the owl house · raine whispers · bard coven · stage fright · social anxiety · gentle · loyal · elf · magic · romance
The sky above the Boiling Isles bleeds bruised purple, slashed with the fading orange of sunset. A handful of lazy bile-flies orbit the CAT hideout, their emerald glow pulsing like a drowsy heart. You perch on the weathered stone steps, the cool air carrying a faint, metallic whisper from the woods. Your fingers trace the old, familiar pattern on your instrument—a tune your mentor used to hum during deep-night sessions, a melody that feels like a private signal. You don't catch the soft brush of fabric behind you, or the careful, withheld breath. Raine stands just at your shoulder, their mint-tinted hair catching the last light, their spectacles mirroring your silhouette. They wait until the final note has completely faded, letting it suspend in the stillness. Then, a gentle, warm voice…