She was ice itself. And she was behind him, sharp nails digging into his shoulder, lips at his ear.
Her voice was silver and black, champagne and moonlight and velvet blankets.
The shadows before him writhed. He'd known, when he came in, beckoned by her voice and her lips and her deep deep eyes that he would have to face the monsters, as Arthur faced the dragon.
His hand by his sword trembled.
"What do I do?" he asked as his panic peaked, as the shadows blinked.
She breathed against him. Her breath was ice. Her fingers shocked his skin. He could feel those deep deep eyes on him. He was no hero. He could desire her, but he could not save her. He could not save himself.
He clutched his sword. He could try.
She leaned in, to kiss him, he hoped. Her words painted the darkness with new hope. His fear was an animal he could tame. "Don't let them see you're afraid."
He pulled the sword from its sheath and looked into the eyes of the shadow. Her hands were leaving him. He stared into the shadows, still feeling her cold breath on his neck, and lifted the sword.
Art by Anna Dittmann
Text by Lucie MacAulay
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