Sashkia only nodded at Cassina's words. She was not an ordinary human. She came from a long lineage that practised the tradition of mystics.
Six months ago, when the severely wounded Cassian and France were carried into the city of Valtham, Sashkia had frozen in shock at the sight of bloodied Cassian, who had lost consciousness. So did France, who was barely breathing.
The sword that had pierced through Cassian's heart had not been ordinary. The moment she held the sword in her hand, she knew it. It was a powerful weapon which did not belong in the present day or was even forged.
When Cassian's phone vibrated, Sashkia's ruminative trance broke.
He retrieved the phone from the pocket of his blazer and looked at the screen with a subtle smile playing on his lips. The name flashed on his phone — Lousy Kisser, a moniker he saved after Cixi's desperate attempt to demonstrate her kissing skills.
