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Summary
“I am a damsel who just decapitated a wretch of the ninth. Does that frighten you, minstrel?”
Jinu’s hands were raised in surrender. He swallowed. Hard. “Minstrel’s new,” he mumbled. “Usually I just get called bastard.”
A sepia brow lifted ever so slightly. “I imagine so.”
That froze him cold.
She continued, calmly, “I’ve seen the magpie in air vents, in the bus terminal mirror, on my windowsill at dawn. I may be a damsel,” she pressed the scythe to kiss his alabaster flesh, drawing a trickle of cursed ichor. “But I’m no fool, bastard.”
He primed himself for collision—still Jinu opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again.
“…Right.” He nodded slowly. “So. Not subtle. Noted.”
A tale of elaborate bouquets and loose emperor robes, wherein the god of the underworld wooing the goddess of spring but in modern times and a lot less cooler than the myths.