Daughter of No Worlds (The War of Lost Hearts Book 1)

I stood with her, only her, until the end of our stories. But I refused to allow hers to be a retelling of mine. She deserved better than a lifetime of bloodstained hands and a tale with a bitter ending crafted from Reshaye’s terrible acts. She deserved epics.

I brought my face so close to his that the smells of his wine-sweetened breath and putrid rot mingled in my nostrils. “Tell Esmaris I sent you,” I whispered, and drew the fingers of my magic and of my hand together until both his mind and his rotting jaw were crushed to jelly in my hands.

“I don’t see why not,” I grumbled. I did, in fact, see why not.

Well, that was more effective than any bucket of cold water: Oh, yes, now I remember. Everything is terrible.

“It’s easy to die for someone,” I said, “but it is so much more valuable to live. I do not give you permission to fail if I fail. Do you understand me?” When he didn’t answer, I pressed, “Do you understand?”

I choked out, “You can do it even if I can’t.”

“I had forgotten that people could be that way. I had forgotten that someone, somewhere, was painting terrible pictures of their wife in a garden. I was so far gone that I didn’t even remember that that kind of mundane contentment actually existed, least of all in the same moments as such terrible things.”

He was right, a part of me whispered. I should have. “You should have told me.” “I couldn’t, Tisaanah.” “Then tell me now,” I said. “Tell me everything. I need to know, because we are living it.”

I stopped and took a breath, trailing across the deck— — and stumbling as I almost stepped on a face. Specifically, Max’s face. Max, who was lying on the wooden floor, hands folded over his stomach. He didn’t flinch as I leapt aside and let out a Thereni curse. He opened one eye. “Careful.” “Max. What are you doing?” “Lamenting.”