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“The cold is not alive, but you are.”
as though he expects she’ll follow the rest, as though he thinks her a mere human girl, no different from the hundred others who fell into that damned pool. Like she didn’t have a father and mother and grandmother and sister and a den of girls and a name to live up to. Dawsyn stares back at the King, her glare burning, and finds that she cannot allow this to be the sum of her existence. “No.”
“I’m sure you have. But just so we are clear, I am faster, I never miss, and I only rise to bait worth eating.”
“I would not follow any other.”
Her black hair is long and tangled; her eyes hold a frightening edge. Stronger men than he could be quelled by that look alone. Of course she would be the exact one sent by the gods to torture him. And so she does. All damned day.
“Why does any kingdom keep its poor, other than to keep the noble rich?
