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Summary
Honmoon had always called to Rumi. A quiet song wrapping around her like a soft blankiet. It called her, whispering sweet words of promises, so different from the roar of purple flames. But how could she turn against those who had accepted her? She could hear its sorrow, the desperate pull had never been stronger. It called, and called, and called—but she knew answering that call would only lead to her death. So why did the executioner’s blade taste so sweet?
Or, Rumi is raised in the Demon Realm