[He can't breathe. He leans forward to plant his free elbow on his knee and press his forehead against the fist bearing the quartz, his other hand squeezing Athessa's. When he can finally inhale again, he takes a few shaky breaths before continuing, voice thick. Safe. Athessa's right here. Safe.]

He said this was what I was made for. That it was natural. That he was the Maker's righteous sword and I was cursed. That the holiest thing I could ever do was to serve him.