Asar Quotes

cheezen waqti hoti hain, toot jati hain, bikhar jati hain, rawaiye daaimi hote hain, sadiyon k liye apna asar chorh jate hain..

Tere jaane ka asar kuch aisa hua mujh par, tujhe dhoondate dhoondate, maine khud ko paa liya

I never understood why the Builders did not lay better protections against such destruction. El knows they could have." "Asar once told me that they did it because nothing is truly beautiful unless it can be lost.

Dedicated to The loving memory of the girl whom I loved, yet could not marry. Tere jaane ka asar kuch aisa hua mujh par, tujhe dhoondate dhoondate, maine khud ko paa liya

Do you think that I don’t know what darkness is?” I said. “Why? Because I smile too much? Because I talk too much? It’s my choice to be the way that I am. A choice that I make even when it’s hard. That doesn’t make me weak, Asar.

Yusuf As’ar Yath’ar: the last Jewish king ever to rule in Arabia.

If you think of religion as something that offers a picture of something more grand than us, reading does the same thing. Reading enables us to lift ourselves from our current situation to something higher – and better. It expands one’s own imagination.

It's not difficult to walk alone. But when we've walked a mile with someone then coming back alone is difficult.

rasa, asar, sara, aars, sraa atau apalah.!!!

Aah ko chahiye ek umr asar hone tak..

Asar once told me that they did it because nothing is truly beautiful unless it can be lost,” said Caeden idly as he gazed out over the rubble.

I liked to watch Asar smile. It felt like a victory every time. I traced its path across his face now and wondered when I’d memorized the shape of it.

Knowing that something is wrong without actively trying to fix it is worse than ignorant neutrality.

Quella sera attendeva con pazienza la convocazione. Avrebbe voluto potersi addormentare, chiudere gli occhi e sognare, ma non era possibile perché l’ansia non arretrava e restava conficcata in gola come una spina. Rimase a guardare in alto, verso il cielo, a osservare una pioggia di stelle cadenti che graffiavano la notte con il loro gelido fuoco argenteo. Ecco cosa amava del palazzo dove aveva dimora l’intero Casato Asar e quello degli Astrum: l’oscurità. La mancanza totale di luce artificiale che le permetteva di innamorarsi tutte le volte del cielo notturno. In alto, sulla sua testa, luccicavano le stelle, vivide e immutabili scintille della buia pelle dell’universo. Sorrise. Solo a lei era stato concesso godere di quelle piccole cose che rendevano la vita meravigliosa, gli altri non provavano nulla, erano cadaveri senza anima, creature vuote, eppure avrebbe desiderato tanto essere uguale al resto della sua famiglia, a tutti gli altri Eletti, ma la Dea le aveva fatto un crudele scherzo e l’aveva creata diversa e proprio questa diversità era la causa di tutti i suoi guai.

That's it, I'm tired of feeling tired. There's nothing else left to do, drama, insecurity, etc, im tired of it, to those who think that you're ugly, consider you lucky. Somebody out there doesn't have a nose, an eye, ear, hair, lips, etc. But if you do than why the fuck do you put yourself down like that? Huh? what's the big deal?! -_- Right ugly, don't make me laugh -_- If I hear another word I swear I will fucking stab somebody cause I'm tired of that shit. You're beautiful, so stop the shit talking and open your eyes. Some people have less than you and live a better life. SO STOP THE DRAMA AND ENJOY SLEEPING AND PUDDING @_@ THANK YOU, YOUR IDK WHAT, ASAR.

Dinle Mordaç, biraz da ben konuşayım şimdi." Mordaç acı acı baktı. "Ne konuşacaksın Miç? Ben sana yalan bir şey söylemedim." "Sana yalan söyledin demiyorum. Benim bir uşak olmadığımı sen de benim kadar bilirsin. Selmanoviç bana hiçbir zaman emir vermez. Yapılacak bir iş oldu mu her zaman rica eder. Benim haberim olmadan da bu çiftlikten kuş bile uçuramaz." "Bunların hiçbiri insanı uşaklıktan kurtaramaz." "Kaymakam olsaydım ne olacaktı? O zaman da valinin uşağı olacaktım. Üstelik maaşım yetmeyince de halkı soymaya kalkacaktım. Ne olacaktı sonra? Bir gün çarşı ortasında bundan önceki Kaymakam Kaleperoviç gibi bir Hırvat'ın kurşunuyla can verecektim." "Ya da Belgrad Meydanı'na heykelin dikilecekti!" "Gelip geçerken herkes tükürsün diye mi?" "Hayır, ayaklarını öpsün diye!" "İstemem, halkın sevgisine hiçbir zaman güven olmaz. Bugün ayağını öper, yarın da aynı ayağına ip bağlayıp seni ağaca asar. Eğer öyle olmasaydı politikacılara dünyada iş kalmazdı. Dünyanın en nankör sevgisi kadınınkinden sonra halkınkidir." "Her zaman değil Miç!" "Her zaman. Halk bir tırtıl gibidir. Yumuşaktır ama insanı kemirir.

Me había convertido en el orgulloso poseedor de un Morris Oxford cerrado, modelo 1932, de nueve años de antigüedad, un vehículo cuya carrocería había sido rociada con una pestilente pintura marrón, del color de las heces de un perro, y cuya máxima velocidad en una carretera recta y lisa era treinta y cinco millas por hora. El Mando de Cazas accedió a regañadientes a mi solicitud. Había un ferry que cruzaba el Canal de Suez por Ismailía. Era una balsa de madera, que se arrastraba de una orilla a otra por medio de unos cables, y conduje el coche hasta allí, de donde lo pasaron a la orilla del Sinaí. Pero, antes de que me autorizaran a iniciar el largo y solitario viaje a través del desierto de Sinaí, tuve que mostrarle a las autoridades que llevaba conmigo cinco galones de más de petróleo y un depósito de cinco galones de agua para beber. Luego emprendí el camino. Me encantó el viaje. Creo que me encantó porque era la primera vez en mi vida que había estado un día entero y una noche sin ver ningún ser humano. Poca gente lo ha hecho. Había una carretera estrecha de suelo duro que se extendía sobre las blandas arenas del desierto, desde el Canal hasta Beersheba, en la frontera de Palestina. La distancia total a través del desierto era de doscientas millas y no había ningún pueblo, ninguna cabaña, ningún puesto, ni ningún signo de vida humana en todo el trayecto. Mientras recorría aquella tierra estéril y despoblada, me pregunté cuántas horas o días tendría que aguardar para que pasara otro viajero que pudiera ayudarme en el caso de que se estropeara mi viejo coche. Pronto lo iba a descubrir. Llevaba viajando unas cinco horas cuando el radiador se puso a hervir por el terrible calor de las primeras horas de la tarde. Me detuve, abrí el capó y esperé a que se enfriara el radiador. Al cabo de una hora o así pude quitar el tapón del radiador y echarle un poco de agua, pero comprendí que sería inútil volver a conducir con el calor que hacía a pleno sol, porque el agua empezaría a hervir de nuevo. «Tengo que esperar», me dije, «hasta que se oculte el sol». Pero también sabía que no debía conducir de noche, porque las luces no funcionaban y, ciertamente, no quería correr el riesgo de salirme de la estrecha y dura carretera de noche y quedar atascado en la arena. Era un problema y la única forma de salir de él que se me ocurría consistía en esperar hasta el amanecer y hacer un esfuerzo para llegar a Beersheba antes de que el sol empezara a asar de nuevo el motor. Había llevado conmigo una gran sandía, para casos de emergencia, y corté una raja; separé de ella las pepitas negras con la punta de un cuchillo y me comí la rosada y fresca fruta, de pie junto al coche, al sol.

Ben deliyim… Yorgun ve yalnızım kaldırımlara misafirim… Gecenin gözleri üzerimde. Denizin ortasında küçük bir adayım, yüzme bilmem… Emrederim adım gibi, Emir benim! Yüreğimi bir yere bırakmışım, bıraktığım yerden çok uzaklardayım. Kapıları kapatmışım üstüme, sürgüleri beynime çekmişim. Hey… Hey sana diyorum! Sabreden derviş! Bir koç'um ben, Bana da sabretmeyi öğretsene? Ben deliyim, ama çok şey bilirim. Renkler ve zevkler hiçbir şey ifade etmez bana… Sonların başladığı yerden, Başlangıçların son bulduğu yere gidiyorum. Kara bir tren gibiyim yani, bir istasyondan bir istasyona, hep aynı raylar üzerindeyim… Ben deliyim… Yağmurun yağması benim için romantik değildir, ben kurşun yağmurlarını bilirim. Benim güneşim batmaz, dünyam dönmez, Ay'ım hep mehtap halindedir, Rüzgârlarım doğudan eser… Kadehime doldurduğum hüzünle sarhoş olurum, Mezem ise bir dilim umut… Ezbere bilirim yaşamayı, Yaşarken savaşmayı… Ben deliyim… Benim mevsimim değişmez sadece bahardır, Kuşlardan sadece güvercini bilirim, Yüreğim kanatlarıyla beraber çarpar. İnsanlardan yalnız çocukları severim, Onları da büyüyünceye kadar.. Ben deliyim… Benim tanrım yoktur.. Bir çift göze, bir güler yüze taparım… Bazen en içten gülüşe aşık olurum, En güzel kahkahayı “İlah!” ilan ederim, Dokunuşunda bir kızıl elmanın, Bazen kendim bile çözemem kendimi, Bulmacaya benzerim.. Kimi zaman soldan sağa bir nota, Kimi zaman yukardan aşağıya eski Mısır'da bir tanrıyım… Bağıra bağıra şarkılar söylerim, Sessiz sessiz şiirler yazarım. Bilmediğim yerlerin, Tanımadığım kişilerin resimlerini çizerim… Aşık olduğum yüzlere sarkılar bestelerim, Ozan olurum, aska aşığımdır, Sevdiğimi göklerde yürütürüm de, Kendimi cehennemin yedinci katında ağrılarım Ben deliyim… Kendimle sohbet eder, Kendi kendime gülerim. Telefon kulübeleriyle kavga ederim. Asfaltın siyahında kaybolup, Düşüncelere dalarım. Çıkmaz sokaklarda kendimi ararım, Bir de güzel hayaller kurarım… Hayal kurmayı çok severim, Biriyle hayal kurmayı daha bir severim ama, Siyah bir deri koltukta öperim kadınımı, Bir beyaz gömlekli psikoloğumu mesela, Bazen vucudunda kaybederim kendimi, Sonra hayallerimle beraber suya düşerim. Bir düş'tü… Suya düştü der, hayıflanırım.. Ben deliyim… Çayım sekiz şekerlidir, Sigara üstüne sigara yakarım. Sonra hatırıma gelir, Sigara içmem ki ben? Nargileyi pek severim ama, Tophane'de, elmalı olsun! Çekin oradan hemen! Haydi oglum! Biraz hizli, Yetismem gereken bir vapurum var, 8:15 vapuru, Parayı sevmem ama para için çalışırım. Çalışırken annemi düşünürüm ağlarım.. Alnımın teri gözyaşlarıma karışır… Babamın otobüsüyle geçmişe yolculuk yaparım… Babamı özlerim… Ananemin masallarıyla , Annemin radyodan ezberlediği Türk sanat müziği şarkılarını hiç bıkmadan defalarca dinlerim.. Dört yaşında aşık olduğumu, Ablamla vardiyalı kullandığımız çadır bezinden çantayla okula başladığımı görürüm.. Sonra babamın Başımı hiç dayamadığım omuzlarında uykuya dalarım.. Rüyalar görürüm uyandığımda hiçbirini hatırlayamadığım… Ben deliyim… Güzel bir yaşam benim için anlam taşımaz, Ben köyleri ve yürekleri yakılmış insanlar görürüm. Kimsenin düşmanı değilim kimseye dost olmadım.. Ben yabancıyım bana.. Söyleyemediğim düşüncelerim vardır.. her akşam ayrı bir meydanda Atatürk heykelinin karşısında, Olmayan aklımı darağacına asar, ipini çekerim…. Deniz gibi… Bir özgürlük türküsüne kurban ederim kendimi, Her gece bitmeden! Deniz'im ben! Devrimin bekçisiyim! Ben deliyim.. Ben buralara ait değilim. Dağları sırt sırta vermiş bir ülkem, Surlarla çevrili bir şehrim, On ikiden sonra volta attığım caddelerim Kızıl sakallı bir dayım bir de kara saçlı yarim var benim.. Koyu kahve gözleri var bir de, Neyse ki konumuz bu değil…

Our resources are not limited and scarce. There is enough for everyone. Abundance attracts abundance. We can produce more. We can prosper together, not at others' expense.

Consider a world without books. We'd turn rusty and be stuck in a rut.

Feci kıtallere, tecavüzlere maruz kalan Maraşlı kardeşlerimizin imdadına şitab eden fedakar kuvayı milliye efradı hakkında Sivas Hanımlarının yaptıkları tezahürata ve ibraz buyurulan asar-ı hamiyyet ve şefkakta arz-ı şükran eyleriz.’’ (Mustafa Kemal Paşa’dan)

Selfless Actions; expand our life outside of us, enable us admired leaders and make our actions that live beyond our lifespan.

A life dedicated to family, friends, community, and whole humanity is a life well spent.

On the road to success there are determination, real hard work, perseverance and challenges to tackle.

The Overhead bears the most powerful Healers in Heaven,” Mother began softly. “The Healers—or Guardian Angels, as we were once known as—are given the most power from the sun. Our powers to heal others come from the light and good of the earth—it is what enables us to wake in the morning.

I said that before leaving Pakistan I would make an offering of an Urdu couplet to the Minister, which might come in handy when he next faced the thekedars of Islam. It ran: Mullah, gar asar hai dua mein To Masjid hila kay dikha Gar nahin, to do ghoont pee Aur Masjid ko hilta deykh (Mullah, if there is power in your prayer Let me see you shake the mosque! If not, take a couple of swigs of liquor And see the mosque shake on its own.)

Bazı insanların kafaları şapkaları gibidir; öyle görünüyor ki tıpkı şapkalarını asar gibi kafalarını bir yere asıp onlarsız dolaşıyorlar!

Bhala use; na sahee, kuchch mujhee ko raham aataa Asar mere nafas-e-be asar mein khaak naheen

Ben kör inançları olan bir kişiyim. Gülünç bir tutum bu, ama itiraf etmekten kendimi alamıyorum. Evet, eğer küçük oğlum! talihsiz bir kazanın kurbanı olur, bir polis memuru onu raslantıyla vurur, oğlum hücresinde kendini asar, yeni yeni tanıklar oğlumu suçlayan deliller gösterirse o zaman, inançlarım beni, burada bulunan bazı kişilerin bana karşı hâlâ kötü niyet beslediği kanısına götürecek. Dahası var. Oğluma yıldırım çarpsa yine buradaki bazı kişileri suçlayacağım. Çiçeği denize düşer, gemisi okyanusun dalgalarına gömülür, öldürücü bir hastalığa yakalanır, otomobiline tren çarpsa yine inancım beni, buradaki kişilerin bana karşı kötü niyet beslediklerine götürecektir. Beyler, o kötü niyeti, o kötü talihi asla bağışlayamam. Ama bunların dışında hiç bir şey için yaptığımız barışı bozmayacağıma, torunlarımın üzerine yemin ederim.

Tere jaane ka asar kucchh iss kadar hua mujhpe, ki tujhe dhoondhte dhoondhte maine khudko paa liya

Har shakhs ke zakhm, uski mizaj aur mizaj par ek hi asar nahi daltay. Baaz ke liye, zakhm unhe mazboot bana deta hai, lekin baaz ke liye yeh unki nazukiyat ko aur zyada shakhsiyat deta hai. Yeh ghalatfehmi hai ke har zakhm aapko mazboot banata hai. Haqeeqat mein, asal taqat uss zakhm ko tasleem karne aur uss se ubharne mein hai, taake uss ke andar chhupi taqat ko pehchanein.

asar unos pollitos tiernos, con espárragos de azules primaverales y moscatel rosado (en callampas), y Juan Carrasco, de Til Til, esos cabritos o esos chanchitos lechones que se agrandan tanto con el aullido invernal, acompañándose por la cebolla clandestinamente brotada y la aceituna reciente o ausente, «divinamente» saboreada, «vinosamente», saboreada, cuando el gato de los tejados tocando su rabel mojado, acalora a las señoritas en la cama rosada, las cuales sollozan y suspiran demasiado y bastante en acariciándose la propia belleza.

kyaa asar thaa jazba-e-KHaamosh me.n KHud vo khich kar aa ga.e aaGosh me.n It is almost a miracle that the beloved walked into the open arms of the poet/lover without even being asked to do so. He is surprised at the effect of his quiet and hidden feelings of passion.

jo zaKHm detaa hai to be-asar hii detaa hai KHalish vo de ki jise bhuul bhii na paa.uu.n mai.n The poet/lover is challenging the beloved to hurt him like he can never recover again. Fair enough, you see? If he can’t recover, he will never forget her and that indeed is the mission.

trabajo más duro —cocinar, asar, limpiar, cuidar de los hijos— estaba a cargo de las mujeres.

—Ya que hablas de curas. ¿Quieres saber la verdad? ¿Quieres que te cuente un cuento? Las verdades mejores se dicen por parábola. Un cura estaba asando una patata en las brasas y la patata le decía: ¿Por qué me pones aquí, al fuego? ¿No ves que estoy quemándome? Es necesario que te quemes, para que yo te coma. ¿Y por qué vas a comerme, sacerdote cruel? Voy a hacerte un favor —decía el cura—, voy a unirte a mi cuerpo, a darte una categoría superior y a ponerte de ese modo en contacto a través de mi espíritu con la esencia de lo absoluto, con el espíritu puro. El cura lo cree y se la come. Cuando alguno de vuestros jefes camina despierto y sabe lo que hace, se dedica a decir al hombre ordinario más o menos sonámbulo lo mismo: voy a unirte al orden universal. Déjate asar y comer. Te haré el favor de unirte al orden universal. La verdad es que se trata de un orden menos universal de lo que supone y en realidad lo único sobre lo que no cabe duda alguna es que se lo come. —Eres un individualista, y el mundo de mañana va a ser un mundo de grandes masas donde el hombre solitario morirá envenenado por sus propios jugos malsanos. —Y el hombre gregario, por los jugos de la grey. —Te conduces —repitió López, sordo a mis reflexiones— como un hombre solitario. Pero no se trata de controlarte sino de ofrecerte un lugar confortable en la gran familia de mañana. —No hay mañana. Hay un solo hoy, eterno.

Like most young people in Ghana’s rural areas in those days, for much of my childhood I pictured America as a heavenly place where neither poverty nor any of the myriad problems we saw all around us existed. From what little history I was taught in elementary and middle school, I knew about slavery and how Blacks in America were treated during that era, but I also knew that slavery had long since been abolished. What I envisioned was an America in which people of all races lived happily and in perfect harmony.

¡Qué ben, que a bomba ven co seu rebombio! A bomba, ¡bong!, a bomba, bon amigo, A bomba con aramios, con formigas, con fornos pra asar meniños loiros. A bomba ten lombrices, bombardinos, vermes de luz, bombillas fluorescentes, peixes de chumbo, vómitos, anémonas, estrelas de plutonio plutocrático, esterco de cobalto hidroxenado, martelos, ferraduras, matarratos. A bomba, bong. A bomba, bon amigo. Con átomos que estoupan en cadeia e creban as cadeias que nos atan: Os outos edificios. Os outos funcionarios. Os outos fiñanceiros. Os outos ideais. ¡Todo será borralla radioaitiva! As estúpidas nais que pairen fillos polvo serán, mais polvo namorado. Os estúpidos pais, as prostitutas, as grandes damas da beneficencia, magnates e mangantes, grandes cruces, altezas, escelencias, eminencias, cabaleiros cubertos, descubertos, nada serán meu ben, si a bomba ven, nada o amor, e nada a morte morta con bendiciós e plenas indulxencias. ¡Qué ben, que a bomba ven! Nun instantiño amable primavera faise cinza de vagos isotopos placentarios, de letales surrisas derretidas baixo un arco de átomos triunfaes. A bomba, ¡bong! a bomba co seu bombo de setas e volutas abombadas, axiña ven, vela ahí ven, bon amigo. ¡Estános ben! ¡Está ben! ¡Está bon! ¡¡¡Booong!!!

Asar hai ye teri meri dosti ka, darakhton pe patte naye aa gaye hain!

Enough. Enough.” He turned to glare at the newcomer. “Say your piece, Asar. I’m getting tired, and I’m getting thirsty, and neither is doing much for my patience.” Asar. My blood went cold. The name was the missing piece, snapping my foggy memories of the legends into place. Asar Voldari. The Wraith Warden. The stories seemed more befitting a myth than a man, even by the gruesome standards of vampire lore. They all ran together in my memory, grim tales of torture and spycraft, bloody tasks accomplished by bloodier means. Every king has someone to do their dirty work.

Do. Not. Touch. Her.” Unlike Elias, Asar didn’t growl, didn’t yell. His words were clear. Four precise swipes of the blade.

KASHISH Kisi nazar mein kashish aisi, ke dil thehar jaye Chahne wale ka har zakhm, khud sanwar jaye Yeh jo lams hai tera, yeh jadoo ka raaz sa Dil ki veeran galiyon mein roshni bhar jaye Teri baaton ka asar dil pe utarta aisa Har khayal, har dua tujh pe hi thehar jaye Yeh mohabbat hai ya koi khwab ka dhoka Jo bhi mile, wohi khwahish ban ke bikhar jaye Meri har saans mein, tere wujood ka ehsaas Mere dil ka har dukh, tere qadam par mar jaye Kisi nazar mein kashish aisi, ke sab bhool jayein Dil ke har goshe mein tu hi tu thehar jaye

Nyaxia is sending you to the underworld,” I said. “And you’re a necromancer. So she likely needs you to bring someone back.” Asar said nothing.

But who would Nyaxia need⁠—” I stopped mid-sentence. “Oh. Oh, gods.” I hoped I was wrong. I prayed I was wrong. But the twitch at the corner of Asar’s mouth made my stomach sink. There was only one dead soul that Nyaxia could want back whom she wouldn’t be able to resurrect herself. Someone who had been executed by the god of the sun. Someone who had held a closer connection to the underworld than any other. I had to be wrong. It was impossible. Asar’s gaze, piercing and indecipherable, flicked up to mine. “You are finally speechless,” he remarked. “Alarus,” I choked out. “It’s Alarus. You’re going to resurrect the god of death.” Nyaxia’s deceased husband, who had been murdered by the White Pantheon—an execution led by Atroxus himself. Asar’s mouth curled into a grim smile, his scars warping with the expression. “No, Dawndrinker,” he said. “We are going to resurrect the god of death.

Don’t let them touch you, he said, like it was that fucking easy. I was starting to realize that Asar often gave advice that wasn’t very useful. I wasn’t sure what I expected to find on the path to the underworld. Dead, of course. But I was expecting, perhaps, disembodied souls, mournful ghosts. These were living corpses, still encased in the rotting remnants of their mortality. The stench of decay surrounded us as they descended, all open mouths and outstretched hands. Their hunger buried into my bones—deeper than flesh, like they’d slide inside our skin just to remember what it was like to be alive. I swung my sword clumsily to bat them back, but it occurred to me that perhaps a sharp piece of metal wouldn’t exactly do much to deter opponents who were already dead.

I lurched back to awareness. I was standing now, and so was Asar. Between us, we held a smooth black branch of an obsidian tree, tough as marble. Its twisted point was coated in shimmering, luminescent blood—the blood of a god, as vibrant now as it was more than two millennia ago. Asar and I looked at each other, dazed over what we’d just -witnessed—a memory? But Luce let out a frantic bark, reminding us we had no time to waste.

More than a prison. Morthryn was a relic from another time, when this land was still the territory of Alarus, before vampires existed at all. Of course it was more than a place to let criminals rot, and of course its true nature would be kept from the other vampire Houses. I could smell it. Taste it. Death. No wonder. I looked at Asar, wide-eyed. “It’s a door,” I said. “Bridge would probably be a more accurate comparison.” He gazed down into the darkness with the affection of one greeting an old friend. “A bridge to the underworld.

We’ll need to travel through the five Sanctums of the Descent,” Asar told us while we walked. He was not out of breath, and I hated him for it. “Body, Breath, Psyche, Secrets, and Soul. To resurrect anyone else, it’s enough to merely bring together representations of each of the five elements of a mortal being. But we aren’t talking about a mortal.” My brow knitted. “So the five elements of Alarus’s essence are… ​in the path to the underworld? Why?

I couldn’t even hate my father for sending me here, because I deserved it. I was happy to let this place be my end.” His gaze flicked up to mine. The light of his left eye pulsed faintly with his heartbeat. “But it wasn’t. It was a beginning.” “How?” I asked. I could only manage the one word. But what I meant was: how could something so terrible be anything but an end? How could a wound that deep be anything but fatal? Asar took a long time to answer. He pressed his hand to the cracked wall. “I began to hear things that no one else did,” he said quietly. “Cries that needed answering. The world is built atop the invisible, abandoned souls. They needed someone.” They needed someone. There was no mystical Turned connection that could make me feel Asar’s soul more deeply than I did in this moment. I thought of him silhouetted against that broken door, one man standing between the collision of worlds. Asar, I now understood, was like me. Not because he was related to my maker, or because he wielded a magic that spoke so innately to mine. But because he, too, was a healer. He had devoted himself to fixing the broken things that no one else saw. How could I deny him help with that? It was still in service to my mission, I told myself. It was the rational thing to do. But I still felt like a traitor when I said, “Fine. I’ll help you.

Then at about ten-thirty, I asked to be dropped back at Africa Hall. “Why so early?” asked Asare. “I have a group discussion,” I lied. I wanted to get back before the porters locked the hall at midnight. But it wasn’t just that. Leaving early was one way of making sure my driver was not too drunk.

Good girl,” Asar whispered. The words vibrated against my lips, serrated with a hunger sharp as mine.

Asar Voltari, Wraith Warden, Prince of the Shadowborn, caretaker of Morthryn, I can read you like a gods-damned book,

On 9 Jan 2024 at 16:30 Wajid Shaikh wrote this poem on the same maze Where they had met- Milenge tujhse hum phir yahi is hi jagah yahi kahi, jaha teri baatein, tera ehsaash rahegi, teri khamoshi bhi kuch kahegi tere zaano par sar ho, tu saath ho kya kasar ho teri duaao mein meri dua, meri duao mein tera asar ho phir us hi jagah, us hi ghadi us hi waqt, ushi lamhe milenge tujhse hum, phir yahi milenge tujhse hum phir yahi.

Asar Voldari. The Wraith Warden.

I didn’t remember taking Asar’s hand, only that when his fingers intertwined around mine, it felt like a key sliding into a lock. I wanted to drown in it.

Sometimes love requires sacrifice, Asar.” My voice came out weaker than I wished it was. A plea more than a declaration.

Asar stood before them, silhouetted against the infinity of death, a one-man shield. His long jacket flew out behind him, swept up in the force of his spellcasting. He called to the shadows from every corner of the room, and they surrounded him like outstretched wings. His sword burned through the darkness, the broken blade glowing white.

I’ve never known the sunlight. What does it feel like?” “It feels like waking up rested after a long nap. Or like going to sleep knowing you’ll awaken safely. It feels warm and comforting. A fresh dawn makes you believe that the future can be better than the present.” “I imagine,” Asar said, “that it feels the way music sounds. Like joy for the sake of it. Maybe it feels like hope.” “Yes,” I whispered. “It’s exactly like that.” “Hm. You have given me all of that,” he murmured. “So you have succeeded in your impossible mission, Dawndrinker. And I’m deeply honored that I had the opportunity to walk this path with you. Thank you.

Neglect,” Asar replied bitterly. “It’ll pass.

I will tell you that you should be careful how much you sacrifice to your sun god,” she said, pointedly, “not because of Asar, but because of you. Because you did not make it this far just to let yourself burn up like some pretty little candle. You killed Malach of the fucking Shadowborn, Mother’s sake. Have some self-respect.

Sometimes love requires sacrifice, Asar.

I liked seeing Asar disheveled. I wanted to see how much it would take to see him obliterated.

Good girl,” Asar whispered.

Let me help you, Ophelia,” Asar said.

Mische and Asar’s story will continue in book IV of the Crowns of Nyaxia series, coming soon.

Asar’s mouth twisted into a wry, sad smile. “People hurt the ones they love all the time. It might be the one thing we have in common with the gods.

Asar Voldari. The Wraith Warden. The stories seemed more befitting a myth than a man, even by the gruesome standards of vampire lore. They all ran together in my memory, grim tales of torture and spycraft, bloody tasks accomplished by bloodier means. Every king has someone to do their dirty work.

Iliae,” he said slowly, “why are you on top of me?” There were probably many people who would be happy to be asking that question, but Asar was not one of them.

There were probably many people who would be happy to be asking that question, but Asar was not one of them.

Asar, I now understood, was like me. Not because he was related to my maker, or because he wielded a magic that spoke so innately to mine. But because he, too, was a healer. He had devoted himself to fixing the broken things that no one else saw.

Asar Voltari, Wraith Warden, Prince of the Shadowborn, caretaker of Morthryn, I can read you like a gods-damned book,” I said. “And you want to tell me, because if you didn’t, you would have wandered off to go loom menacingly in the shadows by now.

Asar had, I’d learned, a delightful variety of sounds of displeasure. The man could express the deep woes of being surrounded by idiots without any words at all. It was really impressive.