Sublime

Mercy’s mother was sheathed in a violet dress and wore silver chains in her hair and around her neck, all set with amethysts. Her hair drifted like part of the shadows, and she tapped black lips with fingernails of purple crystal as she walked.

‘I’m not a hero. I’m not like Kay.’ ‘I reckon that might be where we went wrong the first time,’ says the child, ‘creating heroes. Reckon we should have trusted normal people to guard the gate in the first place. Reckon that’s what we should do now.’

There are swords to be wielded by kings and then there are swords to be wielded for kings, with which to do their dirty work. His is the latter.

Then Kiro shook his helmeted head. “I can't. I bear greater responsibility than you can imagine.” He lifted his sword, his shield rising to match it. “And why should I make a deal with you? You're not even an Underlord.” Lindon's Blackflame madra surged, and he reached into his void key. “I don't care,” he said. Then he pulled out a cannon.

Altha. Healer.