Chapter 10 · free to read
From the throne hall it had looked like a tower. Up close it was a chimney for something the size of a county.
There was no stair left. So he made stair, one rung at a time, in the only language he had.
A hundred winters of salt-rime on every surface in the world, and not one speck of it on the cut. Whatever made this face was still coming back to check it.
Root pass. Fill. Cap. He said the words to himself the way other men say prayers.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.