Realm Breaker Quotes

Boys do stupid things to feel like men, no matter how old they are.

Only men can speak all day long and still think themselves silent.

I don’t belong anywhere,” Corayne said, her voice failing. To her surprise, Sorasa cracked a smile. “There are plenty of people like that,” she said. “And nowhere is still a somewhere.

Well, if you don’t belong to a place, perhaps we belong to each other? We who belong nowhere?” Sorasa offered. Her copper eyes glimmered, dancing with the light off the river.

History gorges itself on women raised high and then brought low by men grasping for their power.

I can't imagine living for a thousand years and still being so stupid...It's almost an accomplishment.

We don’t choose what we’re born to, Corayne,” Erida replied. She touched the crown on her brow. “We can only walk the path put in front of us.

I have nothing to ask, and the world to offer.

Sorasa tried to remember the last time she’d said thank you to a living person and meant it. Years, if not decades, she realized, racking her brain. Well, no use in breaking the streak now.

This is the best way out of here. To the horizon and beyond it. To whoever I am, in my bones.

Sorrow touched us all, Lord Donacridhan, whether we believe in it or not. It doesn’t matter what you call the thing ripping you apart. It will still devour you if given the chance.

You are a realm breaker, Taristan. You would crack this world apart and build an empire from its ruins.

Maybe we belong to each other, we who belong nowhere.

Today, we fight for tomorrow.

My love, you don’t know what you’re asking for.” Corayne narrowed her black eyes. “Oh, I think I do.

I know you don't believe in ghosts,' Sorasa murmured, holding her ground. 'But I do,' she said. His chest filled with an unfamiliar feeling, an ache he could not name. 'Sorasa,' he began, but the crowd surged around them. 'Haunt me, Domacridhan.

His eyes met Erida’s like lightning finding the earth.

Even when it isn’t the end of the world, the realm is a dangerous place for women,

Only death would stop him. Only death would keep him from me.

Her silence was her best quality. Perhaps her only good one.

To those who seek and never find

Our paths have already been laid, our fates written by godly hands. She only hopes the ink of their lives wove together for a little while still.

Hammer and nail, the Companions are now seven, wind and gail, bound for hell or bound for heaven.

What you learned in a palace, I learned better in the mud. — Taristan of Old Cor

I am ruler of Galland, but I am a queen, not a king. I must be careful in what I say, and what weapons I give my enemies. I will not give anyone cause to call me weak-minded or mad.

I do not scowl,” Dom said, scowling.

Now there is nowhere to go, and yet I keep walking forward. Into what, I do not know. And neither does anyone else.

The squire will march and fight and carry on until he drops. Until someone gives him permission to stand back, and be a little less strong.

Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons

She tasted blood too. The blood of Gallish soldiers, the blood of sea serpents from another realm. And, of course, her own blood. So much blood Corayne felt she might drown in it. But I am a pirate’s daughter, she thought, heart pounding. Her mother, the bronzed and beautiful Meliz an-Amarat, grinned in her mind’s eye. We do not drown.

I don't belong anywhere," Corayne said, her voice failing. To her surprise, Sorasa cracked a smile. "There are plenty of people like that," she said. "And nowhere is still a somewhere." "That's foolish." "Well, if you don't belong to a place, perhaps we belong to each other? We who belong nowhere?" Sorasa offered. Her copper eyes glimmered, dancing with the light off the river. Despite the ugly feeling in the pit of her stomach, Corayne found herself smiling too. "Perhaps," she echoed.

The Heir flushed and scowled. They shifted, planting their body between Charlie and the sacred circle of bronze, as if it were a child to be protected. “I’ll not hear blasphemy.” “You may cover your ears,” Charlie answered, before Sigil clapped a hand over his mouth.

It is good to know your own measure.

You know so little of kingdoms and courts, Taristan.” Erica heaved a weary sigh. If only his demon lord would gift him some common sense.

If Valtik is going to rhyme, you can't start talking in riddles, Sorasa," she said, exasperated. "I refuse to save the realm under these conditions.

Men are so unsuited to power.

Certainly not," Corayne said. "Are you going to call me Spindlerot the entire time or just today?" "I'm still deciding.

Sorasa spat heartily, her aim true.

It tolled in answer, as if a bell could do such a thing.

Discord is a better shield than steel.

Children of crossing, children of conquest. Destined to rule every corner of the Ward, but they fell. They failed. We are their successors. And I will prove it

It is easy for me to claim what is already broke, and Taristan was broken long ago. But not you. Somehow, even now, I see no cracks in you." Raising her head, Corayne narrowed her eyes at the shadow. "And you never will.

She tried not to think of the men she’d killed. Their faces came anyway, haunting in her memory. “How many?” she said, her voice trailing off. Corayne didn’t expect Andry to understand the broken musings of her mind. But pain crossed his face, a pain she knew. He looked beyond her, to the bodies in green and gold. He shut his eyes and bowed his head, hiding his face from the desert sun. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I will not count.” I have never seen a heart break before, Corayne thought, watching Andry Trelland. He wore no wounds, but she knew he bled within. Once he was a squire of Galland who dreamed of becoming a knight. And now he is a killer of them, a killer of his own dreams.

Orleon trembled with rage, his face matching his burgundy surcoat. He had no skill in hiding his emotions, and Erica knew exactly why. He is a man. His emotions are not considered a burden or a weakness. Not like mine, which I must keep hidden, so men might feel a little less threatened and a little more strong. Her fingers curled until she felt her own nails dig into her palms. Part of her wanted to claw Orleon’s red face right of and give him a mask to wear all the time, as she had to.

No amount of squiring had prepared him for a girl like Corayne. Noble ladies, perhaps, shy behind their hands or scheming in their silks. But not the girl in front of him, with a sword on her back and maps in her pockets, the starless night in her eyes.

That was unkind," Sorasa said in a flat voice, without judgement. A simple statement of fact. Sigil shrugged. "No one pays me to be kind." At Corayne's shoulder, Andry leaned, closing the distance between them. "She might be harsher than Sorasa," he said out of the corner of his mouth. At the rear of their line, Dom scoffed. "I did not realize there was a competition for worst personality," he crowed. Sorasa didn't hesitate. "It's not a competition with you around, Elder." On the road, Charlie jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, his discomfort forgotten. "Do all immortals have sticks up their asses or just him?" Their joined laughter carried through the Larsian fields, rustling the tall grass. To Corayne's delight, even Dom's lips twitched, betraying a smile.

I am not brave.” Don ran a hand over his face, feeling his scars. The skin was hard and puckered. He would never be the same as he was before the temple. And history was about to repeat itself. “I am angry, saddened, frustrated—all things but brave.” “I disagree.

As in Gidastern, something came over Andry Trelland. Before he knew it, her gloved hand was at his mouth, his lips brushing over her knuckles. She did not pull away, only staring, holding his gaze. For a moment, only her eyes existed, a black sky. He wanted to fill it with blazing stars. "Hold on to afterward," he said to her hand. "Whatever your afterward is, hold on to it.

I see anger in you, Princess,” Kesar said softly, hesitant. Tentative as a traveler walking across broken ice. Ridha sighed, her chest rising and falling beneath her furs. “There is gratitude in me too,” she murmured. “So much it is almost overwhelming. To you, to Dyrian, even to the cold Lady of Kovalinn. For ignoring my mother. For refusing to leave the Ward to it’s dark fate. For all of your who refuse to surrender.” The air froze on her teeth. “I will not surrender either.

There’s still time,” Charlie breathed. He drummed his fingers on the table. Sigil looked at him sidelong, scoffing. “And how do you know that?” The priest shrugged, settling back in his chair. He interlaced his hands over his belly, like a man satisfied with a good meal. “The Spindles hold up the realms. We aren’t dead yet, so that’s something.” “That’s something,” Sigil echoed, shaking her head. We aren’t dead yet. Corayne almost laughed, and the many long days of travel and toil seemed to crash all at once, a terrible wave. The sea serpents, the horses, the oasis town filled with nothing but ghosts now. We aren’t dead yet, she thought. Weave that into a tapestry, for it seems to be the core thread of this journey.

To his surprise, Sorasa moved with him. She looked straight ahead, refusing to meet his eye. Instead, she fussed with the chain mail beneath her jacket, trying to adjust the metal rings. Clearly she despised it, her usually fluid motions slower and more stilted. He opened his mouth to taunt her, to say anything, to grasp one more second at her side. “Thank you for wearing armor,” he growled. It was the only thing left to say. He expected a quick, poisonous retort. Instead, Sorasa looked up at him. Her copper eyes wavered, filled with all the emotion she no longer cared to hide. “Iron and steel won’t save us from dragon fire,” she said, all regret, her mouth barely moving. Again, Dom wanted to stay, lingering one last moment, his eyes locked on her own. “I know you don't believe in ghosts,” Sorasa murmured, holding her ground. She did not move closer, or move at all, letting the crowd of Elders break around her. A Vedera who falls in this realm falls forever, Dom thought, the old belief a sudden curse. Sorasa’s eyes shimmered, swimming with tears she would never allow herself to shed. She looked like she did on the beach after the shipwreck, torn apart by grief. “But I do,” she said. His chest filled with an unfamiliar feeling, an ache he could not name. “Sorasa,” he began, but the crowd surged around them, his Vederan soldiers too many to ignore. Every part of him wanted to stay rooted, though he knew he could not. She would not reach chin, her hands pressed to her sides, her chin raised and jaw set. Whatever tears she carried faded, pushed down into the unfeeling well of an Amhara heart. “Haunt me, Domacridhan.” The tide of the army swelled before he could muster an answer. While Sorasa stood against it, Dom let himself be carried. While his body marched, his heart stayed behind, broken as it was, already burning. Her last words followed him all the way down to the city gates.

Corayne suspected he would care very much. After all, Sorasa had called him a stupid, stubborn ass. Although, she thought, my translation might not be accurate. The Ibalet words for stupid and handsome are quite similar.

The Amhara has great need for those who can pass unseen, and who is more unseen to men than a woman?

The knowledge about the 'Self' will emerge from teaching science with an approach tuned to cosmic rhythm. That is only possible through life-centric education. This approach towards science will have carry-over effects on other subjects and the teaching of those subjects will also come into the realm of light of life-oriented education. Science has the power to give the vision to see the unity between 'Self' and the universe. It is an illusion of the 'Self' that keeps the vision limited to the family, society, country, or the visible world. Scientifically developed universal consciousness can enable the 'Self' to play its personal, social, national, international, and universal role efficiently.

Death avoids us, but it's not a stranger.

Why bother reaching out a hand for what could disappear before you grasp it?

They adore her, Corayne knew. It was easy to see the love the Gallish court held for their young queen. Will they love her tomorrow, when she sends their children to war against a madman and a devil?

The New Palace had been a home, a sanctuary, a school, a training yard. Now it was a prison, a hunting ground, an executioner's block.

Even when it isn't the end of the world, the realm is a dangerous place for women.

What would anyone give to earn their destiny? To rule their fate?” he pushed on, shaking his head. “Imagine you are not queen of all you see, but still feel that power in you, just waiting to be grasped? What would you give to take it?” Erida did not need to think long. She felt sick and determined, all at the same time. “Anything.

There is much I cannot say, Bella,” she muttered. Harrsing touched her gently. “You are afraid.” Blinking, Erida weighed her response. The candles flickered and she sighed. There was no use in lying. “I am,” she admitted. For so many reasons. To her surprise, Harrsing only shrugged, her narrow shoulders rising and falling beneath the swoop of her nightgown. “That is necessary.” Erida could not help but balk. “What?” The old woman shrugged again. “Fear is not so terrible as we make it out to be,” she said. “Fear means you have a head on your shoulders, a good one. It means you have a heart, as much as you try to hide it from the rest of us.” Like Erida, Lady Harrsing had her own mask, shaped from decades in the royal court. She let it slip to show a smile of her own, warmer and softer than a candle. It made Erica’s heart twist. “A king of queen without fear would be a horrific thing indeed,” she added with a scoff. Erida could not agree. Her own fears seemed endless, looped around her neck in an unbreakable chain. She wondered what it would mean to be free of her misgivings and worst thoughts. To be so strong as to be beyond fear itself. Where only glory and greatness remained. Lady Harrsing arched an eyebrow, watching the Queen. “To be feared is another thing entirely.” “That is necessary too,” Erida replied swiftly.

Fear is not so terrible as we make it out to be,” she said. “Fear means you have a head on your shoulders, a good one. It means you have a heart, as much as you try to hide it from the rest of us.

Her own fears seemed endless, looped around her neck in an unbreakable chain. She wondered what it would mean to be free of her misgivings and worst thoughts. To be so strong as to be beyond fear itself. Where only glory and greatness remained.

Trust us as much a weapon as anything else.

Trust is as much a weapon as anything else.

It’s all right to get things wrong,” he said. “It’s how we learn to do things properly.

What kind of god allows such times as these?” Shuddering, Dom went cold, despite the sunlight and the warm southern breeze. “It is not only a god who brings about this doom,” he said. “But the heart of a mortal man.

You are odder than I expected,” she chuckled. He quirked a brow at her. “And what did you expect?” The pirate captain paused, licking her lips. “Someone colder,” she finally said, looking him up and down. “Made of stone instead of flesh. Less mortal. Like all the things Cortael tried to be.” The wind blew over the harbor again, smelling of salt. He turned into it, facing the docks and little ship. A familiar figure ran its deck, checking the rigging, though she was no sailor. It was not like Sorasa Sarn to remain still. Dom heaved a breath. “I was that way once.” The shadow of a smile crossed Meliz’s face as she followed his gaze. “Love does that.” His throat tightened and his jaw clenched, teeth gritted so tightly Dom could not speak if he tried. Meliz only gave a wave of her hand. “I’m referring to my daughter and the love you bear her.” Her grin widened mischievously. “Of course.” “Of course,” Dom managed, wrenching his eyes away from the port. His entire body felt hot with embarrassment, if not indignance.

Take your sword and bleed for me, and I will bleed for you. Win us the crown our ancestors could only dream of.

With a snarl of pain, she forced herself to sit up, her head spinning with the sudden movement. One hand touched her temple, sticky with dried blood. She winced, feeling a gash along her eyebrow. It was long but shallow, and already scabbing over. She clenched her jaw, teeth grinding, as she surveyed the beach with squinting eyes. The ocean stared back at her, empty and endless, a wall of iron blue. Then she noticed shapes along the beach, some half-buried in the sand, others caught in the rhythmic pull of the tide. She narrowed her eyes and the shapes solidified. A torn length of sail floated, tangled up with rope. A shattered piece of the mast angled out of the sand like a pike. Smashed crates littered the beach, along with other debris from the ship. Bits of hull. Rigging. Oars snapped in half. The bodies moved with the waves. Her steady breathing lost its rhythm, coming in shorter and shorter gasps until she feared her throat might close. Her thoughts scattered, impossible to grasp. All thoughts but one. “DOMACRIDHAN!” Her shout echoed, desperate and ragged. “DOMACRIDHAN!” Only the waves answered, crashing endless against the shore. She forgot her training and forced herself to stand, nearly falling over with dizziness. Her limbs aches but she ignored it, lunging toward the waterline. Her lips moved, her voice shouting his name again, though she couldn’t hear it above the pummel of her own heart. Sorasa Sarn was no stranger to corpses. She splashed into the waves with abandon, even as her head spun. Sailor, sailor, sailor, she noted, her desperation rising with every Tyri uniform and head of black hair. One of them looked ripped in half, missing everything from the waist down. His entrails floated with the rear of him, like a length of bleached rope. She suspected a shark got the best of him. Then her memories returned with a crash like the waves. The Tyri ship. Nightfall. The sea serpent slithering up out of the deep. The breaking of a lantern. Fire across the deck, slick scales running over my hands. The swing of a greatsword, Elder-made. Dom silhouetted against a sky awash with lightning. And then the cold, drowning darkness of the ocean. A wave splashed up against her and Sorasa stumbled back to the shore, shivering. She had not waded more than waist deep, but her face felt wet, water she could not understand streaking her cheeks. Her knees buckled and she fell, exhausted. She heaved a breath, then two. And screamed. Somehow the pain in her head paled in comparison to the pain in her heart. It dismayed and destroyed her in equal measure. The wind blew, stirring salt-crusted hair across her face, sending a chill down to her soul. It was like the wilderness all over again, the bodies of her Amhara kin splayed around her. No, she realized, her throat raw. This is worse. There is not even a body to mourn. She contemplated the emptiness for awhile, the beach and the waves, and the bodies gently pressing into the shore. If she squinted, they could only be debris from the ship, bits of wood instead of bloated flesh and bone. The sun glimmered on the water. Sorasa hated it. Nothing but clouds since Orisi, and now you choose to shine.

The wind stirred his loose hair and Sorasa assessed him for the first time since her memory failed. Since the deck of the Tyri ship caught fire, and someone seized her around the middle, plunging them both into the dark waves. She did not need to guess to know who. Dom’s clothing was torn but long dry. He still wore the leather jerkin with the undershirt, but his borrowed cloak had been left to feed the sea serpents. The rest of him looked intact. He had only a few fresh cuts across the backs of his hands, like a terrible rope burn. Scales, Sorasa knew. The sea serpent coiled in her head, bigger than the mast, its scales flashing a dark rainbow. Her breath caught when she realized he wore no sword belt, nor sheath. Nor sword. “Dom,” she bit out, reaching between them. Only her instincts caught her, her hand freezing inches above his hip. His brow furrowed again, carving a line of concern. “Your sword.” The line deepened, and Sorasa understood. She mourned her own dagger, earned so many decades ago, now lost to a burning palace. She could not imagine what Dom felt for a blade centuries old. “It is done,” he finally said, fishing into his shirt. The collar pulled, showing a line of white flesh, the planes of hard muscle rippling beneath. Sorasa dropped her eyes, letting him fuss. Only when something soft touched her temple did she look up again. Her heart thumped. Dom did not meet her gaze, focused on his work, cleaning her wound with a length of cloth. It was the fabric that made her breath catch. Little more than a scrap of gray green. Thin but finely made by master hands. Embroidered with silver antlers. It was a piece of Dom’s old cloak, the last remnant of Iona. It survived a kraken, an undead army, a dragon, and the dungeons of a mad queen. But it would not survive Sorasa Sarn. She let him work, her skin aflame beneath his fingers. Until the last bits of blood were gone, and the last piece of his home tossed away. “Thank you,” she finally said to no reply.

Isibel,” he began. Her sword moved so quickly even Dom could not see the steel, nor feel the blade as it plunged through his body. There was only the hole it left behind, through steel, cloth, and immortal flesh. The roaring in his head intensified, as if a hurricane tore through the castle. He blinked slowly, his knees going weak. Andry grabbed for Corayne, restraining her before she could lunge at his traitorous aunt. “My daughter is dead because of you,” Isibel screamed, her gray eyes gone to white fire. Dom only heard her as if through water, distant and muffled. “It is only fair I return the favor.” As her voice worked through his mind, so did the pain work through his shock. It was dull at first, then so sharp his vision spun. Dom expected the smack of his body hitting the ground, but it never came. Small, wiry arms caught him instead, lowering him to the ground with her, until his back rested against her chest. Bronze fingers worked at the buckles of his armor, tearing off the plates of steel and tossing them away to expose the wound beneath. The same hands ripped his shirt apart and pressed the scraps against the hole in his torso. Despite her quick thinking, blood bubbles through Sorasa’s fingers. Her face crumpled at the sight of it, and Dom knew. This would not be like a dagger to his ribs. Sorasa Sarn could not sew up this wound. “It’s fine,” she hissed, lying, one hand still holding pressure. The other went around his chest, drawing him to her, letting him lean back into her body. “It’s fine.” “That is what mortals say when they are in grave pain,” he sputtered, choking on his own blood. A tear hit his cheek, the only one Sorasa would spare.

Her heart still yearned, but what heart did not?

You should have gone with them,” she said, lifting her chin to look at Taristan. The smoke grew so thick she could hardly see him through the shadows, the strange realm burning around them. But she could still feel his arms, wrapped around her as they were, holding them both together until some kind of ending came. “To what?” he answered, his voice raspy with smoke. Erida heaved another choking breath, the heat of the flames buffeting her back. Tears slipped from her eyes and Erida curled into him, as if she might disappear into Taristan entirely. “To anything but this,” she cried out, looking back to where the Spindle used to be. “There is nothing for you here.” Taristan only stared. “Yes, there is.” The fires spread, so close now Erida feared her armor might melt off her body. But there was nowhere to go, nothing to do. They had no blade. They had no doorways. There was only Taristan in front of her, the long years of his life welling up in his eyes. She knew them as much as anyone could. An orphan, a mercenary, a prince. A discarded child ripe for the picking, set on this terrible path for so terribly long. Did it always lead here? she wondered. Has this always been our fate? The steps shuddered behind her, one of them crumbling entirely. What Waits hissed with the cracking stone, closer by the second. The demon within called to the demon without, the two of them connected like a piece of rope pulling taut. Erida swallowed against the sensation, feeling her control slip. She gripped Taristan tighter, blinking fiercely. My mind is my own. My mind is my own. But her own voice began to fade, even in her head. She saw the same in Taristan, the same war raging behind his eyes. Before it could seize them both, Erida seized her prince by the neck, pulling his face to her own. He tasted like blood and smoke, but she reveled in it. “Does this make you mine?” Taristan whispered, his hand against her jaw. It was the same question he once asked so long ago, when Erida could give no answer. It felt foolish now, a stupid thing to hesitate over. Especially as another took over her head, conquering her mind as she tried to conquer the world. “Yes,” she answered, kissing him again. Kissing him until the flames pressed in, until she couldn’t breathe. Until her vision went black. Until the first footstep landed on the grass, the dirt going to ashes, beneath Him, and all the realms shook with the weight of it.

We have a long road ahead of us, Dom. Make ready for it.” Much as she tried to hide it, Dom saw the exhaustion creep over her. He felt it too, heavier than anything he’d ever carried. It ran bone-deep now, after so many months. Only moving forward kept it at bay. Dom did not know what to do now, when he could run no further, and do nothing but wait. “Where does that road go?” he asked bitterly. Slowly, he unbuckled the belt around his hips, and laid down the greatsword among Sorasa’s things. She sat on the cramped bed, if only to give him room to move around the narrow cabin. “Your guess is as good as mine,” she huffed. “Better, probably.” He quirked a blond brow at her. “How so?” “You have good hearts, you and Corayne. You think differently than I can.” “Is that a compliment?” he asked, confused. Her laugh was menacing as she leaned back against a meager pillow, her eyes half-lidded. “No.

IN CHRIST I am accepted: • John 1:12 I am God’s child. • John 15:15 I am Christ’s friend. • Romans 5:1 I have been justified. • 1 Corinthians 6:17 I am united with the Lord and one with Him in spirit. • 1 Corinthians 6:20 I have been bought with a price—I belong to God. • 1 Corinthians 12:27 I am a member of Christ’s body. • Ephesians 1:1 I am a saint. • Ephesians 1:5 I have been adopted as God’s child. • Ephesians 2:18 I have direct access to God through the Holy Spirit. • Colossians 1:14 I have been redeemed and forgiven of all my sins. • Colossians 2:10 I am complete in Christ. I am secure: • Romans 8:1-2 I am free from condemnation. • Romans 8:28 I am assured that all things work together for good. • Romans 8:31-34 I am free from any condemning charges against me. • Romans 8:35-39 I cannot be separated from the love of God. • 2 Corinthians 1:21-22 I have been established, anointed, and sealed by God. • Colossians 3:3 I am hidden with Christ in God. • Philippians 1:6 I am confident the good work God has begun in me will be perfected. • Philippians 3:20 I am a citizen of heaven. • 2 Timothy 1:7 I have not been given a spirit of fear but of power, love, and a sound mind. • Hebrews 4:16 I can find grace and mercy in time of need. • 1 John 5:18 I am born of God and the evil one cannot touch me. I am significant: • Matthew 5:13-16 I am the salt and light of the earth. • John 15:1-5 I am a branch of the true vine, a channel of His life. • John 15:16 I have been chosen and appointed to bear fruit. • Acts 1:8 I am a personal witness of Christ’s. • 1 Corinthians 3:16 I am God’s temple. • 2 Corinthians 5:17-20 I am a minister of reconciliation. • 2 Corinthians 6:1 I am God’s coworker. • Ephesians 2:6 I am seated with Christ in the heavenly realm. • Ephesians 2:10 I am God’s workmanship. • Ephesians 3:12 I may approach God with freedom and confidence. • Philippians 4:13 I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me.

Fear threatened to swallow her up. It clawed at her inside, a beast with too many teeth. Do not let it rule, she told herself, repeating the old Amhara teaching. Do not let it rule. Do not let it rule. She refused to think beyond the world in front of her. Refused to let her mind spiral with hideous possibility. It was a hole she would never dig out of.

What Wait hangs heavy over us all, it seems,” the Heir added, shaking their head. “And heaviest on Corayne.” Charlie shrugged beneath his furs, cursing the realm. “It isn’t fair.” Isadere of Ibal, born royal and holy, have him a withering, almost pitying look. “When have you ever known the world to be fair, Priest?” “True” was all he could muster, watching the last rolls of thunder, and wretched lightning.

Not that I understand the Spindle talk anyways. Other realms and demon lords. Corblood princes. Magical swords. Quite the mess you’ve put us in.” With another tsk, Charlie settled down next to him, tucking himself tight against the assassin. “If you recall, I was dragged into this against my will,” he muttered. Garion glanced at him sidelong, eyes sharp. “And you chose to stay in it.” “I did,” Charlie replied, thoughtful. As much for himself as for Garion. His voice softened. “I chose to do something with myself, if only something small.” He expected Garion to laugh at him. Instead, the man held his gaze, his dark eyes melting. Their fingers brushed, then wove together. “Small things matter too,” Garion muttered, looking back to the sky. Charlie did not, memorizing instead the lines of Garion’s face and the feel of the sun on their joined hands. The smell of roses, and more rain, not yet fallen, but soon to come. “Yes, indeed.

It was not like her to lose her senses. The ability to drift was beaten from her long ago. But Sorasa drifted now, pacing the beach. She did not hear the shift of sand, or the heavy scuff of boots over the loose stones. There was only the wind. Until a strand of gold blew across her vision, joined by a warm unyielding palm against her shoulder. Her body jolted as she turned, nose to nose with Domacridhan of Iona. His green eyes glittered, his mouth open as he shouted something again, his voice swallowed up by the droning in her own head. “Sorasa.” It came to her slowly, as if through deep water. Her own name, over and over again. She could only stare back into the verdant green, lost in the fields of his eyes. In her chest, her heart stumbled. She expected her body to follow. Instead, her fist closed and her knuckles met cheekbone. Dom was good enough to turn his head, letting the blow glance off. Begrudgingly, Sorasa knew he had spared her a broken hand on top of everything else. “How dare you,” she forced out, trembling. Whatever concern he wore burned away in an instant. “How dare I what? Save your life?” he snarled, letting her go Sorasa swayed without his support. She clenched her own jaw, fighting to maintain her balance lest she fall to pieces entirely. “Is that another Amhara lesson?” he raged on, throwing up both arms. “When given the choice between death or indignity, choose death?!” Hissing, Sorasa looked back to the spot where she woke up. Heat crept up her face as she realized her body left a trail through the sand when he dragged her up from the tide line. A blind man would have noticed it. But not Sorasa in her fury and grief. “Oh,” was all she could manage. Her mouth flapped open, her mind spinning. Only the truth came, and that was far too embarrassing. “I did not see. I—” Her head throbbed again and she pressed a hand to her temple, wincing away from his stern glare. “I will feel better if you sit,” Dom said stiffly. Despite the pain, Sorasa loosed a growl. She wanted to stand just to spite him, but thought better of it. With a huff, she sank, cross-legged on the cool sand. Dom was quick to follow, almost blurring. It made her head spin again. “So you saved me from the shipwreck just to abandon me here?” Sorasa muttered as Dom opened his mouth to protest. “I don’t blame you. Time is of the essence now. A wounded mortal will only slow you down.” She expected him to bluster and lie. Instead, his brow furrowed, lines creasing between his still vivid eyes. The light off the ocean suited him. “Are you? Wounded?” he asked gently, his gaze raking over her. His focus snagged on her temple, and the gash there. “Anywhere else, I mean?” For the first time since she woke, Sorasa tried to still herself. Her breath slowed as she assessed herself, feeling her own body from toes to scalp. As her awareness traveled, she noted every blooming bruise and cut, every dull ache and shooting pain. Bruises ribs. A sprained wrist. Her tongue flicked in her mouth. Scowling, she spit out a broken tooth. “No, I’m not wounded,” she said aloud. Dom’s desperate smile broke wide. He went slack against the sand for an instant, falling back on his elbows to tip his face to the sky. His eyes fluttered shut only for a moment. Sorasa knew his gods were too far. He had said so himself. The gods of Glorian could not hear their children in this realm. Even so, Sorasa saw it on his face. Dom prayed anyway. In his gratitude or anger, she did not know. “Good,” he finally said, sitting back up.

We are in Calidon,” she muttered, eyeing the mountains again. It was not yet spring, but purple flowers clung between shore and rising cliff. “Your country.” Dom shook his head. “Hardly mine. Most Calidonians do not believe my people exist anymore, and the ones who do wish they could forget us entirely.” I share the sentiment,” Sorasa answered dryly. Next to her, Dom grinned. “Mortal humor. I know it too well by now.” Sorasa tried to smile but failed, squinting at the landscape. His face wiped clean. “What?” “I know little of this place,” she answered, grinding her teeth. It made her temple throb again. Dom’s smirk felt worse. He eyed her with a rare look, mischievous, like a child with a secret. “Are you asking for help, Sorasa Sarn?” the Elder teased. Sorasa wanted to stand up, but doubted she could with any grace. Instead, she stayed rooted, her fists curling in the sand until tiny stones pressed between her fingers. “I will deny it if you tell anyone,” she hissed, regretting the words as soon as they left her mouth. To her horror, Dom’s smirk only widened and Sorasa realized she had made a terrible error. A grace miscalculation. Don understood more than she realized. And knew the Amhara better than she ever thought possible. Then his hand found her wrist. She jumped in her skin, almost yelping as he helped her to her feet. Thankfully, she did not falter. “I thought you hated it,” he said, the smirk still curling. It made her want to hit him again. “What?” Sorasa snapped. Dom let her wrist drop. “Hope.

My fate is my own,” Corayne snarled aloud, to Taristan and the demon god hammering his way through the realms. “To claim or break.

Thank you for coming with me.” She knew it was no small thing. Dom was Monarch of Iona now, the leader of an enclave shattered by war and betrayal. He should have been at home with his people, helping them restore what was nearly lost forever. Instead, he looked grimly down a sand dune, his clothes poorly suited to the climate, his appearance sticking sticking out of the desert like the sorest of thumbs. While so many things had changed, Dom’s ability to look out of place never did. He even wore his usual cloak, a twin to the one he lost months ago. The gray green had become a comfort like nothing else, just like the silhouette of his familiar form. He loomed always, never far from her side. It was enough to make Sorasa’s eyes sting, and turn her face to hide in her hood for a long moment. Dom paid it no notice, letting her recover. Instead, he fished an apple from his saddlebags and took a noisy bite. “I saved the realm,” he said, shrugging. The least I can do is try to see some of it.” Sorasa was used to Elder manners by now. Their distant ways, their inability to understand subtle hints. The side of her mouth raised against her hood, and she turned back to face him, smirking. “Thank you for coming with me,” she said again. “Oh,” he answered, shifting to look at her. The green of his eyes danced, bright against the desert. “Where else would I go?” Then he passed the rest of the apple over to her. She finished the rest without a thought. His hand lingered, though, scarred knuckles on a tattooed arm. She did not push him away. Instead, Sorasa leaned, so that her shoulder brushed his own, putting some of her weight on him. “Am I still a waste of arsenic?” he said, his eyes never moving from her face. Sorasa stopped short, blinking in confusion. “What?” “When we first met.” His own smirk unfurled. “You called me a waste of arsenic.” In a tavern in Byllskos, after I dumped poison in his cup, and watched him drink it all. Sorasa laughed at the memory, her voice echoing over the empty dunes. In that moment, she thought Domacridhan was her death, another assassin sent to kill her. Now she knew he was the opposite entirely. Slowly, she raised her arm and he did not flinch. It felt strange still, terrifying and thrilling in equal measure. His cheek was cool under under her hand, his scars familiar against her palm. Elders were less affected by the desert heat, a fact that Sorasa used to her full advantage. “No,” she answered, pulling his face down to her own. “I would waste all the arsenic in the world on you.” “Is that a compliment, Amhara?” Dom muttered against her lips. No, she tried to reply. On the golden sand, their shadows met, grain by grain, until there was no space left at all.

Such is the way of mothers, to think the sun and the moon of their children.

I am not brave.” Dom ran a hand over his face, feeling his scars. The skin was hard and puckered. He would never be the same as he was before the temple. And history was about to repeat itself. “I am angry, saddened, frustrated—all things but brave.” “I disagree.

I began this day on one battlefield, and now I stand on another entirely. She certainly felt like a soldier, fighting with wits and intelligence instead of a sword. A sword is far more simple.

Andry’s natural instinct was to swallow his retort, to bury rough words. To find a gentler way. But the road had ways of changing a person, especially the road they were walking now.

If you were expecting a warm welcome from one such as Eyda, you were mistaken.” “Clearly.” The Lady of Kovalinn still stood the walls, staring out into the long craggy jaws of the fjord, toward the Glorysea. “She seems to be made of stone.” “She is Glorianborn.” Kesar’s joyful air faded a little, and a grim shadow Ridha recognized passed over her face. “We are graver than you children of the Ward.” Ridha tasted bitterness on her own tongue. The light of different stars, she thought, remembering her mother and how she used to glare at the sky, as if she could will the stars of Glorian to replace the stars of the Ward. “I know that more than most.

Sorasa braced bloody hands on her hips. "She's seen our faces and she won't stop rhyming. We need to kill her." "I don't think that can be the solution to every obstacle," Andry said weakly.

The sea will conquer even mountains, given the time.

Andry joined him, standing with a shake of his head. "Sorrow touches us all, Lord Domacridhan, whether we believe in it or nor. It doesn't matter what you call the thing ripping you apart. It will still devour you if given the chance." "And how do I defend against such a thing, Squire?" the Elder demanded, his voice rising. Luckily, Corayne did not stir. "How do I fight what I cannot face?" In the training yard, the knights would bash their gauntlets, clutch hands, pull each other up after a particular nasty blow. Without thinking, Andry raised his own fingers, palm open, an offer as much as a plea. "With me," he said. "Together.

Sometime past midnight, the two men did try to rob her. She sent them both out the open window.

Sorasa Sarn rolled out onto the cold floor and Dome’s vision slanted, his head spinning. Ronin laughed, the sound like shattering glass. “Honestly, I expected more from an Amhara.” Something snapped in Domacridhan, bone-deep. Like an earthquake breaking a mountain. He knew only fury, only rage. He felt nothing, not even the snapping of the chains around his wrist, the steel links shearing apart beneath his own force. Whatever immortal soul he carried disappeared, reducing him to little more than beast. Six harried, terrified heartbeats thrummed alongside his own. The knight and guards looked on him as they would a monster, the whites of their eyes flaring. Sigil’s heart raged, mirroring her anger. But Ronin’s heartbeat remained even. The wizard was not afraid. Weakly, beneath the rest, another heat drummed. Steady but slow. And stubbornly alive. “Sorasa, SORASA!” Sigil’s cry rebounded off the walls, her voice coming from seemingly everywhere. Don’s free hand went to his collar, his fingers working to grip the metal edge. “She’s alive,” he bit out. It calmed Sigil, but only a little. “Tsk, tsk, Domacridhan,” the wizard said, ticking his head back and forth. With another twitch of his fingers, he gestured to the knights again. Wide-eyed as they were, they locked Sorasa in her cell and made for Dom. Metal groaned as Dom pulled away the collar, its screws tearing out of the stove behind him. With both shoulders and one arm free, he went for his other wrist next. The jailer’s key jingled closer, the lock on his cell door clicking open, and three of the knights surged in. Dom caught the first knight by the gauntlet, his open palm wrapping around an armored wrist. In the corridor, the fourth knight yelped, coming too close to Sigil’s cell. She moved lightning fast, thrusting an arm through the bars to grab him around his throat. The other knights surrounded Dom, leaving their compatriot to fend for himself as they overwhelmed the immortal. To his surprise, they left their swords sheathed, using all their weight to pin his arm back against the wall. Dom cursed them in his own language, loosing five hundred years of immortal rage. His teeth snapped, inches from their armor, fighting to find any gap of skin. Desperation set in slowly, his window of opportunity disappearing with every second. One of the knights put his forearm to Dom’s neck, throwing all his weight into it. Steel slammed against his throat. “You accomplished nothing but a few new bruises,” Ronin said above the sun.

I will try.’” That’s what you said in the forest,” Charlie muttered. “That you would try to believe.” A scoff burst from Garion’s lips and he put the sword aside. “I’m surrounded by immortals about to assault a dragon’s nest. I certainly believe you now.” Charlie only shook his head. “I need you to believe in me, too,” he replied. “Help me to believe in myself. And help me stay alive.” Still glaring at the dead grass, Garion gritted his teeth. “That’s what I’m trying to do, my darling.” “I’m not going anywhere.” It came out too harsh, too loud. Impossible to ignore. Finally Garion raised his eyes. He looked torn between frustration and anger. The killer in him was there, small but enough to see. Amhara were trained to survive, to make it home to the citadel even in failure. Garion warred with his own instincts, Charlie knew. Not for the realm, but for me. “You can run, but I—” Charlie forced out, his voice faltering. He looked to the horizon again, and the black ruins. Then to the camp, the Elders, to Corayne lingering at their edges. She stood out like a sore thumb, a mortal girl in the middle of the end of the world. It was easy for Charlie to draw a little strength from her own. “If I run, I still die here,” he said, feeling his own heart twist. “Part of me. The part you love.” Garion put his hand to his neck. “You think that now but—” “I tasted the shame of it before.” Charlie forced off the Amhara with a swipe. His cheeks flamed. “When I ran from Gidastern. I know what it feels like to think the worst of your own self. To be consumed by regret. And I won’t do it again. I won’t leave her.” Charlie willed Garion to see the resolve he felt as much as feared. “Stop giving me the chance to give up,” he finally murmured, looking back to the horizon.

Somehow, clad in her nightclothes, surrounded by ashes, Erida still played the part of imperious queen. "Even I know immortals can burn," she said. "So long as you burn with me, I die well.

He wished for the relief of tears.

You say her path is drawn,” Eyda said evenly, addressing Valtik. “Can you tell us where that path leads?” The witch spun slowly, examining the gabled ceiling. “You are on it. The lanterns are lit.” Andry fought back another wave of frustration. “If her path is our own, then Iona is correct,” he said sharply. “We’ll find her there. And maybe then I can be rid of you once and for all.” “Be careful what you say before the eyes of Lasreen,” Valtik chided. She gestured to the carvings on the towering columns and spiraled her wrist. The smoke of the hearth fire twisted oddly through her fingers. “In her temple, all things are seen.” “Good,” Andry hissed. “She can see how annoying you are.” While the bone witches recoiled at the insult, Valtik giggled. “Annoying indeed,” she said airily. “But only in need.” Andry felt his eyes roll into the back of his head

Sorasa Sarn rolled out onto the cold floor and Dom’s vision slanted, his head spinning. Ronin laughed, the sound like shattering glass. “Honestly, I expected more from an Amhara.” Something snapped in Domacridhan, bone-deep. Like an earthquake breaking a mountain. He knew only fury, only rage. He felt nothing, not even the snapping of the chains around his wrist, the steel links shearing apart beneath his own force. Whatever immortal soul he carried disappeared, reducing him to little more than beast. Six harried, terrified heartbeats thrummed alongside his own. The knight and guards looked on him as they would a monster, the whites of their eyes flaring. Sigil’s heart raged, mirroring her anger. But Ronin’s heartbeat remained even. The wizard was not afraid. Weakly, beneath the rest, another heat drummed. Steady but slow. And stubbornly alive. “Sorasa, SORASA!” Sigil’s cry rebounded off the walls, her voice coming from seemingly everywhere. Don’s free hand went to his collar, his fingers working to grip the metal edge. “She’s alive,” he bit out. It calmed Sigil, but only a little. “Tsk, tsk, Domacridhan,” the wizard said, ticking his head back and forth. With another twitch of his fingers, he gestured to the knights again. Wide-eyed as they were, they locked Sorasa in her cell and made for Dom. Metal groaned as Dom pulled away the collar, its screws tearing out of the stove behind him. With both shoulders and one arm free, he went for his other wrist next. The jailer’s key jingled closer, the lock on his cell door clicking open, and three of the knights surged in. Dom caught the first knight by the gauntlet, his open palm wrapping around an armored wrist. In the corridor, the fourth knight yelped, coming too close to Sigil’s cell. She moved lightning fast, thrusting an arm through the bars to grab him around his throat. The other knights surrounded Dom, leaving their compatriot to fend for himself as they overwhelmed the immortal. To his surprise, they left their swords sheathed, using all their weight to pin his arm back against the wall. Dom cursed them in his own language, loosing five hundred years of immortal rage. His teeth snapped, inches from their armor, fighting to find any gap of skin. Desperation set in slowly, his window of opportunity disappearing with every second. One of the knights put his forearm to Dom’s neck, throwing all his weight into it. Steel slammed against his throat. “You accomplished nothing but a few new bruises,” Ronin said above the din.

to those who walk in darkness, but never lose hope and to me as I was at fourteen, looking for this story I finally found it

Our paths have already been laid, our fates written by godly hands. She only hoped the ink of their lives wove together for a little while still.