Jay Kristoff

People often shit themselves when they die.

And if the unpleasant realities of bloodshed turn your insides to water, be advised now that the pages in your hands speak of a girl who was to murder as maestros are to music. Who did to happy ever afters what a sawblade does to skin.

She’s dead herself, now—words both the wicked and the just would give an eyeteeth smile to hear. A republic in ashes behind her. A city of bridges and bones laid at the bottom of the sea by her hand. And yet I’m sure she’d still find a way to kill me if she knew I put these words to paper. Open me up and leave me for the hungry Dark. But I think someone should at least try to separate her from the lies told about her. Through her. By her.

Someone who knew her true.

A girl some called Pale Daughter. Or Kingmaker. Or Crow. But most often, nothing at all. A killer of killers, whose tally of endings only the goddess and I truly know. And was she famous or infamous for it at the end? All this death? I confess I could never see the difference. But then, I’ve never seen things the way you have.

Never truly lived in the world you call your own.

Nor did she, really.

I think that’s why I loved her.

Humans are such fools.

Well-meaning fools, sometimes.

But fools, always.

“Do moons choose the planets they orbit? Do planets choose their stars? Who am I to deny gravity, Aurora? When you shine brighter than any constellation in the sky?”

If you can’t hurt the ones who hurt you, sometimes hurting anyone will do.

And I know it’s hard to move on. But we can’t hold ourselves in place forever, darling, not for anyone. Life is for living. The ones you left behind will be all right, I promise. The ones you leave behind in the future will be all right too, even if you make it all the way to another planet.

‘There is nothing as painful, or as simple, as doing what is right.’

Love is purpose, be’shmai.
Love is what drives us to great deeds, and greater sacrifices.

Love is purpose, be’shmai.
Love is what drives us to great deeds, and greater sacrifices.
Without love, what is left?