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“Tonight was a borrowed grace, innocent of the future. They sat in miserable and desperate silence, wishing and regretting while the bloody moon traced its ponderous path across the sky.”

“The point of revenge wasn’t to heal. The point was that the exhilaration, however temporary, drowned out the hurt.”

“Because he’s just my brother.” She gave him a helpless look. “And I am the last great hope of the south. How do you think history will judge me if I throw away its fate for one person?”

“Maybe no one was truly a beast. Maybe that was just how murder became possible. You took away someone’s humanity, and then you killed them.”

The illusion she lived in was fluid and mutable, and could be easily altered by someone willing to rewrite the script of reality.

Nothing lasts..

This was not a world of men. It was a world of gods, a time of great powers. It was the era of divinity walking in man, of wind and water and fire. And in warfare, she who held the power asymmetry was the inevitable victor.

“Or maybe, she thought, with stars this bright, if you believed that above you lay the cosmos, then you had to construct a yurt to provide some temporary feeling of materiality. Otherwise, under the weight of swirling divinity, you might feel you had no significance at all.”

That was what the balance of power looked like now. People like her waved a hand and millions were crushed within the confines of some elemental disaster, flung off the chessboard of the world like irrelevant pieces.

“As long as she remembered it from that detached, bird’s eye-view, she felt no guilt. She felt rather remotely curious, as if she had set an anthill on fire, as if she had impaled a beetle on a knife tip. There was no guilt in killing insects, only the lovely, childish curiosity of seeing them writhe in their dying throes.”