If only she was a little stronger, Milith would not have received those grievous wounds.
Milith would have survived.
Rosalind closed her eyes as she thought of the sword made of fire that Lachlan used during the war. If she had that sword, a sword made of darkness, she would use it to carve her enemies to death. It would have been easier if only she was stronger or smarter.
Rosalind should have known better than to leave Milith alone. She miscalculated.
She pursed her lips and opened her eyes.
Seeing that the sword in her hand did not turn into darkness, she sighed.
It had been two days since she found Milith's body— two days since she had been trying her best to turn the sword into pure darkness. She thought it would be easy, she thought it would be simple. She was wrong.
"You are too angry."
