Page 107

Though, Sirens were also supposed to be extinct. So perhaps I am being paranoid.

It is getting harder to trust my mind. This wretched rot is spreading, decaying my heart faster than it beats. Weakening me to the point that a Mortal blade drew blood from me today.

Yet, I have not given up my hope to die in your arms. Perhaps for that, I am a mad.

The blood moon rises tomorrow night, and you are the only thing that keeps me going.

I never told you this, Lyra, but I do not remember much from before the curse apart from loving you and sailing the seas. It seems fitting that when I die, those are the last two things I will have.

Solas has found his sea legs, though he spends every free moment pouring over old tomes he took from some deep part of the Obsidian’s Court’s library.

He is naïve enough to believe there is a way to save me. A waste of time.

When you read this, I want you to know that I never held hope that I would be saved.

I chose to love you, knowing it would kill me.

I did it anyway.

I would do it again.

Love, Your Monster.

PS. Your brother is growing on me. Do not ever tell him, but I see a goodness in him that I have not seen a soul possess in a long time.

With a rough breath, I closed the journal and shoved it back into my satchel. As I stood, papers scattered on the planks at my feet.

I cursed under my breath, bracing my hand against my tender ribs, and lowered to collect them.

The pages made me pause, flicking through them tentatively.

There were many angrily drawn sketches with words scribbled over the top. I had no recollection of creating these, yet every line was unmistakably mine.

A throne etched into the first page, cracks running through it that reminded me of the rot spreading across my skin.

Two words were written around it, overlapping so many times that it was almost illegible.

Death. Elysium.

Perhaps I was drunk when I drew these. Mortal minds are fickle things, and alcohol tends to delude them.

I flipped through the others aimlessly while walking towards the bed.

In another, the sun had been scratched out beneath layers of furious black ink. Beside it was a portrait of me, my eyes drowned in darkness.

The last drawing, however, stopped me cold.

A portrait of Maraveth.

She was so similar to Lyra, yet so different. Her eyes, even in the greyscale of my sketch, seemed to shimmer with that tiny difference.

I tossed the pages aside; they scattered across the far side of the bed in a rain of forgotten ramblings.

Pain tore through my chest and my hand clutched at the rotting flesh encasing my heart.

Whispers rushed in from around me, echoing through my head in a hurricane of confusion.

The room spun around me, and the air thinned as I stumbled to the bed.