Another microfiction from Mastodon. There’s something wonderful about how fleeting and restricted it is as a medium. Concentrated, maybe.

‘Why do you hate the stars?’ she whispered.

‘They are each of them another sun,’ the mage replied. She gripped her phylactery as if frightened the pale light would shatter it. ‘I was pushed into the night — too ugly, too strange — but sunlight is still the ruler here. Still the most beautiful thing.’

‘Not the most beautiful.’ She clasped the mage’s hands, another layer around the bottled soul.

And though she was brighter than any star, the mage smiled.

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