The most difficult challenge an honest man will ever face is having to choose between duty and love.
One creates a man of honorable character―a life worth dying for.
The other creates a vulnerable soul that madly yearns for either death or immortality.

I know they don’t respect the lives of others…”

“Mortals,” he specified, “who exist for a brief moment and then die off.”

Her voice rose as she argued with him. “I speak of people with very valued lives, Edgar. It may seem like a moment to you, but to me it is eternity.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense, Edgar! Life is valuable—period. And because mine can be easily taken away, it becomes even more valuable and precious. Yours, you take for granted because you’ll never lose it. Mine, I cherish because it’s fleeting. For that reason alone I can argue that my life is of the greatest worth.”

His eyebrows pulled together over a tangled scowl. She couldn’t tell if he was trying to understand her reasoning or if she had merely managed to upset him.

“Never mind,” she mumbled. “I don’t think you can appreciate what you’ve never experienced.

“That works both ways, Amora.”

“Whatever.

The woman laughed again. She was the loudest person in the cave. Eena wondered if perhaps she was talking to a female Ghengat. Curiosity got the best of her and she turned around to look, surprised to find neither a Ghengat nor a Harrowbethian woman, but a Mishmorat. A striking, cheetah-spotted Mishmorat with straight lengths of charcoal hair and the most alluring dark eyes in existence. This bronzed female was the same size as Eena but observably more muscular. She appeared to be a mix of cheetah, Arabian princess, and gladiator in tight-fitting pants. Eena paused, dropping the stone in her hands.

“Kira?” she breathed.

“Hmmm,” the woman grumbled. Her painted eyes scrunched with displeasure. The look was still stunning. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

Eena gawked as if a legendary ghost had been resurrected. “You’re alive?

Don't ever give up.
Don't ever give in.
Don't ever stop trying.
Don't ever sell out.
And if you find yourself succumbing to one of the above for a brief moment,
pick yourself up, brush yourself off, whisper a prayer, and start where you left off.
But never, ever, ever give up.

I understand it was Derian who spoiled everything. He purposefully tainted your view of me and forced you to go along with him. I know none of what happened was your idea or your desire, Eena.”

She didn’t get up, but spoke from her curled position. Her voice was weak, still heavy with despair. “Derian didn’t force me to do anything.”

“But if he hadn’t influenced you, we would be enjoying a pleasant dinner again, telling stories and laughing. I’m sure that would be the case. You would be happy……and so would I.”

Eena chuckled without amusement.

“You have to admit we shared some very enjoyable evenings, didn’t we? There’s really no reason we can’t put this whole mess behind us and start from where we left off.” He sounded genuinely serious.

“You forget,” she reminded him, “I heard your conversation with the Ghengats. This isn’t about Derian, it’s about you.”

“Alright,” he admitted with an acquiescent sigh, “so I’m not everything you’d hoped for. But really, what man can ever live up to any woman’s terribly high expectations?”

This got her attention. She almost stood up to face him, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Leaning forward, she retorted, “Expecting a man to respect you, to be honest with you, and, oh yes, to not be a shameless murderer—I don’t think those are overly high expectations!”

He shrugged, casually excusing his faults. “Nobody’s perfect.”

“What do you want?” she finally asked, exasperated.

He squatted to her level and stated his desire. “I want you.”

Eena thought the expression on his face—the look in his weary blue eyes—appeared strangely sincere. But there was one thing she had learned from all this: never trust a master of deceit.

That’s when Eena cut in. Both Ravelly and Unan looked to her as she announced, “My favorite part of the book is at the very end.”

“Where Imorih battles the three-headed dragon,” Unan presumed.

Eena shook her head. “Nope.”

“Afterwards, where Imorih befriends the beast and earns his trust,” Ravelly guessed.

Eena shook her head again. “No, sir. I mean the very end.”

Unan’s brow crinkled as he tried to recall what came next in the story. “Where she finds her prince who was held captive by none other than the same three-headed dragon?”

The young Sha shook her head a third time.

“I know! When the dragon flies them on his back to the edge of their homeland! That would be quite the experience, wouldn’t it?” Ravelly seemed certain he had guessed the finishing act of the story.

“That’s not the very, very end,” Eena grinned.

“But that’s the last page,” Unan contended, his finger pointing at the final leaf in the book.

Wahlister was the one who finally guessed the correct answer. “They kiss on the dragon’s back at the very end. That’s where they promise to never allow anything, even death, to separate them again.”

“Yes!” Eena chirped. “That’s the best scene of all.”

“I don’t recall that promise,” Ravelly admitted.

Unan assured the old Grott, “It’s right here.” He read the line that told of a promise made sure by a kiss. “Their lips sealed the whispered vow, ‘We shall never part again, even if our fate is to haunt one another in death.’” After reading it, he groaned aloud.

“Only a woman would remember that line.