Onyssa
I think about this plainly, since no one else alive is old enough to.
The gods sealed their bright experiment to my kind’s own heir. A god-sealed bond is a seed, and a seed does what seeds do. In a grown pair it has roots down through everything the two of them are, and pulling it out takes the ground along with it. Their own mongrel histories teach that lesson, the throne that broke such a bond with a blade and bled for it down a hundred years of sons. But in a child the seed is new. It sits shallow, barely beneath the surface of two small hearts. The weeping sky thins the seal, the old words lift the bond out whole, and the wound closes clean because there is hardly any wound to close.
That is why it must be now, while she is small. Not cruelty. Every season I wait, the roots g
