A Reaper at the Gates (An Ember in the Ashes, #3)

by Sabaa Tahir

It shouldn’t hurt, him calling me by my title. After all, I am not Helene Aquilla anymore.

“You live and breathe and eat and sleep on the backs of those less fortunate. Your entire existence is due to the oppression of those you view to be lesser.

“You mean the king who has a price on my head?” I say. “The one who ordered men and women and children who have seen genocide to be put in camps outside the city instead of treated like humans? That king?”

“You’d be a fool to try it,” I say. “But by all means, entertain me.”

I hate love. I yearn for it. And it drives me mad.

And like that day long ago in Serra, with my brother’s voice ringing in my ears, I flee.

Skies, I hope he has not grown a beard. I hated his beard.

A crack sounds, softer than in my visions. It is a small noise, like the breaking of a bird’s wing. Lis slips lifeless to the floor, her neck broken by our mother’s hand.

“No.” I touch my forehead to hers. “No, love. I’m real. You’re real.”

Curse this world for what it does to the mothers, for what it does to the daughters. Curse it for making us strong through loss and pain, our hearts torn from our chests again and again. Curse it for forcing us to endure.