The Distant Metropolis
The fire started in the root cellar. It was not a warm hearth-fire, nor the gentle, honeyed glow of a tallow candle, but a hungry, snapping thing that turned the air into ash and breath. Seraphina stood in the center of the round chamber, her hand wrapped around the hilt of her short sword, her other hand holding the small, clay jar of honey that had been the last of the summer’s yield. The...
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