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He had been a hero once. Now, he was cursed with the half-life of a shadow wraith.
‘Touch her again,’ he said, leaning in, crushing Coltan to the wall behind him, ensuring the punishing grip mirrored his words. ‘And you die.’
She was the flicker of flame that met his shadows.
‘Against evil, fair fighting is a sure way to get yourself killed.’
‘then carve out my heart, Wildfire. It’s yours.’
Love didn’t happen once, she realised. It happened every day, in little moments, in the quiet gaps between grand words, in the lingering touches, in the hope it promised in the dark. Love was something that breathed and expanded, that was made and remade, again and again, reforged only to become stronger.
If this was it, then so be it. She would defend her kingdom to the death.
