Grit

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The Charcoal Rubbings

The fog tasted of coal and secrets. August clung to Violet’s threadbare shawl, the damp chilling him to the bone despite the summer month. Parliament House loomed, a gray beast breathing the city’s grime. Violet, barely ten, slipped between the…

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Runecarves

The wind tasted of grit and regret. Lysara cursed, picking bits of shale from her braid. Below, the valley sprawled, stitched with silver rivers. Not the view she’d anticipated. Not at all. She’d pictured a graceful landing, a triumphant return.…

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