Dioses de la locura y las mentiras. Arin había enloquecido.

Recordó el castigo del dios de la música, al que habían encerrado en el cuerpo de un árbol durante un ciclo del panteón: cien años de silencio.

—¿Y cuando crezca y sea lo bastante grande como para comerse a un hombre?—Entonces haré que lo cuide Arin.

—¿Cómo conseguiste sobrevivir con esa boca que tienes, esclavito? ¿Le rogaste a tu dios de la suerte?

—El dios de los tontos te quiere a su lado, Arin. ¿En qué estabas pensando para venir a la capital?

The sky was a feather blanket of clouds, save for one blue hole in the fabric. A blue cloud in a white sky.

She'd betrayed her country because she'd believed it was the right thing to do. Yet would she have done this, if not for Arin?He knew none of it. Had never asked for it. Kestrel had made her own choices. It was unfair to blame him.But she wanted to.

She turned to look at him, and he was already looking at her. “I’m going to miss you when I wake up,” she whispered, because she realized that she must have fallen asleep under the sun. Arin was too real for her imagination. He was a dream.“Don’t wake up,” he said.

She’d felt it before, she felt it now: the pull to fall in with him, to fall into him, to lose her sense of self.