The Devil's Broken Doll
The image came fast: his wings buckling, his blood steaming on black glass, the mountain going quiet in a way that would never be forgiven.
If he fell, what was she?
A Queen without a king.
A weapon without a wielder.
A prisoner without a jailer.
The titles twisted until they lost meaning. Masks tossed on stone, hollow and useless.
“I could fight,” she murmured, barely aware she had spoken aloud.
The words hung in the warm air, soft but stubborn. They sounded like a vow whispered at the edge of an altar, half prayer, half threat.
Her wings responded again, fire sharpening along their edges, the white brightening to near brilliance for a breath before settling. Light pricked at the corners of