“But by then his brother had disappeared, the bloodied sword left abandoned in a pool of crimson on the floor. Only then did Dimitri finally notice the cut across his chest; across his own heart, which for some reason did not stop beating despite the stillness where Marya Antonova’s should have been. He’d been so sure that it would, for having loved her; he’d been positive, once, that it would break, shatter, deliver itself to oblivion, all for love of her.”
