Chapter 9
- ♱ •⋅ 1750 B.C. ⋅• ♱
- "Who are you?" the childish voice questioned me, and bluntly, I stared at the little being who was sneaking around the gardens of the emerald palace.
- What was I supposed to say? It was obvious who this child was, for there, in the midst of hell - children, were rare. As rare as dreamy happy endings.