Category: All These Broken Things
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The tent flap did not open, it was thrown back with the force of a man who had never learned to ask permission before entering a room. Bronze armor gleams in the lamplight, the lion crest on his breastplate catching the glow like a predatory eye. He filled the doorway for a moment, surveying the…
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The tent flap slammed open with the force of his shoulder. He was through the gap before the canvas could settle, his arms full of her, his chiton already plastered to his chest with her blood. It drenched the wool of Odrian’s cloak, dripping from his elbows, smeared across her cheek where he tried to…
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The morning sun rose copper-bright over the encampment, gilding the spear-heads and turning the dust motes gold. But the usual bustle of breaking fast and sharpening blades carried a new discord. A muttered irritation rippled through the ranks like wind through wheat. Parchment had been nailed to the central command post, and word spread through…
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The tent flap rustled. Not with Odrian’s theatrical flair, but with the heavy, economical motion of a man who moved like he was carrying weight, even when his hands were empty. Dionys stepped inside, paused, and sighed. Alessia was sitting up, needle and thread in hand, hunched over the frayed scrap of fabric she called…
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Alessia woke to the sound of something metallic scraping across a whetstone. Slow, methodical, precise. She didn’t open her eyes immediately. She focused on the feeling of a small body pressed against hers, still too warm but cooler than she had been. Stella. Alive and sleeping peacefully. She could feel someone beside her. Watching. “Awake,”…
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Alessia drifted, never quite reaching wakefulness. Pain pulsed through her shoulder. Slow, heavy, in time with her heartbeat. Each throb dragged her under again before she could fully surface. Something was wrong. She tried to open her eyes, tried to move. Her body wouldn’t listen. Memory came in fragments: Stella’s fever, the king, the tent–…
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The tent was organized chaos. Maps pinned with daggers, a half-strung bow in the corner, and Dionys sprawled across a bedroll, gripping a spear even in sleep. Odrian didn’t hesitate. He nudged Dionys’s ribs with his foot. “Wake up, we’ve got guests,” he said. He shot a wry glance at Alessia. “One has a demon’s…
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Odrian hated thieves. Spies were useful. Enemies were visible. Deserters were predictable. Thieves were a nuisance. A coin glittered in the moonlight, half-buried in the dirt. The thief had been working the camp for months. He had assumed they were a soldier supplementing rations, or a deserter trading goods for passage. But this thief was…
Tiny Raven 