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"Thank you for everything, Cyran."
Cyran felt the cold lips on his cheek. His empty hand hovered, long fingers held down his thumb, and his sharp nails dug through his palm—forcing himself not to touch the undeserved kiss.
Is this even fair play? Can he finally receive his rightful place? Can he feel satisfied? Even if Cyran asked a thousand questions, he can answer it with a single no.
As his breath hitched, he finally looked at his cold sweaty hands. There was nothing warm to hold, as the dead on his arm had returned to the divine's embrace.