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“There once was a girl,” he said, his voice slick, “clever and good, who tarried in shadow in the depths of the wood. There also was a King—a shepherd by his crook, who reigned over magic and wrote the old book. The two were together, so the two were the same: “The girl, the King, and the monster they became.”
Ravyn had been a liar always out of necessity, never a fondness for the craft.
“You asked for the truth. Truth bends, Ravyn Yew. We must all bend along with it. If we do not, well …” His yellow eyes flared. “Then we will break.”
“I know what I know. My secrets are deep. But long have I kept them. And long will they keep.”
“Does that make me wicked?” “If it does, you and I are the same kind of wicked.”
It’s fraying my nerves, listening to him sigh.
After a lifetime of feeling things so keenly, the numbness felt good.”
“I’d be your King, but always your servant. Never your keeper.”
“I think about how easy it would be to do horrible things if I felt I had a good reason.”
“The way you’re looking at me,” he said, cupping her chin, “terrifies me.” “Why?” She ran a hand down his neck, his chest, the line between his abdomen muscles. “Did no one ever love you before,
“Magic has little use for time. I walk through centuries like they were my own garden.”
He has looked pain in the eye—and refused to let it make a monster of him.”
“For nothing is safe, and nothing is free. Debt follows all men, no matter their plea. When the Shepherd returns, a new day shall ring.
