Luneshale Pass perfect machine

Her teeth never met him; instead, she struck a different chord. He pulled a wry smile. Stupid. Foolish. He was one and the same, and didn't he know it?

Atlas mocked him from the frayed darkness, his face evident in every remnant of gold still suspended in the thickening night. Dad could have killed him, too, but instead he'd damned him to the desert, a pariah to his people, an example to those who thought to follow.

If only this girl knew. Then she wouldn't bother with him at all - but she didn't know, and it made him feel... new.

He turned away to the waters again, so his troubled gaze couldn't meet her, but he felt her near him - nearer than before, and a quiet laugh rose behind tight lips. A single breath escaped him, bitter as the autumn air.

I guess I'm something like that, his gaze lingered on the river, on the multitude of stars blurred in the ripple of the shallows. He wished he'd had something even half as poetic to respond with. Instead, he asked, what about you? and gilded eyes rose to meet her, were you made to fly?

It was clear she was falling now, and he knew the likes of her: spindled strays who honeyed you up with sad, doll eyes, all while they reached for the name tucked away in your pocket; the kind who could see when you had nothing left to give.