[ he sits at last on the stone mottled by blood, bile, and spit, back to the flame. every nerve quivers inside his body taut with discipline stretched too thin and pale. but what else is he to do? give in to the madness that stalks his heart? two beasts can play at that game, prowling and circling in his chest.
chonghua doesn't hurry either, especially with the ugly firelight being their only respite. ]
It calls you a war-maker. Did your rule necessitate it?
no subject
chonghua doesn't hurry either, especially with the ugly firelight being their only respite. ]
It calls you a war-maker. Did your rule necessitate it?