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Summary
Fyodor is a cursed sorcerer who has relegated himself to a life of solitude. Life has other plans.
Fyodor slipped the thick glove off of his right hand and reached toward the pale face. These hands had mercifully ended the lives of many humans. He had no qualms about adding another to the list and cutting this boy’s suffering short. His hand stretched out, and the cold fingers pressed into the soft skin of a cold cheek. This moment, just before his curse took hold and the person he touched was still gloriously alive, was often a moment that stretched on, warm and precious. It was like touching the soul itself or letting a flame burn his fingers as he snuffed out a candle. Hot, alive, searing.
Something happened as Fyodor luxuriated in the feeling of life against life with his hand on a stranger’s skin. The person’s face scrunched like a child in the middle of a nightmare, and he leaned into the warmth of the hand, just slightly.
And did not die.