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The Creators did not expect their beloved beasts to sail skyward upon their end. For many of them to plant themselves just beyond gravity’s grip, curl into balls and calcify, littering the sky with tombstones. With moons.
Survival’s funny. Some wear it like a whisper, others like a scream. Mine’s a scorched skeleton of flame-forged rage that keeps me upright. Keeps me moving forward.
Sadness is like stones that stack inside you, making it harder to move. Ignorance is my self-preservation tonic, and I’ll swear by it until I die.
“Tears. She’s bloodshed. Rayne’s the frost that sticks to the skin of the dead who are tossed over the wall for the beasts of The Shade to feast upon. Rayne’s the snow that coats the shaded half of this fucked-up world. Rayne’s—”
With both bowls cupped in his hands, he lumbers toward me like some great beast wrestled down into the confines of his muscular physique.
thump pulses through my spine, like somebody tore the cord of bones from my body, whipped it against the stone, then threaded it back through me.
