I approached the iron balustrade, cloaking my voice in a veil of warmth. “Greetings, Camilla. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
๐€โถล๏ฝแปืฉ๏ผฅ๐๏ฝ.ฤ๐๐ช
At the sound of my voice, Camilla’s eyelids moved slightly.
Still, she offered no gaze, no acknowledgment, save for a disdainful snort. “Spare me the pleasantries. You and your father are cut from the same cloth. I wish to be left alone; your presence is unwelcome.”
Her voice grated against the air; like a harsh symphony reminiscent of nails on glass, jarring to the senses.
๊งเผโฌ๐๐ฎ๐ช๐ป๐๐ธ๐ฟ๐ฎ๐ต๐ผ.๐๐ธ๐ถโฌเผ๊ง
Yet, her words piqued my curiosity more than they offended.
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Undeterred by her frostiness, I ventured, “Camilla, how can you claim to know so much about us?”
A mocking curl played at the edges of her lips, her response laced with ice.
“It’s the stench-that vile, unmistakable werewolf stench you share with your father. I find it repulsive.”
With a theatrical flourish, she covered her nose, a final barb thrown my way. “Now, be gone. Spare me any further assault on my senses.
It’s nauseating!”
In the face of such disdain, I stood, a mix of bewilderment and helplessness washing over me.
Camilla couldn’t make her disdain for werewolves any more clear.
“Camilla, I’ve come on an urgent matter.”
Refusing to be dismissed, I dove swiftly into the heart of the matter. “There’s a dark plot afoot, masterminded by Gale, aiming to cast werewolves into the throes of a war. The conflict is so vast that it threatens to engulf us all. My quest is to unearth the roots of this ancient enmity between witches and werewolves, to navigate a path towards peace.”
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Yet, my words twisted into betrayal in Camilla’s ears. Her response was icy, a blizzard meant to chase me away. “So, you seek the truth to wield them against witches? I will not arm you with such knowledge.”
Camilla’s misunderstanding was a dagger to my hope.
Yet, I couldn’t fault her entirely. The chasm of mistrust between witches and werewolves was ancient and deep. Its edges were lined with the scars of prejudice and misconception.
My father’s presence only cast a deeper shadow over our conversation, his mere existence amplifying Camilla’s reluctance to divulge any truth.
Pondering over a solution, I urged, “Dad, perhaps it’s best if you wait outside. This is something I must do alone.”
His worry was a tangible thing, wrapping around us like a dense fog.
“No, what if she turns on you?” he protested, the concern in his voice painting him every inch the protective patriarch.
With a blend of logic and reassurance, I countered, “She won’t harm me. Like Camilla, I’m a witch. Witches do not turn against their own.”
My father opened his mouth to protest, but I cut him off. “And, let’s be honest, given Camilla’s age, even if she were to lash out, she wouldn’t be a match for me.”
His objections hung in the air, unspoken yet loud, until my assurance seemed to seep into his doubts.
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