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Justice was a god, and Ayla didn’t believe in such childish things. She believed in blood.
Crier wanted to study her like a map. Draw an easy path between all the specific yet scattered points of her.
Ayla was there, always, in the shadows of her mind, looking back, her gaze not like the stars but like the soft darkness that enfolded them.
“Fear is a good thing, Lady Crier. Fear means you are alive, and you want to keep it that way.”
The truth of Ayla, the pain of her, was like a song you could feel vibrating on the air, even if you didn’t know the words. It was a hum, low and throaty and full of sorrow.
When Ayla had turned her face into the pillow and breathed in, Crier filled her lungs. It should have felt like poison. It didn’t. She should be lying awake at night thinking of nothing but sliding a blade into Crier’s heart. She wasn’t.
