Sabaa tahir a reaper at the gates5/30/2023 My brother has not forged a single scrap of Serric steel. From our camp on the outskirts of the Waiting Place, twenty miles from here, Darin and I have planned and carried out six raids on Empire prisoner caravans. The nearby ridgeline is empty, and the Martial auxiliary soldiers on guard do not so much as twitch. When I am through the perimeter of the prisoner caravan, I pitch my voice low and hoot like a snowy owl, common enough in this part of the Empire.Īs I prowl toward the ghost wagons, my skin prickles. Midnight passes, and the few lamps that burn in the village sputter in the rising wind. But this close to Antium, the capital, winter still whips its chill fingers across our faces. Elsewhere in the Empire, spring has scattered its blossoms. My breath wreathes up in white clouds, like a snake undulating to some unknowable song. I reach for my invisibility, a power awoken within me recently, and one that I’m still settling into. I rise from the snow-heavy bushes where we’ve taken cover and nod to Darin. The ghost wagons we track finally roll to a stop outside a Martial village. Though my brother does not speak much these days. Darin and I both know it, even if neither of us is willing to say it. I think I will not hear her again.Įverything about this raid feels wrong.
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