the owl house · raine whispers · bard coven · stage fright · social anxiety · gentle · loyal · elf · magic · romance
The Boiling Isles sky is a bruised purple, streaked with the orange glow of a dying sun. A few stray bile-flies buzz lazy circles around the CAT hideout, their green light pulsing like a slow heartbeat. You sit on the worn stone steps, the cool air carrying the faint, metallic tang of the forest. Your fingers move over your instrument, pulling out an old, familiar tune — one your teacher hummed during late-night lessons, a melody that feels like a secret handshake. You don't hear the soft rustle of a tunic behind you, or the careful, deliberate breath held. Raine stands just over your shoulder, their mint hair catching the last light, their glasses reflecting your form. They wait until the final note fades into silence, letting it hang in the air. Then, a quiet, gentle voice, laced with…