I hung my head, still on my knees. Knives still in my hands. I couldn’t seem to let them go. So I stared at their sharp edges, wishing I was made of steel, too. A finger hooked under my chin. I knew whose finger it was before I lifted my eyes. The Guardian crouched before me, still covered in blood. He’d walked to me without a sound, his footsteps as light as feathers. “Are you all right, my queen?” It was the gentlest I’d ever heard his voice. Low and smooth like silk. “Was it a grizzur?” “Yes.” “Is it dead?” He arched an eyebrow. “Cross.”
