The Pale Dance

added blog Literature

2026-08-21 18:40:16 -

The Pale Dance

The blade sang. It cut the air with a thin, high whine. I swung it. The leather of the gauntlet creaked. Dust rose in the grey light. It was the Market Square. Or what had been the Market Square. Now it was a wound in the city. Stone had fallen. Smoke hung low, thick as wool. It tasted of ash. It tasted of iron. I stood there. My name is Edward. I am a Warden. My coat is black. It is stained....

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