the smuggler’s bible

Dromond of Frisia

Daylight. His eyes open. There’s damp stone under his cheek and his right arm is submerged in the seawater lapping at the steps. He smells smoke—old smoke, and a lot of it, lingering.

Dromond rolls over and stands, notices a tear in the front of his coat. He reaches around to check his back and finds another. The treachery is its own sort of signature.

“Fanatic,” he says. “Bastard. What the hell good did it do you?”

Jenny is gone, of course. Taken. Dromond walks up out of the tower, past the bodies and through the gate, heading south.