No one bothered her when they knew how sharp her tongue was. Few were openly hostile to her when there were rumors-false, regrettably—of how she had the power to tear a man's blood from his veins. For so long, she'd believed her thorns would protect her. That if she spoke their language and rose in their ranks, she would be safe, maybe even accepted. How naïve she'd been.

‘Oh. Oh. You have a magic boy. Why didn't you say so?' The priest scratched his forehead beneath the white silk blindfold that covered his eyes. 'Magnificent. I'll plant him in the fucking ground and grow a vine to an enchanted land beyond the clouds.'

"Why do intelligent beings always take having power over another as an excuse to do their worst?" Sicaryon's rhetorical question was equal parts angry, sad, and resigned.