Boda relishes chaos above everything. If the old gods still picked heralds, Pandemonia would have snatched her up in a heartbeat. A brazen kiss in a Kraestonien market was all it took to make me dance after her shadow, forgetting family and oaths in an instant.
Two years later, here we are. She grins with that fox-sly mouth and adoration swells in my breast, spills across my cheeks, like the blood through my fingers.
Boda adjusts the dagger tip on the priest’s fluttering throat and rummages in the stolen tithe bag.
We’re dancing with death again, and she’s excited.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: brazen, relish, tithe)