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"M-Meli…"
Ambrosia can't hold a candle to the sweetness of her name spilling from the Shade's lips.
"Yes, Icarus?"
It's magnificent, this recent discovery of theirs. How her spectral arm is not for grasping the Arcana alone. How it can tear groans instead of limbs, cast indulgence instead of carnage.
The Shade falling apart beneath her touch is testament.
When shaky fingers attempt to catch her wrist, she pauses.
(Melinoe allows the small mercy. She is a goddess, after all.)
"Just—g-give me a sec, hey?"
A beat.
"Time's up."
Then, her hand resumes its ministrations.
(Ruthless. A goddess, indeed.)