𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑎, by layilil.