"YOU FOOLISH GIRL, NOT EVEN YOUR STORIES CAN SAVE YOUR BEAUTIFUL THROAT."
Khai killed 1000 girls before he got to her. And he would make sure she would die like the others. His beautiful hands demand blood on them.
Mazeeda would make sure that she'l...
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SHE TOOK A DRINK OF the rose water next to her before Mazeeda began her tale once again. But today, right this instance, she felt bold enough to test his patience. So she sat there patiently, counting how long it'd take before her husband snapped at her.
Mazeeda didn't even reach twenty when he finally spoke.
“Begin your story, before I end yours.” His voice was wearing thin and she loved what control she had over him at the moment.
She looked at him through her eyelashes, a look Mazeeda knew her mother made to her father that said, I am yours to command.
It was a powerful gaze that she learned to perfect.
“Indeed,” she began deliberately, “the sun warrior was Sharik laying amongst his enemies. He had been wounded dangerously, daring to fight against death. He did not want to die.
Leila was struck into silence as she stared at him. Never had she seen a sun warrior this close. Let alone a living one. And so she dared to walk to him and found him breathing shallowly, his hand putting pressure on his seeping wound where gold blood was slipping out against silver.
She kneeled down, her hand briskly touching the cool blade against her waist. She would kill him, she would. She was taught that all her life.
Sharik looked up at his killer. Her pale blue skin awed him. He had never seen a moon priestess. Her grey eyes were like the moon, her white hair like spilled stars. He didn't know if his eyes were deceiving him, but he'd never seen such a beautiful woman like her.
And she was going to kill him.
The curved blade gleamed softly against the moon’s light. Leila held it up with both hands, ready to strike him true in his throat. She would do him the favor and put him out of his misery. She brought the dagger down and-
‘You're beautiful.’
The blade stopped right at his neck. Leila looked at him then and found amber eyes staring back at her, like fire. They were fierce; filled with a warrior's pride and honor, even if he was dying.
She dropped her prized weapon and slumped down next to him, her back hunched like she was defeated. No matter how many times Leila was told to hate the enemy, she couldn't kill this man. Though his blood was gold and not silver, he still bled just like her. Though his skin was bronze and not pale, he still hurt like her.
And even if it was wrong, she had to do what was right to her. ‘Let me help you,’ she told this warrior.
She went straight to work, cleaning his still bleeding wound before sticking a needle through his tough skin. It was like stitching a piece of cloth together. She worked quickly, running on limited time. She was finishing up the last stitches when Leila heard her name be called nearby.
Her hands were covered in his blood when she finished. ‘I'm sorry,’ Leila told him, ‘this is the best I can do.’ She got up with ease as she picked up her lamp, making her way back to where her name was being called.
