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At first glance, he was just a man. Striking. Intimidating. But still, just a man. Yet his irises did not have the typical Turan green starburst. They were solid, molten silver. Liquid metal. Colorless, like my dress. The Guardian.
A King cannot kill his Sparrow, and a Sparrow cannot kill her King, either directly or indirectly, without death befalling them both.
“Not all monsters are born from the gods, my queen. Some of us were made.”
“You have no chance at outrunning an opponent, either monster or man. You’re too short and slow.” “Thanks,” I deadpanned. “And I was certain I wouldn’t earn any compliments today.” “Praise is for the bedroom, Cross. Not the training ring.”
“When I am nothing but dust and ash, Turah will endure. I do not need a crown. And I have made peace with my destiny. But before I step into my grave, my choice is you.”
He stole the air from my lungs, a beat from my heart,
