Ruthlessgods Stories

It's hard to doubt the word of the gods when they speak directly into one's brain.

Malachiasz: it felt half-curse, half-blessing.

A few of the wounds do not fade: they become permanent flowers etched in her skin.

There are no gods, Serefin recites mentally, a mantra that accompanies his every step.

There is blood in his mouth. He'll keep the taste for it.

Malachiasz's dead: that much Nadya knows. After all, she has seen Serefin kill him, has heard his last words. Logically, she knows he is gone.