“When I was in the deserts, eyes rose from the sands. When I moved through the jungles, hands rose out of the brush. In the mountains, blades swung down from the sky.” Shyan shifts in her seat, her eyes cold and focused somewhere deep in the past. “I pushed them all off, but still they came. Pretenders, mourners, opportunists. Master Davit’s fists — my fists — drove them off, one by one. I had killed him. I was all that was left of him. A cruel wind followed me. Still follows me.” She lifts her head, her eyes narrow. “I taste the bitter breeze.”
Logan Bright — Works 