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“There’s my queen.”
“Yes, you do,” he said. “Don’t forget.” “Never.”
As I emptied my jar of hair dye out the bedroom window.
“My queen demanded a sword.” So he’d brought me one. He hadn’t forgotten.
“You asked for my name,” he said. “You told me I had to earn it.” He nodded. “Ransom. My name is Ransom.”
SHE EARNED HIS NAME
Not silver. Not hazel. Not even emerald green. They turned gold.
It was like that first breath after jumping off a cliff, plunging into the ocean, and breaking free from the surface to fill my lungs. It was like being remade.
It hadn’t taken him long to master my name. I left before he could wield it like that sword he carried.
“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.”
“I love you.” “Yes, you do. Don’t forget.” “Never.”
“Neither will I.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I will find you. Here, or in the shades.”
