A Day of Fallen Night

Can you imagine what that’s like – to be seen only for the life you could make, not the life you already possess?

In the tales, she has no name, like too many women in stories of old.

My mother told me we are all like roses. I always thought it means that we opened our petals, took our true form, and gradually withered. But perhaps we never stop growing. If women are flowers, we are not roses, but day's eyes - blooming not once, but over and over, each time the light touches us.

Some people need to call others evil, so they can seem pure and righteous in comparison, or to purge contempt they hold in secret for themselves.

What is the world, but a fleeting dream, from which we will all one day wake?

It is your nature to warm all you see, and the sun does not ask forgiveness for shining.

I love you as the rain loves the earth. As the mountain loves the sky. I will love you when the star returns, and when the black waters swallow the world.

Still, she imagined the loss of a loved one would hurt like an arrowhead lodged in the body. Life would grow and twine around it, but it would remain, always hurting.

A queen should learn the ways of watching. Like a falcon, she waits for her moment to strike. She also knows when she need not strike at all – when her shadow, her presence, is more than enough.

History may record the end of my line as a tragedy,” the Grand Empress said, “but a house that crushes its own daughters beneath its foundations— that is no house at all. Better it burns with the rest. A different world must be drawn from the ashes.

What if magic is just a word for power beyond our understanding, like the gods possess?

In a time of starlight, fire must rise.

Even the most gifted poets had never been able to capture the vastness of the forest, for none had laid eyes on its depths: its endless trees, their unthinkable heights, the layers built up over thousands of centuries.

If it lasts for a week or a month or a year, it will still be ours to cherish, she said. Does a flower bloom any less sweet for its brevity? Esbar smiled. No, she said, leaning close. Nor less beautiful.

It was a strange place to touch someone, the wrist. The skin that knew the patterns of the heart.

I wake holding a restless star; I dream of rain, and voices flow through me like water. This is indeed a world of strange wonders.

We could start by not scorning one another for our beliefs, or lack of them.

your pain is not my pain, but I know its shape. I am sorry for it.

I don’t need anyone to save me. All I ever ask is that you not abandon me.

I wish we could always be together, Papa,” she whispered. “All of us.” He leaned closer to hear. “That you never had to leave again.” “I wish the same.” His callused hands clasped one of hers. “I make you this promise. One day, when you give your throne to your own daughter, when your mother and I have white hair and wrinkles, we shall all live in Hróth together. Every winter, we will watch the sky lights, and every summer, we will dance and laugh under the midnight sun.” “Truly?” “My solemn oath.” Glorian nodded, tears prickling. “I’d like that,” she said. “I’d like that more than anything.” “Then let it be our dream.” His smile creased his eyes. “For now, I will see you in the summer, dróterning.” Mustering her strength, Glorian shifted onto her elbows. Her father drew her into his embrace, the fur of his collar tickling her cheek. “I love you, Papa.” “And I you.” He planted a kiss on the top of her head. “Look after my heart. Rest, Glorian. Be strong.

I am no man’s weapon,’ Dumai said, nettled.

Farewell daughter. May the Saint, in his kindness, keep you safe.” Glorian tried to find the words she wanted to express. I will make you proud. I am afraid. I love you, even if I do not think you love me half as much. I will never treat my daughter the way you have treated me. “Goodbye, Mother,” was all she did say. “I bid you a safe voyage. Please send my good wishes to Lord Magnaust and Princess Idrega.” “I will.” Queen Sabran turned away. Glorian found a deep well of courage and said, “I will be a good queen.” Her mother stopped. “You think me weak,” Glorian said, willing her voice not to quake. “You always have— but I know whose bone and blood I am. I am the chosen of the Saint, the fruit of his unending vine, the iron of the ever-snow. I am the daughter of Sabran the Ambitious and the Hammer of the North, and I will rule this realm without fear. My reign will be remembered for centuries to come.” She let the words soak through the silence, then said, “I am enough.” For a very long time, Queen Sabran said nothing. Her experience was impossible to read. “Belief is only the first step,” she said, very softly. “Start forging your armour, Glorian. You will need it.

She was born to be a shadow, and all shadows had to do was walk behind.

The loneliness ached most on summer nights.

She wished she could hear its voice in her mind, as she could hear the gods. She wanted to hear the voice of chaos. She wanted to hear chaos scream.

I am Marian the Less - but I am also the Hammer of the North, and I am the Malkin Queen. They live in me, too. I am not the soft creature you hope to mould. Not any more, Glorian said. Threaten my family again, and you will remember, as I give you wings.

A picture came, unbidden, of a stranger crushing into her. Her body taken over, laden, stretching and filling beyond her control, growing a seed that unfurled in the darkness. She knew that bringing it into the light would rip a deep scar through her mind, even if she recovered in the body. It would all pull so hard on her line that it broke her, leaving her to sink. She had known for many years that she would not do it by choice.

Nikeya had worn more faces than Dumai could count, but never all at once. Her features were not a mask now, but pure embroidery, made up of the finest stitches of emotion: surprise, tenderness, sorrow, too many shades and myriads of feeling to be picked apart.