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Imagine a Thief with Golden Fire in Their Voice

But what plagues me now, the questions I ask myself as I stare down at her little violets, as I sense out the elements in the earth beneath their roots until I can feel the cold charred edges of her bones and assure myself that that is all that remains of her—those questions are these: is it different, to withhold life than to end it? What moral obligations does my power come with? And, more selfishly: if I don’t bring her back, how long until her followers turn on me?

I am not saying I don’t have the power. There’s no point in denying that. I’m saying I don’t have the right.
The Death Artist

Some years ago I bedded an old man, a wizard and mathematician, who told me that any statement you make contains the entirety of the universe in what is left unsaid by it. If you were to declare “I exist,” then by extension you are also declaring that you are not a tree, that you are not sorrowful, that you have not eaten, that you are not your brother’s keeper... Every positive affirmation contains an infinity of negation. There is nothing you can speak that the universe is not held in the shadow of your flame.

Death has no shape I can articulate. Were it so simple, there would be no need for my work.
Audio Fiction Podcast:
Imagine a Thief with Golden Fire in Their Voice

Podcast: Download (Duration: 41:15 — 28.33MB)
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I am not saying I don’t have the power. There’s no point in denying that. I’m saying I don’t have the right.
From the Archives:
Seasons Set in Skin
Horimachi's own tattoos were from before the war, when black ink was made of soot instead of faery blood.