Just as she wasn’t a stranger to death, Kalliope was not a stranger to mourning.
She had mourned for her father, for her mother’s fate, for her sister’s loss of innocence, for their lack of freedom. Sometimes, secretly, she had mourned for what she was born into, to the powers and fear she was shackled against.
Kalliope had mourned for too long for the short span of her nineteen years in life. For the things and the people she had in life.
But how could Kalliope mourn something that she never knew she had?
Her recovery had been a quiet affair. She was told by the healer that the chi-the fetus had been just a little over a month old. Not enough for Kalliope to feel any changes.
She couldn’t help but think she should have. That she should have known. This was her body after all. Regar
