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“Why are you-?” she stuttered over hiccupping breaths. “Cry, Amalia,” Rurik said, in his human form rather than his scaly one. He pulled her tighter. “It is fine.”
“I believe I am quite magnificent. I thought that was obvious.”
He wanted them on the same level so they could suffer together, by themselves.
“So, you do not just fight Witches?” Her hands retreated. “I am temperamental. I fight with everyone.”
She didn’t turn to him, but she said, “The view is quite lovely here.” With his eyes still on her, he answered, “Yes, it is.”
“Are you saying you do not fear death?” He didn’t know whether or not to believe her since he didn’t think she’d ever uttered a lie to him. “I fear pain.” She met his eyes with unwavering doubt. “I fear the agony of flames, I fear the stab of a knife, the suffocation of drowning. Death is an escape from worldly senses, and all I want is to not suffer or be afraid when I am living in this world – or dying in it.”
