Seventy Five
Red eyes. Zaria was so tired of red eyes. They followed her into sleep, into the thin hours before dawn, into every pocket of memory that still smelled like smoke and salt. In her dreams they turned toward her, accusing, and endless. In her nightmares they stalked the shattered halls of the Isles. Now they stared at her in waking, too. “Princess,” someone called from somewhere behind her. Zaria didn’t blink. Her gaze stayed locked on the blank stretch of stone wall ahead as if it might open and let her step through to a quieter world. “Zaria,” the voice tried again, closer. Still nothing... no turn, no answer. Just that hollow, trancelike stillness. “My lady.” A sharp snap of fingers cracked beside her ear. Zaria’s head whipped around, fury flaring hot and fast. “Don’t,” she hissed, “s
- Writer
