❛in which she kills❜
The Red Death was well-known. She was a tale used to scare children from talking to strangers, from wandering in markets, from venturing past the garden gates and slipping out of their mother's grasp. Her name was whispered arou...
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"some things in life cannot be fixed. they can only be carried." megan devine
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THE TWO SPYMASTERS WALKED in silence.
Utter silence.
The fall of snow had increased at some point, thick flakes falling upon their hoods, upon the trees above and around them. With the snow came a thick blank of silence; no bird calls, no bristling of leaves in the wind, no heavy footsteps nor breathing.
If there had been no snow at all, Nim thought that it might have been silent anyway. That was just the way that the Middle worked. That was just the way that Spymasters worked.
Spymasters. Plural - it was odd thinking of the male beside her as if he had any sort of affiliation with herself. As if he was similar to her in anyway. Because really, he was not.
If she was fire, destructive and ugly and consuming, then he was smoke. Shadow.
He was just to her left, just a bit in front of her, hood pulled up above a head of dark hair and hands gloved in thick leather. He, just like her, gripped a dagger in one hand - earlier, as she had slid it out when a branch to their right cracked, he had sent her a sharp look that screamed I don't trust you. But then he, too, had slid a gleaming dagger from a sheath on his thigh.
And they had trekked on.
The Middle had a way of being indisputably unpredictable and dubious. Many liked to think that it was the result of change; a place of worship turned to a place of murder, a home to a nefarious queen and trapped souls.
Nim knew better.
Years before Amarantha had ever stepped foot in the Middle, Nim had been its only pollutant.
Entangled with the roots of many trees: bodies. Buried beneath thick bramble: bloodied clothing. Evidence.
The place was a damned graveyard; she could practical feel eyes on her, tracking her from the trees, from the snow-covered ground, wreathing her body with a thick layer of guilt.
Eyes turning to glance at her - the Shadowsinger, a mere few steps ahead, cloak dusted with snow, turned back at her.
She trained her gaze on the large footprints before her, carefully fitting her own boots into the divets left behind by the male.
