Livira held the book to her chest. She’d written her heart into it. She’d let her pen wander the pages through adventure after adventure, imagination unchained. And through it all Evar had walked beside her, run beside her, flown to the moons, dived to the darkest depths the seas contained. She had written it. He had lived it. With her. Malar coughed and sat up. “Fucked if a man can sleep with all that growling and grunting. Let’s go.” And Livira and Evar—without requiring translation but needing the space to absorb this revelation—agreed.
