Rowan had killed another scythe, it wasn’t a rare occurrence nowadays. His black robe fluttered gently behind him as he cleaned his blade casually. It hadn’t been very long since the Winter Conclave, since he escaped his death, and since Citra had allowed him to live another year.

He still loved her, and she knew that, and she loved him. There was nothing they could do about it, but it was one of the things he still held onto in his heart—what was left of it anyway. The blade he held was sharp, and shined to perfection, reflecting his face back at him.

The lack of light in his eyes didn’t startle him anymore, he expected it now. He was used to it.