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Outfit/Moodboard
Mentioning: Lots of people
Hex Color: #20681A

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[font=Blackadder itc]Coded by Rafael D'Spacito[/font]

Amara is bored. She had just decided upon her gown for the New Year’s gala Anastasia is hosting and is now wandering the halls of Snow Court. Now, dressed in a little white shirt, pastel blue and pink skirt, and a matching trench coat, the blonde just wonders aimlessly. Percy is occupied in a chess game with her grandfather, Lucas, and Johannes in her cousin’s room, door open of course, reading poetry and eating candy, her grandmother is taking a nap, and her parents are harassing the staff over the New Years party that she can thankfully avoid. Deciding to grab some tea and head into her study to do some school work, the blonde walks into the kitchen. After laying her trench coat over a chair, the heir pulls out a teacup, the rose petals, and some cream. The past year and a half have made her much more self-sufficient, so she can easily heat herself up some water instead of having to ask someone else to do it.

Pouring a bit of cream into her cup as the tea seeps, the Slytherin girl watches as a large, brown owl flies into the house via a small door. Smiling as Kaz comes running over to inspect the bird, Amara hands the messenger a few treats, takes the letter tied onto its leg, and sends it back out into the world.

A curious letter it is, a black envelope addressed to her father, sealed with a… lipstick mark? Amara runs her slim, pale fingers over the stationary, lost in thought. Something feels off, something rattles through her bones, and a girl who respects privacy, a girl who understands that not everything is meant to be known, opens the letter. Something comes over the blonde, an urge to understand, to know.

Eyes dart across the page, her heart is beating faster with every word. She stumbles back, red streaks strike through her vision and she almost steps on Kaz in the process. This is no business associate or acquaintance, no, this is something nefarious. Pain, anger, they burst through her. Grabbing her trench coat that lays on a chair, Amara rushes out into the rose gardens. Snow up to her ankles, legs covered by a thin pair of tights, but none of it matters. The stark wind does not compare to the pain, the cold is outmatched by the heat of anger.

Her hands reach for the nearest rose bush, a small thorn pricks her fingers as she pulls the rose up and out of the ground. No beauty. No, it cannot exist in the same world as this. More flowers are pulled, are torn, are destroyed. Hands are bloodied and dirty, her clothes, well, it would take something like magic to clean them. Somewhere along the way, the sun sets, somewhere along the way, the household staff notices that the Dragamior heir was missing.

A shock it will be, when the new maid, who has been on staff for about a week, will come across that very girl in the rose garden. Ripped clothes, bloodied hands, roses spewed around, and a young heir curled up in a ball. They will take her inside, bathe and bandage her. But nothing can heal her, nothing can heal the rip in her heart or the broken trust in her mind. And this my loves, is why we do not have affairs, this is why we do not tear families apart; because it can destroy even the strongest of girls, because even diamonds can shatter.