I would like to preface this particular moment in my life by saying, in all honesty, that I had finally, irrevocably, and without the faintest shred of irony, lost my mind.
That was the only explanation left. No other justification could account for the fact that I was still alive, standing among fire-gutted ruins with half the district caving in behind me, soot on my tongue, blood in my hair, and a man in a spotless white cloak perched atop a crumbling building like he'd just strolled out of an opera performance.
Not a speck of ash touched him. Not a single ember dared sully the theatrical drapery of his garment. He might as well have been carved from marble, a living statue installed for my humiliation, and then—because the gods cannot resist putting me in my place—he offered me tea.
Yes. Tea.
Not survival tips. Not a hand outstretched to pull me free of rubble. Not even the common courtesy of a "Well done on not being bisected by a vampiric queen." Tea.
