Nyx is a girl who can heal any wounds except her own.
When a king captures and murders her mother, she is imprisoned; forced to heal men of war who deem her lower than dirt and forced to marry the king she loathes the most.
Saval is a servant boy w...
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SanguisetLibertas
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“Here.” A fur blanket slides down on the floor. “It's winter. You must be cold. Take that and the food and go home. ”
Saval mutters thanks and slips away as quietly as he could. But halts when the voice calls again. “Let's be friends.”
“Sure.” His lips did a painted smile that disperses as soon as it appeared.
Benevolence is like a can of milk thrown by a kid who just learned he's lactose intolerant. It rots and expires. They say that the only reason the sun lets the night come is to show how brighter it is compared to the moon.
Everyone is out for something.
This witch wants something too.
And if it means food, Saval can pretend to be so. He can dance on this song and get resources until this witch finally becomes bored with him and move on.
The bowl of soup and the blanket warms his frosty hands as he steps out of the palace. Snow plummets to the rooftops, to his tousled hair, decorate the dying lanterns tied up to poles, and pricks his lashes as he blinks. Mists form as he breaths.
He sees Irion in their hut and he smiles and waves, as a lone crow flies one last time into the sky.
—
She watches the boy leave.
Her destiny is perfect. It's everything she has ever wanted; all of it given on a silver platter flying right to her face majestically like a flung dog doing ballet on a pole. And, Saval Locke—well, she can handle it. Perhaps. M̶a̶y̶b̶e̶, h̶e̶r̶ d̶e̶s̶t̶i̶n̶y̶ i̶s̶n̶'t̶ a̶c̶t̶u̶a̶l̶l̶y̶ p̶e̶r̶f̶e̶c̶t̶. M̶a̶y̶b̶e̶, s̶h̶e̶ j̶u̶s̶t̶ d̶e̶s̶p̶e̶r̶a̶t̶e̶—
She grabs and reads Writer more intensely instead.
“Ow—ow! Calm down, you're tearing my pages!”
Nyx loosens her hold in haste, muttering apologies under her breath. The book floats right up to her face, clearly annoyed. “You've been reading your story for hours straight and now you're attempting to tear me up. Absolutely sane behaviour.”
“Sorry,” she apologises again. Nyx loudly hums a rather cheerful lullaby as she inspects the dark pint beginning to crawl into the edges of her fingertips. “Still, such a low price to pay for people to see the future.”
Writer chuckles, “Why, you want me to raise up the compensation?”
“No, of course not, Writer,” says Nyx as she bites her lip. “Just rather... wary.”
“Why so?”
“Mother's hands looked like this.” She gestures to her hand. Then, her gaze turns harsh. “She must have used you a lot. You tell happy stories yet, she died. Was her fate meant to be that?”
