But even beautiful things must end, for even most of a soul cannot change what Maekallus is.

She turns to ice in his arms. Maekallus wrenches back from her as the new piece of soul collides with him, fueling the passion, and need devouring his insides, lacing them with something sour, frosted, and heavy. He knows the sensation, knows it in an almost nostalgic way, and hates it instantly. Guilt.

I kiss him, and another piece of myself breaks. In its wake, I'm left cold and hollow.

What is a soul if not an extension of the heart?