She died with nothing but a last, undignified gurgle. The second half of the Mother, High Lady of faekind, killer of gods and destroyer of continents … lying dead in my lap, curled up like a child to be comforted. Her fingers still clawed into my forearm. Her once-beautiful face remained fixed in grotesque contortions. Around us, dull thuds broke the silence – her puppets dropping to the floor as the magic sustaining them died with her.
