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To those fearful of falling—in love or otherwise— you are braver than you know
Death allows herself a moment to pity this soul. “I am not who you want answering your prayers.”
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.
This man willingly tasted death, forfeited his future. And the Keeper of the Mors would like to know why. She stands to her feet. Shakes her head. Even smiles slightly. Death swore she would die before setting foot back in Ilya.
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.
If you wish to grab Death’s attention, then die.
Death can sympathize with harsh women—life forced them to become so.
Kitt Azer needs to die.
No, he is not supposed to think that about me. Not him. This is for him. For us. He will see that soon—he has to see that.
I am a monster. I am a king. Perhaps one cannot exist without the other.
Loving is the gravest danger one can put themselves in. Those you hold dear will inevitably slip from between your grasping fingers.
Lenny stares down at his hands in astonishment. “It was me, idiot,” Blair pants, wiping blood from her nose. “Right.” Lenny crouches beside her. “Of course it was.”
In fact, she thinks quite often on the unusual hair colors that pure power provided.
“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.”
