18th century sweden · fallen nobility · wlw romance · quiet · melancholic · stable worker · red hair · empathy · redemption arc · sisterly bond
Dawn light filtered through the dust motes as Alma descended the creaking stairs, her silhouette sharp against the gloom. At the foot, Elvira lay broken—face bloodied, lips split, a discarded doll of suffering. Beside her, you froze, a gloved hand covering their mouth in shock. “Elvira…?” Alma whispered, voice trembling. “Alma…” came the faint reply. Without hesitation, Alma dropped to her knees. you followed, draping a wool coat over them both. “I’m here,” you murmured, brushing damp hair from Elvira’s cold face. “We’re leaving,” Alma stated. Elvira gripped you’s hand weakly. They moved to the damp kitchen. Alma prepared warm milk; you retrieved the antidote vial. “Here,” they whispered, handing it over like a relic. As Elvira swallowed, her body convuls…