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Death strides past the howling woman to find refuge beneath a tree of her own. Its whisper is familiar, the soul within, a friend.
A man flashes in Death’s mind. His golden hair is disheveled above a pair of wild, green eyes. He is arguing, agitated, though his words are muffled.
Foolish, reckless, mad—I don’t care. I have great plans for Ilya. I only need to evade Death.
Because in all of Death’s years, she has never known an Azer to so willingly part with their power.
Death stares longingly at his retreating form. Then at the wall separating her from that flickering, blue soul within the study.
The Tele—Death so enjoys these silly titles—stands
The broken organ just no longer beats.
But I am not my father.
I will be so much greater.
Mara tilts her head at him. It’s a bit ironic, really, that he doesn’t seem to realize how much strength vulnerability like this requires.
“Is it not the darkest parts of ourselves that ultimately make us who we are?”
I am a monster. I am a king. Perhaps one cannot exist without the other.
You see, Death clutches the truth closely, as it is the only thing one is allowed to bring with them into the afterlife.
“Um, Lenny,” the Tele starts sweetly, “my little gingersnap that I could quite literally snap in half with
a single thought,
“I have other souls to take care of.” It almost sounds like she’s teasing me.
“In fact,” he says slowly, “I would have believed you were a deity, if only you said so. I wouldn’t have questioned worshiping something so divine.”
No one, living or dead, has ever offered to wait outside my thoughts for me. So I shut my eyes and ponder beside her.
“Then it is decided.” My gaze lifts to the stars above. “I will go gently. For you.” When my eyes finally fall back on Death, I almost don’t believe what I’m seeing. She is smiling.
And I vow to save my brother from the fate of her.
meet Death’s gaze in the sea of bodies. It is fitting that she is here. A piece of me has just died. Love is a luxury. And the naive boy who thought differently is laid to rest in this flowery grave.
“You may not want me, but Life no longer wants you.” Death leans over the desk, skewering Kitt to his seat. “Your soul is mine. And what is left of me could have been yours,” she murmurs. “But now I won’t be so gentle.” Mara is not a monster—unless you make her out to be one.
