Myrgen the Grey was meticulous. He had gone to a lot of trouble to know everything about the woman before him. Catriona Moriarity was dangerous. He knew her resume. She could read a person's secret on their face. She could convince a man to slay his own son before killing himself. She was fast with a blade. Most important, she was capable of killing the man Myrgen wanted dead for his crimes against the kingdom. Knowing her meant knowing how to catch her, how to bind her and how to get her to do what he wanted. And he had secured that very precious thing that would make her his slave. But obsession is its own slavemaster, and it never sells cheap.
The smallest of incidents can shake the world. The soul is a single drop of essence. In that is housed the collective experiences of thousands of lives, all art, all fears, all imagination, all hatred. The sins of the father, the cruelty of the mother, the kindness of the stranger, the naivete of the miscarried breathe and bond within that tiny mote. But the intention of the hand that delivers that mote means nothing. For the dead won't care who killed them. That is the job of the living.
A man's integrity is measured by the choices he makes." Myrgen the Grey knew better. After all, it was because of his interest in another man's woman that he was a fugitive in the first place. This woman had given him shelter, safety and employment and had yet to ask a fair price for any of it. She was kind by nature, strong by necessity, beautiful by birth. It wasn't unexpected for him to fall in love with her. But he knew the wrath of a vengeful king, had seen what it could do to the powerless. He knew a bad match when he saw it. He needed to help her, save her from herself. He just couldn't do it there.
When gods play dice, mountains tremble To Entivia "Boots" Malatesta, the King of Mande was a twisted monster. Anibal Cipriano held a teleportation amulet in his deft, thin fingers. The gold glinted in the flicker of flames from the ornate glasswork lamps. The crown of Mande sat on his desk where he could touch it when he worked. Blood dripped from the White Granite Sword Myrgen had entrusted to her. Her eyes took in a Plan of Attack and under that, almost unreadable, a recipe for making the thing in his hand. There was a third paper upon the desk, larger than the two on top. It was a map of Caratia. But no one of Mandian blood could touch Caratian soil. What was his angle? And what role did she play?
A single breath of Heaven can sway the balance of power Sovereigna, Queen of the half-Fae nation of Krakte, has been patient. When she learned of her daughter Elizabeth's death. It was not through official channels. Her daughter's Lady-in-waiting told her. When she heard of the way she died, it was from a spirit sent to watch over her. When she heard of the way her daughter's body was treated, it was from a traveler. After each report, she sent a letter to Patras, requesting her daughter's body for burial. As her Half-fae army marches on Mervolingia, she sends one more message: "Bring my daughter to me now, or Mervolingia burns.
You finally have the perfect outfit and accessories and you get yourself zipped up in your shiny polyester uni-suit with the jet pack, the tall boots and the full utility belt. You look amazing! Perfect! You pull your hood up and put your helmet on. You step into the hallway, strut through the admiring crowds of con-folk ...and now you have to pee.
Alexander Angloume, King of Mervolingia, reached out to touch the face of the woman he loved. This woman was the future of his kingdom, the one to bring to bear against his enemies the greatest army in the world. It didn't hurt that he'd loved her for a decade, or that he'd longed for her since their last night together. It didn't matter that she had left a life with him out of a sense of duty to her family. It didn't matter that she saved a traitor to the crown and gave him sanctuary on her ship. All that mattered was kissing her, holding her, making love to her and keeping her by his side that night. Anything to stop her from finding out what he'd done.
Flattery makes friends and truth makes enemies. When the fate of all rests in your hands, what goes on the other side of the scale? Lucifer didn't understand. The weapon he wielded shouldn't be in his hand. The blood being spilled shouldn't be on his floor. The assistant he acquired shouldn't be in this place. For all of this to happen here, now, meant something had gone terribly wrong. And as he looked into his best friend's eyes, he couldn't keep his mind from realizing the awful truth. Alistair, what in Hell have you done?
Thank you for visiting our website. Would you like to provide feedback on how we could improve your experience?
This site does not use any third party cookies with one exception — it uses cookies from Google to deliver its services and to analyze traffic.Learn More.