the smuggler’s bible

Dromond of Frisia

It’s colder outside the village, away from the fires. Dromond’s skin pricks at the breeze coming down off the coast.

The cave is marked by twin holly trees, tied and bowing together to make an arch. The berries stand out sharp and red against the scrub of the hillside—just like the swineherd said before Dromond cut his throat and threw him among the pigs.

The other men are gone, tempted by easier loot and cautious of the cunning man’s weird. But there’s something special up ahead. Dromond can taste it already, dripping down his throat like sweet, dark wine.