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The truth is that they are just two shades of the same loneliness, friends in commonality, holding each other through the storm.
The land gently suffocates that which has been left in its grasp, like a predator to prey.
The broken and buried are not hers either, but still, the sight of it ignites a wrath in her. Not one that she earned, but one she was born into. One that, despite its age, demands retribution, whether it belongs to her or not.
Her parted lips are red and raw from the wind of the mountain, not painted in wine from a lifetime of feasts.
“Not a desirable trait, is it? For a woman to be arrogant? On a man, it charms, but in women, it corners us. A self-assured woman is either a harlot or embittered.”
cannot decide whether you are a curse or a dream.” “Can’t I be both?” she asks. “Evidently.”
If he can live out his days, only to hear that derision fall from her lips, he will die contented.
who survived twenty-four years on the Ledge.
Finally a fantasy book where the FMC is older than 18
She does not need him, but he can think of nothing more sating than the idea that she might.
“And who will capture me and bring me before him? You?” “No,” the Glacian named Iman says. “Us.” At that, the sound of wings fills the air.
The GASP I gusped
