KNITE:
We stood at the lip of a steep hill north of our destination. Halor hadn't changed much. It was still an overload of color, every known hue represented in its eclectic architecture, most bright with youth. There was no order to the place, no grand design, just a medley of esthetic fancies warring for supremacy. Only the blue outer walls, its singular gate, and the white tower deep inside its territory stood apart, unchanged. And why not? Merkusian had built both for Lorail, imbuing all the protection of his power.
“We’re here,” Roche said, dismounting. He had a longstanding habit of stating the obvious when fear threatened to overtake him. It worried me to find the flavor of his fear grew more appealing to me as time went on.
Sanas climbed off her horse to join Roche, careful to avoid dirtying anything but the soles of her shoes. She lay a supportive hand on his shoulder, ever the mast to his sail. “And we’ve brought their doom with us.”
“We’re here,” Roche repeated.
“Let’s go,” I said, stepping forward and pulling Qaniin behind me.
We joined the back of a ragged line of travelers awaiting entry through the gate. Hundreds of carts and horses and people stood before us. Tired men hauled baggage, drove the carts, or did other menial tasks. Giggling girls played silly games. Bored women sat atop the coaches or stood in groups, chatting while young boys stood meekly beside them, ready to serve in whatever capacity required of them. Surprisingly, I saw a few idle men speckled among the crowd, seemingly without a party, their necks bare of a collar and their souls free of bondage.
“There are free men in Halor?” I asked.
Sanas nudged Roche and jostled him out of his reverie. He glanced at her before he turned to me.
“You and Helena implied there were no free men left in Halor besides rebels,” I said.
“There are, but never for long enough to matter,” he said. “If they try to leave the island, someone from Admin would find a reason to renew their slavery. I hear this is happening more frequently at the gates of the inner cities. Recent times have seen many brave the wild lands to find and join the rebels. Few Halorians willingly suffer the presence of free men without trying to trap them back into servitude. With the laws here being what they are, it isn't difficult to claim a free man as property.”
A wistful and quiet Roche led us into the city and to another place Helena had acquired for our purposes. It was appropriately discreet, the colorful dome-shaped roof and curved walls just about flamboyant enough to blend in. We settled in the ready-furnished common room. Helena, as usual, had done well; the room was well-lit, practical, comfortable, and all while appearing plain; the carpet was soft and dark, the chairs padded and wrapped in leather, the points of entry few, and the window large and high and unconducive to outside observation.
“I start tonight,” I said.
“How?” Roche asked, lounging on a chair. He seemed more himself, the bitter memories receding once he’d escaped the familiar streets of his tortured childhood.
“By infiltrating the criminal underworld,” I said.
Sanas, who sat perusing a book on recent history, glanced up at me. “Why? I imagine there’s very little crime here.”
“You’d be surprised,” Roche said. “Slavery is a business like any other—a prosperous one, at that. Crime exists wherever there is wealth and rules on how to obtain it. You’d be mistaken if you thought poverty was the sole source of corruption. The rich are just as hungry for wealth as beggars are. Moreso.”
“Not the type of criminal I meant,” I said. “Anyhow, tonight, I move.”
Roche frowned. “You did it again.”
“Did what?” Sanas asked.
“Said ‘I’ instead of ‘we,’” Roche said.
I shook my head. “If you were in your right mind and Sanas had any skill in subterfuge, we’d have done the work of three. Alas…”
Roche looked away, ashamed. “I’ll have to overcome my trepidation sooner or later. Better now when the cost of failure is lower.”
“Very well,” I said. “Prepare yourself. In three turns, we begin.”
***
Eight slaves boxed into a large crate lay atop a horse-drawn wagon. I could hardly believe they fit. My soulsight saw through the glut of matrixes disguising them, felt how painfully they’d been squeezed into too tight a space, smelled the stench of their despair, and caught the grimaces on each and every one of their faces. Only those touched by a vile disregard for others could treat living beings so cruelly. My soulsight gazed upon the Halorians escorting the pen of slaves and proved me true.
“They're approaching,” I said, voice unmuffled by my Painted mask. “Four, including the driver.”
“Must I wear this?” Roche ran a hand over his face, unable to touch the immaterial Painting I’d covered his face in. “My Tunnels can hide me.”
“Your Tunnels only work on those you know to Tunnel. What if you are seen from afar?”
“No one can escape your sight.”
“Roche.”
“Fine, fine.”
Without another word, Roche dashed out. The driver noticed him first. She pulled on the reins, glanced over her shoulder, and hushed a warning at her colleagues in the back. She needn't have. The shudder of the wagon as it lurched to a stop alerted them just fine.
I felt and saw Roche’s many Tunnels subtly coaxing forth an irrational surge of fear in the driver—her panicked whispers took on a harsher, more flustered tone. I threw up a Zephyr barrier in case the whispers turned to shouts and invited unwanted guests.
The three women in the back stood. Two remained rooted, weapons in hand. The last leaped down and rushed at me. A slice across her abdomen as she came and another across her back as she passed put her down, alive but too wounded to do anything but live. I threw myself at the other two. They swung in unison. I flashed forward onto the cart, weaving past and between them, my twin swords cutting deep into the backs of their ankles. Both collapsed. One fell off the wagon, clutched at her injury, and whimpered in pain. The other was made of sturdier stuff; she dragged herself up against the crate of slaves and kept swinging. I kicked her blade away and stabbed daggers through her palms and into the wood of the cart. She thrashed against the bonds and tried to kick at me, more angry than scared, more in rage than in pain—a pleasant surprise. I would save her for last. Just as spring of water is purer for having passed harder and more numerous layers of rock and earth, fear is sweeter for having passed tougher and more calloused layers of the soul.
The whimpering coward was a trifle of a meal. Piece by piece, I nibbled on her fear, taking some of her sensus with each bite. When all but her core remained, I looked over at my first victim, the one I’d taken down with a stroke of sharp metal to her front and back. She lay where I’d left her, frozen in fear and limp with injury.
“Can I have one of them,” Roche said, smiling. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I think I can do better.”
Ribbons of flesh hung off the driver’s mutilated body. Blood pooled at her feet, soaking into the wood of the footrest, then dripping down onto the road to fill the spaces between the cobbles. I turned towards the trapped woman.
“Much appreciated,” Roche said.
My second was markedly better, full and rich and deep—not the best I’ve had, nowhere near the best, but good.
Roche let the slaves out of the crate. They were a poor sight—skeletons wearing tight, dry, dirty suits of skin. He wanted to help them. I didn’t mind so long as he knew he would do so alone. In the end, pity won over fear, and he threw the bodies of the dead Halorians off the wagon before driving the slaves away.
“They’ll be dead before dawn,” I told him when he returned.
“Maybe,” he said. I shook my head, remembering a time when hope made me a fool. There’s no more stubborn a sort than those who latch on to hope or love. In the end, hope is probability's bitch, fed scraps from the table when her owner is full. And love… well, love is a weakness so glaring as to be your enemy’s favorite weapon.
The rest of that night was fruitless. On the second, several more fell to us. On the third, worried our escapades would be noticed and planned against, I used my soulsight to limit our targets. Only on the fourth did we find who I was looking for—a pair who fostered a greater distress than their apparent task warranted.
“No killing,” I said. Roche seemed ready to ask why. I smiled when he didn’t, pleased with his restraint.
“Capture and interrogate?” he asked.
“Only if words alone fail.”
I walked out of the recess we’d taken cover in and into the narrow street. The cart slowed to a stop.
“State your business,” said the dainty woman in the driver's seat. She did not raise her voice. In the dead of night, there was no need to.
Her companion stirred, sitting up from where she rested in the back of the cart. “Why have we stopped?”
The driver pointed at me. “Some fool is trying to rob us.”
“Admin?”
“I don’t think so. She’s not wearing the uniform.”
The more prominent woman, tall and lean and with a bundle of dirty blonde hair held in a bun by two long, thin, metallic spikes, climbed off the cart and approached me, coming to stand just about close enough for me to be in the reach of the longsword. Telling, since her hand rested on its pommel. “Move or be moved.”
“Are you leaving the city?” I asked. Both sets of eyes widened. They hadn't expected a man’s voice.
The taller woman’s hand went from resting on the pommel to wrapping around the handle. “A man! To think—”
“You may dispense with the fake outrage,” I said. “I know you to be rebels.”
The woman scanned the dark alleys and tall roofs, searching and finding nothing. “What trick are you playing?” Her sword slid out without sound. “Where is your master?”
“I have no master, only those who consider me theirs.” I gestured behind her. “Like Roche there, who, in his haste to service, has taken it upon himself to incapacitate your friend.”
The fighter spun to find her companion frozen. The indent of a line on the driver’s neck was the only sign of the otherwise invisible wire pressed across her throat.
Reaper Arts swelled beneath the skin of the warrior's legs, and she made to step forward. Droplets of blood bloomed across the driver’s neck. The giant of a woman halted.
“I assume you are heading out of the city,” I said.
The warrior gritted her teeth and resheathed her sword. “You two aren’t slaves.”
“We might be,” Roche said, the derision in his tone seeking to goad her into the conflict he so desired.
“You are too good a Telum to be a slave,” she said.
“I don’t know whether to be proud or disappointed at the praise.” Roche was lying. He’d been too good for too long to find such a statement a source of pride. More so for having come from the lips of a Halorian.
The tall godling half turned to me, putting me into view while keeping an eye on her companion. “What is it you want?”
“An introduction,” I said.
“To whom?”
“Your leader.”
She shook her head.
“You don’t have much choice in the matter,” I said.
“I think we do.”
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
I took out my twin blades, calm and without hurry. “Well then, let me dissuade you of that notion.”
And I so did, for not even gods had managed to make a liar out of me.
***
We left the cart at the edge of the forest, under a large beech tree and hidden by a pile of branches and leaves; the roads were too dangerous to take, and the dense forest didn’t allow for carts. Besides, there were no roads that led to where we were heading. From the fragmented memory I’d stolen, the rebel leader was in a town they’d erected deep in the western forest and far from any known settlements.
“We’re nearly there,” Brifel called back to us. She and the petite Auger, Fillo, were at the head of our group, walking on either side of the slaves, who, unable to walk, were draped over the horses.
“After two days trekking through this damn forest, this town of yours better have decent amenities,” Sil said.
It didn’t. The town was poor. I suppose it might've been prosperous in their eyes. Dozens of shacks made of rough, untreated, unevenly cut timber encompassed a miracle of a building—how something so tall and so poorly built remained standing was a mystery. Ragged men busied themselves in the light of early dawn, chopping trees, skinning game, or fumbling through combat stances.
“So when you said criminal underworld…” Sanas said.
“What better way to bring Halor to ruin than to catalyze the revolution,” I said.
Roche lifted his shoulders and rubbed his hands together. “Oh, how sweet the anarchy will be.”
We headed towards the main building. The flat, beaten earth around the town was a welcome change from the uneven terrain of the forest. Fillo left us at the door and closed it behind us. Brifel led us down a hallway deeper into the building, past several dead torches and side doors, and eventually to a pair of crudely made doors that ended the space. She came to a stand, pausing.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Roche asked.
Brifal sighed, then knocked on the door.
“Come in,” called a voice.
A carpet almost as large as the room spread over the wooden floor. Maps covered all four walls. Letters, matrix templates, drawings, and an assortment of other documents lay piled on the only table in the room. Behind the table was a chair. Behind the chair was a woman. She sat angled away from us, holding a parchment up to the light coming from the back window.
“I take it the trip was a success?”
“Hard to say,” Brifal said.
“How so?” The woman turned to face us. Our eyes met. She froze, the parchment still held high enough to hide her bare breasts—partially. “Oh.”
I smiled. “It’s good to see you again… Captain Jule.” Recognizing me and my guards said she had to be. But how had her soul changed so much? How had the tar of evil faded so quickly? Only decades of sinless, righteous living could wash a soul that well and bury the blackness so deep.
“You freed yourself from Lira’s clutches?” Jule showed no signs of concern, only curiosity. I didn’t particularly appreciate being treated as an oddity, as anything less than a threat.
“Don’t be rude,” I said.
She placed the reports she was reading on her table and gestured at the coat hanger beside the door. “Brifal, dear, would you be so kind as to bring me my robe.” The godling obeyed, bringing her a white, loose, silken garment from where it hung. Brifal put it on and tied a ribbon-like belt about her waist, tying it loosely to keep her cleavage abundant. “Better?”
“Not what I meant,” I said.
“If it was not my nakedness that insulted your sense of decorum, then…?” Her manner of speech carried an eloquence few Easterners could match. She’d been here and among Islanders long enough to speak like a native, almost long enough to sound like a godling.
“Not to sound callow, but my question came first,” I said.
“Ah, you mean about my namat?” Jule smiled. “I remember. Well, it’s one thing telling lies to someone you think consigned to a life of slavery, it is quite another to tell secrets to an enemy.”
“You’re no enemy of mine.”
She peered intently at me. “I sold you into slavery. I am your enemy. And seeing as Brifel has brought you here, you are mine. Where is Fil—”
I darted forward, leaped over the table, and barreled into her, driving her to the floor. With her pinned beneath me, my swords came to rest across her throat, both edges drawing separate lines of blood. “If you wish to be my enemy, I must say, you are going about it the right way.”
A scuffle broke out behind me. I trusted Roche to stop Brifel. I trusted Sil to stop him.
Jules lay beneath me, unperturbed, as if her life wasn’t in danger or her rescue was imminent. She had—as I had—sensed the four goldings who’d entered. If they were who she relied upon, her trust was misplaced. My eyes fixed on hers, watching for the moment that realization dawned.
The conflict behind me continued. I heard the hiss of flames, the clash of steel, the faint sounds of blood splatter, then the stirrings of a familiar chuckle. After a time, silence descended, and with it, the light of understanding flashed in Jule’s eyes. I could taste the fear now, delicious as it was. But it was a distant thing, somehow faint, almost beyond my reach.
“Retract your insult or render it true,” I said.
Her emotions shifted. No, it was more like they left their hiding place. “My apologies. I was… mistaken. W-we are not enemies.”
I rose, stepped back, and sheathed my swords in one smooth motion. Behind me, I saw Brifel pressed to the floor, Sanas’ knee planted on her back. Beside them stood Roche, grinning even as he sulked. Four limp godlings lay slumped near the door, injured but alive.
I walked around Jule’s busy desk. “I take it your namat is to be praised for freeing the slaves you’ve gathered here.”
Jule was slow to get up and even slower to compose herself. When she did, her fear slithered away, returning to its sanctum. In its place was the familiar ink of a murderous, cold-hearted, emotionally weathered slave trader. “I wasn’t lying when I said it was useful, though it isn't a namat exactly.”
“What exactly does it do?”
She sighed, knowing silence would cost her death and an answer would pay off the debt she owed. “It allows me to rearrange souls.”
My eyes narrowed. “Is it common in your lands?”
She shook her head. “Not at all. Only our… I guess you might call them godlings, have the talent.”
“How does it work?”
Jule pointed at her chair. “May I?” she asked. I nodded. She sat down and rubbed the blood off the shallow cuts on her neck. “It allows me to rearrange a soul briefly. Warp the right parts the right amount, and slave bonds break. It’s horribly painful, but I doubt any of those I’ve freed would care to complain.”
“And you?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You’re wearing what appears to be a mask.” As sophisticated and imperceptible as my Merkus, I thought.
She smirked. “I suppose it is, but how do you know I’m wearing the mask?”
“It is the liberator who needs the mask of a slave trader, not the other way around.”
She shrugged. The difficulty of interpreting her emotions put the idea of killing her in mind, but no matter how convincing her façade may have been, my promises saw her true soul and refused to let me detach it from its worldly anchor.
“So, why have you come?” she asked.
“To help.”
“Of course. But who and with what?”
“You and ending Halor’s slave trade.”
Jule raised an eyebrow. “To what end?”
“Several.” Six, to be exact, I thought.
“Very well. I’ll take your word for it.” She pointed to Sanas and Brifal, the former still pressed atop the latter. “Now that we’ve established we aren't enemies, is there a need?”
I gestured to Sanas. She climbed off Brifal. The Lorail godling grunted and rolled over, panting. The Sanas I remembered had still not returned; causing pain for the sake of causing pain wasn’t a practice the old her engaged in.
I turned back to the easterner. “Seeing as your network seems too small and ill-equipped to rescue more than a handful at a time, likely none once the godlings eventually enact whatever countermeasures they can think up, my guards will bring the slaves to your door. All you have to do is break their bonds and hide them. Can you?”
Jule fell into thought. “Depends.”
“On?”
“Number and frequency.”
“Best you tell me what you can handle.”
She hesitated, and I saw the intent to lie form in her soul. “It’s difficult to say. I would have to juggle emancipating slaves with strengthening the barrier that hides our camp, not to mention maintaining my slave-trader persona.”
“To the best of your ability, estimate.”
Jule paused, thinking. “I—”
“And for vigilance's sake,” I interrupted, “lower your estimate enough not to fear failure.”
After another spell of contemplation, she said, “Six per quarter of a moon.”
I furrowed my brow. “Is that all?”
“Before now, we’ve only managed two or so.”
“If I’m not mistaken, there’s around three hundred in this shamble of a… village? Town?”
She sighed. “It took me nearly two decades to amass our current number.”
Faining disappointment, I shook my head. “Not enough.”
“It is the best I can do.” Another lie.
“Fine. Then I’ll free them myself. How many can you take in.”
“If I did not need to break their slave bonds, twelve.”
“Very well.”
The test was set.
***
Unobstructed by the plodding pace of Brifel, Fillo, and the freed slaves, it took us two days of constant riding to return to Halor. We found the slaves Roche had rescued on our way, markedly nearer the city than the camp. It was a minor diversion—the only reason I entertained Roche’s pleas. The gnarled bones we found accounted for at least two. Wild animals had found their corpses, stripped them of flesh, and scattered them in and around a small dell. Evidence showed the rest were likely dead or recaptured. As I’d predicted, Roche’s efforts were in vain, hence his foul mood when we returned to our place in the city.
I stepped into the common room. Roche sat slumped in a chair, eyes closed.
“No,” I said, making my way to sit across from him.
He lifted his head. “Lord?”
“Not yet. Resist. We have work to do, and a clear head will have you do it better.”
He looked away. “Will this work spill Halorian blood?”
I smiled; when adequately utilized, his bloodthirst was one of his more winning qualities. “You’d regret having spilled less because you weren't sober.”
He sat up, his thick lips stretching against his bright teeth. “What is it you wish of me, Lord?”
“Return to Haloryarey.” I waved his concerns away before he managed more than a sigh. “Inform Lira that you will be attacking slave transports.”
“And where am I to take these slaves?”
“You’ll bring them here.”
Roche’s joy wavered. “To Halor?”
I nodded.
His glee was all but gone when he asked, “And then?”
“You go back to save another batch of slaves.”
“And slaughter another batch of Halorians.” HHHhis delight, childlike and pure despite its morbid source, was almost infectious. “Wonderful!” He jumped to his feet, eager to commence his duties. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll take my leave to prepare.”
“Go. There’ll be a letter waiting for you. Make sure you do not leave without it.”
He danced out of the room.
I found a stack of blank parchments stowed away in a desk drawer Helena had placed in my room. There was a pot of ink and a pen, but I did not need them. I wrote my instructions in sensus, binding the words in a matrix so only the sensus of my intended recipient could undo the masking. Done, I folded the letters and left them on the desk.
Halor was more tolerable in the dark; night muted all the bright colors, and my eyes didn’t have to suffer their visual hollers as loudly. So, too, was it quiet—it is a rare Halorian willing and able to match the nightly clamor and belligerence of a drunken Bark from the capital. Then again, I suspect their vices and depravities were kept hidden behind closed doors. In any case, their absent nightlife made my task less prone to complications.
Unlike Evergreen’s other capitals, Halor didn’t have districts organized by Leaf, Branch, Bark, Root, and Mud. Instead, it was built as though the wards were towns within a city, numerous swaths of land built around affluent centers with concentric strips of ever smaller and less lustrous buildings spreading outward until it approached another center and began to rise once more. This, too, eased my current task as the undulations of the cityscape narrowed my search.
Perched on a particularly tall building's summit, I scanned the city, my dark cloak billowing behind me.
The only other landmark I recognized besides the outer walls had also stood since the birth of Halor, occupying the very epicenter of the city. The lofty, white tower reached past clouds, lording over all others. My target wouldn’t be there. Not even she dared claim the place as her own, nor did she fancy enjoying the owner’s truant hospitality. But my prey’s attempts to compete and rebel had formed her home. The place was on the city's eastern edge, half as tall as the white spire, twice as thick, and not nearly as bright, trying its best to match the aura of majesty in every way that would reject any similarities.
Elur’s arrogance fostered the ease of my infiltration. No guards patrolled the building’s perimeter, and I approached without fear of discovery. The outer gate was wide open, almost as if to invite me in. I entered. Unlike her mother and sister, Elur had no love for pretty things. The space between the outer walls and the keep-like building she called home was nothing but an expanse of stone. Entry through the rear doors proved nearly as unobstructed as the front gates. Inside, matrix lanterns hung from the hallway walls every two strides. Else, it was a rather barren place. I would've thought it abandoned if not for the souls I sensed inside. The first was behind a closed door, a young girl in deep slumber. The second was older, but not by much. Her door was open, the room beyond more akin to a cell than a godling’s sleeping quarters. A half-filled chamberpot sat in the corner, suffocating the windowless space. I went on. The next three were much like the second: a spartan room with a bucket of piss set in the corner and a young girl sleeping on a cot. I kept moving.
The corridor ended with a pair of doors leading to a perpendicular hallway. The change was night and day. The pieces of furniture I’d expected decorated the floor and walls, though all were fashioned in bleak colors and practical intentions. On both ends were switchback staircases, one leading down, the other up. I first tried the double doors across the hallway, finding an empty entrance hall of grey marble. I turned back and headed towards the stairs leading up.
The fourth floor saw my first conscious godling. She was a little thing, bookish and modest for a Halorian godling. I let her see me. Absorbed in the tome she read, she almost didn’t.
“Another?” Her jolt of surprise was fleeting. “Lorail strike you down, Aminy.”
“Aminy?” I asked. “She’s still alive?” I should’ve known. “Might I ask where I can find her?”
“You think—”
I darted forward, grabbed and twisted her arm as I rounded her, and popped the limb out of its socket. My other hand covered her mouth to muffle her scream. I’d erected a wind barrier as soon as I’d seen her; despite being a fan of my victim's screams for all the succulent pain it signifies, I’m not quite as fond of hearing the wretched sounds.
The godling reached back with her free arm, fingers searching blindly. It was already too late. The arm fell limp as I dove into her.
The godling crumpled when I left her soul. Anguish ruled her thoughts—a special kind that comes from being violated in the most intrusive of ways. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the time to savor its richness.
I took the dead husk to where I’d seen the sleeping children and dumped it in one of the empty rooms. An Ignis matrix melted the hinges, locking the door.
Returning to the main hallway, I descended the stairs. On the lowest of the floors, deep underground, where the air was old and stale, I found a stack of matrix-ridden metal bars blocking my way forward. It took some time to dismantle them all. Elur had extended every effort to tighten the security here. It went some ways to explain why I could not sense the soul trapped within. What better way to hide a soul than by putting it in a prison powered by souls?
Besides the barred exit and the seamless, windowless walls, Aminy’s prison didn’t look much like a prison. She sat cross-legged atop a large bed at the far end of the cavernous room.
“Oh, a visitor?” Aminy was smiling, the glint of madness clear in her eyes. “How delightful. It is a pleasure to welcome you to our humble home.”
I approached. “The pleasure is mine.”
“A man? One I have not enticed myself? Oh, truly a delight.”
I came to a stand at the end of her bed. “Seeing as you’ve been trapped here for so many cycles, I’d think any visitor is a welcome visitor.”
Aminy shrugged. “True. Anyone but that wretched sister of ours. You know, we haven't seen another soul for so very, very long.”
“Then how exactly have you sown enough mischief to have the godlings curse your name?”
Empty expressions of surprise and indignation crossed her face. “Us? Never.”
I ran my gaze around the place she called home. The vast space looked far emptier than it was. “Has Elur tired of your torture? I find you are more comfortable than I expected.”
Amint shook her head, still smiling, a touch of sadness softening the glint of madness in her eyes. “Our sister knows well the art of torture. Counterintuitive as it may sound, pain is far more potent when offset by bouts of comfort. It reminds the soul of what it yearns for and teaches it the dread of anticipation.”
“Yet you remain as broken, no more, no less.”
Tilting her head, Aminy asked, “Do we know you? I don’t think we do, but you seem to think you know us.”
“And here I thought you knew me better than most.”
Aminy jumped to her feet, quick as can be, then approached, slithering, the smoothness of her steps reminiscent of a snake. “I’m usually good with souls. I’ve never forgotten anyone I’ve had the chance to meet. You, my dear boy, I’ve never met.”
I leaned in closer and opened a rift in my mask to let the darkness of my divinity turn my dull brown eyes to black. “And now?”
Aminy flew at me with open arms.