One heart cannot serve two masters.

I cannot tell her I have been moping over a broken heart when I have worked so hard to convince her I have no heart at all.

The body on the ground is nothing more than a shell, a husk, and I am filled with a sense of peace. Yes, I think. Yes. This is what I want to be. An instrument of mercy, not vengeance.

I never skulk, and lurk only sometimes.

And so it is with us; we serve as handmaidens to Death. When we are guided by His will, killing is a sacrament.

One heart cannot serve two masters.

I pause at the door, wishing I could find a corner and sleep until my head clears, but the sailor said the abbess is expecting me, and while I do not know much about abbesses, I suspect they are not fond of waiting.