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I do not believe the prophecies, may heaven forgive me. Too many sayings have come and gone, entombed in the cold lips of the likes of Mishil. No, heaven sends us gifts and expects us to use them, not to spend our lives in fear of omens.

I made my choice. I could not serve two stars. I made my choice when there was still a choice to be made. I am not proud. I do what I must, following the path that looks the straightest.

I chose rightly. Sometimes we make omens of our own. An arrow showed me that my choice was right, an arrow that dimmed eyes that should have lived to see a child grow, a new husband, a kingdom prospered. But the poisoned tip confirmed what I knew. She could never take what was hers; she was too weak. The poison coursing through her veins was a physical picture of the weakness that chilled her blood and made her falter, a weakness borne of dependence on words that cannot be understood. We must act; fate cannot master us, or we die.

Iron. I saw her turn to iron, as I had on the field of battle. Deokman. The other star, the star that refused to go out. She understood, like I, that fate is what we make it. She knew what it meant to take hold of heaven's gifts and bend them, to mold the shape of things to come.

The one considered fate to be unchangeable and so succumbed to a demise that refused to stay within its confines. The other knew fate was her gift, so she took it in hand and shaped it to her will.

Yes, I chose correctly, may heaven bear witness.