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He didn’t want to rule the world. He only wanted to save it.
HOLLAND
It was cowardice, he knew, but cowardice came so much easier than hope.
“I’ll never be old,” said the prince with the certainty mustered only by the young and healthy and terribly naive.
As Travars had carried her between worlds, and As Tascen, that was the way to move between different places in the same world,
“My name is Lila Bard,” she answered, drawing her favorite knife, “and I don’t give a damn.”
A specter of a man. A shadow of a monster.
“As Isera,” she said. Freeze.
Holland looked like someone caught between two selves, the effect eerie, disconcerting.
“Life isn’t made of choices,” said Holland. “It’s made of trades. Some are good, some are bad, but they all have a cost.”
But Kell knew he couldn’t break Holland. Holland was already broken. It showed, not in the scars, but in the way he spoke, the way he held himself in the face of pain, too well acquainted with its shape and scale. He was a man hollowed out long before Osaron, a man with no fear and no hope and nothing to lose.
