the smuggler’s bible


Cremuel’s knife is somewhere in the room, but not in his hand. He banishes it from his mind, surrenders it to the world as one of many small puzzle pieces that will slot together and become the mosaic of the future. For now, though, all he does is bend slightly at the waist and watch the cultist’s fist sail past.

Then he steps in and punches the man very hard in the thigh. Muscles bunch and knot. There is a scream. Another piece of the puzzle clicks into place and bangs its head on the floor with a wet crack.