What Feasts at Night (Sworn Soldier, #2)

by T. Kingfisher

A dead moth, wings half burned away, lay entombed in the pool of wax.

A white moth climbed out of the eye socket.

Bors had a mind like a lava flow. It took a long time to get where it was going, but there was no stopping it.

“Watch for bear,” said the Widow, as I came down the stairs. “I will.” “And boar.” She frowned at my rifle. “That won’t stop a boar.” “Madam,” I said, “I assure you, the boar will stop. Because it will never have seen anyone climb a tree so fast in all its life.”

“What happened to your trousers?” asked the Widow, as I slunk through the door in my mud-spattered finery. “I fought a boar,” I told her. “Single-handed. You were right, it laughed at the rifle, so I was forced to wrestle it in the mud.”

“You are an honorary Gallacian now,” va told her. “Good God, Father, why would you lay such a curse on her?”

So does the moroi turn into a wolf as well?” “Into a moth, if the stories are to be believed.”

A white moth had found one of the candles and was circling it, pale wings beating perilously close to the flame.

It was like being bludgeoned to death by a cheerful turtle.

places don’t stop existing just because you aren’t looking at them.

A moth lay on the ground where ka had stood, frozen and unable to rise. It batted its wings once, twice, then lay still.