Luneshale Pass perfect machine

Why would I kill you? Stupid boy.

No malice in her tone, merely a lazy disdain. Her ears laid disapprovingly to her skull. The girl had known many boys like him, boys without a warm bed or a mother to serve him warm meals, boys who wept and raged and wandered endlessly. Boys who often died still tasting the ashes of what had once been their dreams. She supposed the ones who lived must have become the sort of men who hurt faceless little girls — but she wouldn't know. She'd never stayed to find out.

Why bother with him at all?

She stepped closer, hoping to catch another glimpse of his eyes. They were the only pretty thing about him. One day they would rot out of his skull — or else, or worse, turn to gilded ice as the world sucked all the warmth from him. But tonight they were soft eyes, lovely sunlight-colored eyes, and she wanted to look before they were gone.

You have the eyes of someone born falling, but made to fly.