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She studied the tree squeezing life out of stone. It was twisted and small but green, growing sideways in defiance of gravity. It lived where nothing had any business thriving.
She plucked a rose and held it to her face. She hated the way roses smelled, their sweetness too fragile. She wanted a garden of evergreens. A garden of stones. A garden of swords.
“How is my sister?” “She breathes fire and pisses vinegar.” “So, the same.”
Her spine was steel. Her heart was armor. Her eyes were fire.
And so she cut out her heart and offered it as a sacrifice. She would pay whatever price her mother Wallachia demanded.
