The world was a hazy gray.
It was not her world.
It was his. And he was a devon who knew no mercy.

She knew mercy.
She had wept as she held Reeva where she lie writhing and moaning upon the floor. She had rocked her, comforted her, pleaded to her for forgivings. Then she had crawled to the bunker to fetch the down pillow.

Aya, she knew mercy.
She had sat upon Reeva…had leaned in her weight, ignoring the hands clawing at the pillow, ignoring the legs kicking.

She knew compassion.
She was rocking with racking pain where she sat cradling Reeva’s head. With trembling fingers, she closed the departed eyes, then brushed the blood from the parted lips. She ran fingertips along the bridge of the largest nose she had ever seen, and tucked hair behind ears that could rival a tippet’s.

She knew hatred.
She curled her fingers about the blade’s hilt and dragged it close, sliding it along cold polished tiles. She closed her eyes tight, shutting out his world, shutting out Reeva’s pale face in her lap, shutting out the goggling guards in the doorway. They’d been given strict instructings not to interfere. She had been given instructings as well. She had one turning to carry them out before Breea’s head would join Fiora’s.

She opened her eyes and lifted the blade.
The world was gray.
It wasn’t her world.
It was his, and he knew no mercy.
He knew no mercy.

(A small snippet from King Kynneth)