Black Morass great fall

ione stood as marble before the beast who dared to claim her.

theissor’s breath coiled around her, thick with the stink of victory. his voice slithered, his sneer curdled with triumph. but she was not some trembling thing. she did not recoil.

me? her voice was smooth, unbroken, though something bitter simmered beneath. i? blue eyes, cold as a dagger’s edge, turned upon him.

you speak lies.

there was no grief in her face, no weeping widow’s lament. she did not shatter like glass before him. kovictus was dead—this, she knew. but the gods had not written her ending here. the gods had not made her his.

she lifted her chin, letting him press close, letting him think his claim mattered.

be careful what you say, theissor, she whispered, venom curling at the edges of her words, lest the gods hear you and find you wanting.