THE CURSE OF LUST
Properly afraid.
I forced myself to open one of the notebooks, then another, skimming words that were not meant for me to read. Men and women describing her—me—in scrawls of obsession. A woman of impossible beauty, described the same way, century after century. Politicians, nobles, peasants, even booksellers, each entry thick with hunger, worship, or despair. I recognized most of the names. I forgot some of them. But... my name, written with a feverish insistence. Always Lilith. And then, older whispers of my name—spoken as something else entirely: a ruler, a monster, a she-wolf of immense power, capable of bending an entire army at the mere mention of her name.
I snapped one closed, my puls