CHAPTER 12
Mara
This is terribly reckless.
(But quite fun.)
Mara sits beside the unmoving king.
She killed him. (Well, for now.) Power strains beneath Death’s skin. The Mors is her well, and when away from it, she starts to run dry.
But some part of her—perhaps the heart that aches to beat again—wants to
appease the young Azer.
Terribly reckless, indeed.
Mara drags a cold nger across the king’s knuckles. Then the stubbled curve of his jaw.
It is foreign, this feeling. Or rather, feeling anything at all.
Death does not touch the living. But his soul is so delicately in between.
A feeling begins to fester in her chest—something even more dangerous than
she.
Hope.
Mara has experienced this horror rsthand. Like something pleasant that’s a breath away from becoming painful. Water too cold, it burns. Fire too large, it
consumes. Love too grand, it kills.
That is what Kitt Azer feels like.
An enticing devastation.